My friend Annette has had a very painful year. She lost her husband suddenly a few days before Christmas 2007. He had been ill but responding to treatment when his heart just stopped beating. Several months later, her elderly mother, who had lived with Annette’s family for some years, was taken by a stroke.

Understandably, Annette was sometimes overwhelmed by her new life, by both its emptiness and its clutter. She had lost her childhood sweetheart, her best friend, the father of her children, the love of her life. She had gained added financial responsibilities and had to learn the odd temperaments of large, somewhat alien household objects, such as furnaces and propane tanks. She had lost the woman who birthed and raised her, and had gained the silence of yet another empty chair at the dinner table.

Annette is a kind a loving woman with a huge heart. She gives and gives. If you need her, she is there. No questions. She is most always upbeat and positive, no matter the circumstances, and she was doing her best to retain her positive outlook after her losses. Her teenaged son, still at home, and her grown children all pitched in to help, but she still too often felt she was drowning.

I hadn’t heard from Annette for some time, unanswered phone calls and emails, when I finally got hold of her and learned how overwhelmed she was, too buried in the details of day-to-day living even reach out and ask for help. I asked what I could do. Nothing, was her reply.

In addition to her primary job and several side jobs, Annette also had to, wanted to, find time to give extra care to her three horses. It was her horses that gave her, that continue to give her, a sense of peace and of balance. But when she couldn’t get out to the barn, which is half an hour from her home, she felt she had failed somehow. The joy of their presence was becoming another area of stress in her life. Finances were stretched as well, but she would not consider parting with any of the horses. One mare had been with her for years. The other was a PMU mare Annette had recently adopted from a rescue, only to find a few months later that the mare was pregnant. And then there were three, two mares and the kindest, sweetest little boy you’d ever want to meet.

I offered to care for her horses one day a week. At first she resisted; it was too much. But it wasn’t too much. I reminded her that if she didn’t reach out for help, she risked being crushed under the weight of her grief. You cannot continually spin amid the daily pile-up of tasks. You have to take time to catch your breath, to be silent, to listen.

Annette’s horses live like mine do, in as natural a state as possible, outside. One afternoon, a few months after I’d begun caring for them, I met Annette at the barn to work with the horses, to get them, especially the baby, used to being fed in stalls rather than outside in the round pen. Winter had arrived, and I was looking for an alternative to caring for them in the whipping wind.

While I was there, Annette asked me to look at her rescued mare, Nakota. She said Nakota had been moving stiffly, oddly, and seemed uncomfortable. I did not have time for a full session that day, but I did spend a little time watching her move, and I did place my hands on her.

Nakota had always been stand-offish with me. I would scrtich the withers of the other two horses as they ate, but she would move away from my touch. But this afternoon, she moved closer to me as I touched her, embraced me with her neck. When she did this, when she made this connection, which clearly was not only of the body but of the heart, all became quiet. It was as though the three of us—Annette, Nakota, and I—had been transported to another place, a bubble lined in velvet. Soft, gentle, quiet.

That evening, I called Annette to set up an appointment with Nakota. Annette spoke about what had happened at the barn in a voice almost hushed with wonder. It was as though, she said, Nakota knew that we were going to help her. This was a mare who had seen too much in her four short years, starvation and two pregnancies. She was not unkind but had no real use for humans. Today, though, something had shifted.

Annette asked me when my next Reiki class was taking place. After talking about doing so a number of times over the years, Annette, whose heart was fully opened by Nakota’s love and gratitude, committed to taking the class. She was ready, she said. And she was excited.

A few weeks later, I called to check on Annette. Christmas was coming, and I knew the grief would surface as the first anniversary of her husband’s death drew near. We talked, and she cried. She was doing well; she was making a Christmas for her family; everyone was in good health. There was much to be thankful for. But her heart was sometimes heavy, and there were days when she had to consciously determine how to put one foot in front of the other and go forward.

As I spoke with Annette, my little white dog, Elika, joined me on the bed, stretched out beside me and sighed. I said her name. Annette said, I had forgotten, but your saying Elika’s name has made me remember. Early that morning, she said, when the sky was still dark, she had awakened. When she opened her eyes, she saw Elika’s face, just inches from her own. Annette was not dreaming; she was wide awake. Elika was there. How is that possible? she wanted to know.

Elika is a Reiki dog, I reminded her. She assists with my classes and with many of my healing sessions. No doubt, I said, she sensed your aching heart and came to give you comfort. How did you feel after her visit? I asked. Much better, she said.

Later, I thought about the sequence of events, how the healing came to be. Annette had set it in motion by accepting help. She had then offered assistance to Nakota, who had opened her own heart and expressed her gratitude. This opened Annette’s heart even further, and caused her to commit to something she had wanted to do for some time, learn more about Reiki healing. Her heart now opened still further, she was able to see and accept the gift of healing that Elika offered her.

I felt blessed to have been allowed a role in this healing. I saw again that we are all one. And the more fully we open our hearts, the more we are able to receive.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in February 2009.

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

Goodbye, Leroy*

On August 5, I found this message in my inbox:

Leroy passed away sometime this morning.   He was his usual self this morning at 7:30 morning hay time, eager for his breakfast.

When I went back out at 9:30 for grain and mid-morning hay, he was gone.  There was no sign of a struggle, it looks like he was gone before he hit the ground, likely dozing in the sun, or meandering to the next hay pile.

