When An FBI Agent Meets A Mystic: A True Story

When I first met my husband, he was building and maintaining Black Hawk helicopters for a living. He had been doing that for close to twenty years. He had worked on aircraft for most of his life, since college. He’s licensed to work on jets, helicopters, anything that flies. I found that fascinating. ( I find the fact that he can take apart pretty much anything with an engine fascinating. I can barely find the ignition slot in my car. On a good day.) Which brings us to my experience with the FBI.

Will Cook Photography

Sikorsy manufactures a number of different helicopters, including Marine One, the presidential helicopter. Anyone working on Marine One has to have an extensive background check, for obvious reasons. Those helicopters are kept in a separate hanger, guarded by, well, Marines. The background check includes interviewing pretty much everybody, really. Including a fiancé. Huh. So, I got a call from an agent, for him to come out to my home to conduct the interview. Uh oh.

I say uh oh, because, let’s face it, I’m nobody’s idea of normal. Neither is my house. I’ve always been the witch that lives in the woods, in the middle of east bumsfuck nowhere. My house at that time was surrounded on three sides by 1,000 acres of state land. It was magical, with soaring cathedral ceilings, and floor to ceiling stained glass windows. It was filled with crystals, drums, feathers, rattles, and bronzes, including sculptures of dragons, eagles, Buddhas, and Kwan Yins. Shelves of essential oils, metaphysical books, candles, tinctures, and herbs were displayed. Right. This poor guy had no idea what he was walking into.

I had a really long unpaved driveway. At the foot of my driveway was a purple sign, with my name, Reverend Judith Star-Medicine, ( yes, that IS really my legal name. Try getting THAT through the courts), logo, and what I do. Astrologer, Psychic, Tarot Card reader, Counselor, and my phone number. At the appointed time, I see the car pull into my driveway. And stop. Reading the sign. I started to snicker. The agent drives up to the house, gets out, and walks up the stone stairs to the courtyard, to my massive carved front door. He knocks. I open the door, and he’s holding up his badge for my inspection. He gives me his name, saying ” Hi, I’m Agent so-and-so. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Oh, good. A sense of humor.

I invite him in. As he steps into the living room, he stops dead, head swiveling around like it’s on a hinge. He doesn’t know what to look at first. The entire living room was varying shades of purple, pale lavender walls, misty purple carpet, deep plum loveseats.. I had Native music playing, Sage burning… okay. He starts the interview. It was pretty basic stuff. Towards the end, he asked me if my fiancé had any political opinions that concerned me. I dropped my voice to a whisper, and leaned forward. He leaned forward also. Waiting. ” As a matter of fact, he does. He’s a Republican.” He burst out laughing. I said, ” I know! Can you believe it?”

When it was over, he said he had one more question for me that had no bearing on the interview, and I should feel free to say no. Me: Okay. What? Him: Can I have a tour? I laughed, and said, absolutely.

So, I gave him the tour of the house, explaining things as I went. Until we got to the master bedroom. See, I had forgotten about my collection of bumper stickers everywhere. Watching his eyes travel around the room, seeing sayings over the bed like: ” Get a taste of religion. Lick a witch.” And ” Beam me back, Merlin”. And ” Psychics do it with Spirit”. And ” I haven’t been the same since that house fell on my sister.” He had the same dazed look my husband had when he first saw them. Kind of like a deer caught in car headlights.

He asked to use the bathroom before he left. That’s full of bumper stickers, too. I figured he was probably already shocky, what the hell. Next to the toilet was a plaque that says:” Witch parking only. Violators will be toads”. On a cabinet over the toilet: ” Auntie Em: Hate you, hate Kansas, taking the dog. Dorothy.” Also, ” If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you”. It must have gone okay, because my husband worked on Marine One, along with the other helicopters, until he retired.

I take it for granted about what my space looks like. I don’t usually attract Muggles as clients. I live from magic and from my connection to Spirit and the supernatural. When a Muggle does visit, they’re usually not here to see me. They’re here to visit my husband, or repair something. That’s when I pause, and remember that there are a number of magically challenged beings out there. And that’s okay. Meeting someone like me is kind of fun for them, I think. Like going to the zoo. A nice way to spend a few hours, but not real life. Ironic, really, because meeting Muggles is exactly like that for me. I have to say, meeting an FBI Muggle was fascinating. I respect the hell out of what they do, all of our intelligence officers. The FBI, CIA, NSA, all of them. I’m going to enjoy the next few weeks, very much. Deciding to fuck with them was a monumentally stupid thing to do. But, this administration is not known for its brains. Getting my popcorn.  Blessings, Judith

** Thank you, Will Cook Photography, for the beautiful Black Hawk photo.


Boobs To The Rescue

That’s an odd title, I know. We have a 2 1/2 year old toddler living with us, Miss Vivian, and sometimes when she’s not feeling well, she gets fussy. Being a clairvoyant Empath really helps during times like that, because I can FEEL her emotions washing through me, the irritability, the discomfort, the anxiety and distress. I can feel it from anywhere in the house. It feels completely different from a tantrum. When that happens, all I need to do is pick her up, and she melts into me, her head on my breasts. She closes her eyes, and just breathes with me. I rock her a little, hum to her, and she calms right down. Her dad and Opa, ( her grandfather, my husband ) try, they love her. But sometimes, it’s the boobs. They work every time. Let’s hear it for the boobs.


There are many things in life I try to avoid. Like spiders. I really try to avoid spiders whenever possible. I try to avoid poison ivy, vegetables, exercise, housework, and Candy Crush Saga game requests. So, I get avoidance. To a point. Here’s what I don’t get: people who avoid facts. How is it, in this age of readily available scientific information, that people still question climate change? Or that racism still exists? Or that misogyny is real? How is that possible? I’ve noticed that this extreme tendency of radical avoidance tends to be pronounced in certain groups of people. People who tend to be male, and white, and Christian. Let’s call this group Republicans. I’ve never encountered a group of people more allergic to facts than they are. It’s actually fairly impressive. You have to wonder if they train for this. If there are classes in reality avoidance, truth avoidance, or facts avoidance.

In any case, I have added Republicans to my list of things to avoid. They are way up there, at this point. Probably second after spiders, and just ahead of kale and rice cakes. And after seeing today’s video of that doctor getting dragged off of a United Airlines flight because he refused to ” volunteer ” to relinquish his paid seat because United had overbooked the flight, and they wanted to put four employees in the paid ticket holder seats, I’m avoiding United. It’s gotten so bad lately, I’m wondering if there’s an outbreak of asshole-itis going around.

I see that the New York Times has won three Pulitzer Prizes for their reporting. Huh. The body that awards Pulitzers must not be aware of the whole ” fake news” thing that the current ( temporarily) occupant of the White House rages about. Oh, well. That’s to be expected, given that sometimes the Times uses words of more than two syllables in their articles. Sad.

I wish facts weren’t so scary to some people. Maybe if we dressed them up, or camouflaged them as bibles or fetuses,  it would help. Or not. Not holding my breath on that one.