The memoir of a woman whose “women’s intuition” verges into the supernatural.
“I’m a registered nurse,” writes Devlin at the opening of her nonfiction debut. “I’m a rational-health practitioner with a solid career.” But, she goes on: “I’m also a person who’s had psychic experiences since I was a little girl.” Devlin maintains that contrast in a low-key way throughout her book, which abounds with everyday examples of her exercising what she at one point calls “the power of our inner knowing.” This knowing isn’t the type that addresses spiritual realms, which is so popular with psychic memoirs, but is based in the material world. The author believes that we have collectively lost sight of the value we once placed in intuitive abilities and feels that most people possess these abilities but don’t realize it—and certainly haven’t been schooled in their use. The book’s clear prose and preponderance of well-told anecdotes—always mixing just the right amounts of drama and humor—make it an easy, enjoyable read no matter how skeptical readers may be. Devlin’s anecdotes won’t convince the disbelievers, however. She relates an instance where she had an intuitive flash of a crashing tree, inspected the nearby trees on her regular walk, spotted one pulling against the ground in a wind, and warned the people in the adjacent house just before the tree crashed onto their roof. “I felt proud that I’d followed my intuition and possibly saved a life or two,” she writes. This may be read as a story about the author seeing an uprooted tree and warning those in danger rather than a moment of clairvoyance. It and countless other stories are given their import mainly by her own personal contention that “there are no coincidences.” Readers who think there are coincidences may find their patience strained at times even by so personable an author.
An agreeable memoir about a psychic in suburbia.