Happy trails, Leroy.  I’ll miss you, my sweet old man.

Michelle

I first wrote about Leroy last July (“What I’m Learning from Leroy”). Leroy was a gorgeous old man, who had been rescued from a feed lot by Michelle Ives, who lives in Connecticut. Leroy had had a tough life as an Amish work horse; when Michelle brought him home, he was grossly underweight, sullen and depressed, and unwilling to interact with humans.

I was privileged to have been able to work with Leroy several times (across distance). After just one session (combining Reiki and Neuromuscular Retraining), he came out of his depression, began to eat with gusto, and allowed Michelle to touch him.

Last July, I wrote:

So what am I learning from Leroy?

Leroy is showing me the exquisite power of letting go. His body had been abused, his spirit battered. He was awash in pain and fear. He was in yet another unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people who, if experience was a guide, were not to be trusted. His spirit was locked inside a dark and lonely place.

Yet Leroy has chosen to heal. From the very first, he accepted the Reiki, trusted it, allowed his heart to open, and simply allowed the fear and pain and abuse and horror of his life to flow out. The transformation was immediate. He held no grudge; he let go of the darkness and embraced the light.

While Leroy had told me he was very happy in his new home and intended to stay there a long while, that was not to be (although horses and humans have a very different sense of time). He was in his new home for just under a year.

I spoke with Leroy last night, a week after his passing. I’d wanted to speak with him sooner, but couldn’t compose myself to do it; whenever I thought of him, the tears started. I never met this wonderful creature in person, but he has firmly established himself in my heart.

I told him that we all missed him. He said, “My heart gave out. It just stopped beating.” I asked him if this was a surprise. He said, “Not really. I didn’t know it would happen today [he said today although he had passed a week earlier], but I knew it would happen soon. I wasn’t strong enough for another winter.”

Then he told me how much he loved Michelle: “She was the sweetest soul I’ve ever known. She cared for me as though she had known me my whole life, and here I was a broken down old man. She gave me respect. Always. Treated me with dignity. It was hard for me to bond with her the way she would have liked. I had never done that before. I wasn’t sure what to do. But it wasn’t for lack of loving her. I hope she understands that. It is just who I was.”

We spoke a bit longer about his life before Michelle. He pointed out the bright spots in a hard life: “sunshine and sweet breezes and the touch of children.” He also mentioned another woman who had taken him in once. “But she had to give me up again,” he said. “That was very hard for her.”

Leroy spoke with grace and dignity. The power of his presence made the room quiet and sweet.

“Thank her for her love and care,” he said. “Tell her that it mattered a great deal.” He added, “There are many others.”

But you were one of a kind, sweet Leroy. Thank you for all you have taught us. Peace to you, my friend.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

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“What I’m Learning from Leroy”

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*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in September 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

When Elika came into my life eight years ago, I received the message that I should take her in because she was going to be a partner in my healing work. I did not want a yappy little white dog, but I listened to what I was told and, in less than a week of our living together, fell completely in love with her. (She is no longer yappy, by the way.) She has assisted me with all of my Reiki classes for the past eight years, and her insistence on a life full of both adventure and kindness has brought light and joy into my life. My little American Eskimo is my Reiki dog.

But even Reiki dogs need Reiki from time to time.

Several weeks ago, Elika came up lame. When she would stand up after lying down for awhile, she would lightly limp on her right front. At first, she would walk out of it in a few minutes and seemed fine. After a few days, though, she wasn’t walking out of it as quickly and seemed to be limping more heavily. I suspected this might be the result of an old injury.

When Elika was three, my 16-hand thoroughbred, Nikos, stepped on her. It was a horrible accident. Elika was tied on a 10-foot line to the outside of the barn door. Nikos was a good 20 yards away from her in the front yard, grazing, while I was doing some minor yard chores. At one point, Nikos lost sight of me, and headed towards the barn to find me. I watched in slow motion-too far away to stop it-as Elika ran across the open doorway while Nikos approached the barn, watched as his feet got tangled in her lead, watched as his giant foot scraped down the length of her leg and landed on her foot.

I, of course, rushed her to the vet, who took X-rays and explained that she had a severe dislocation in the area that on a human is the wrist. He said that because of the severity of the injury, she might never heal completely and that she might not be able to run without pain. Because the area was too swollen to put a hard cast on, he was going to give Elika a large, puffy, soft cast instead, longer than her leg so that she could not place weight on it.

While he was in back casting Elika’s leg, I was on my cell phone calling everyone I knew who was at least Level II Reiki. (In Level II, you learn to send Reiki healing across distance.) It was the middle of the afternoon, so I was only able to reach two people, but the three of us sent Reiki healing to Elika for the next 20 minutes or so. I could not accept that this bundle of wild joy would never run again.

When the vet placed my knocked-out little dog in my arms, he said to come back in three days for a hard cast, and we’d take it from there.

For the next three days, I channeled Reiki to Elika three or four times a day, my hands placed on the gigantic pillow of a cast.

When we returned to the vet’s office, he took Elika into the back to replace the soft cast with a hard one, but returned after a short time, looking puzzled. “She doesn’t need the cast,” he said. The dislocation had closed up; the leg was normal. I explained that I and others had used Reiki to assist Elika in healing. I asked him if he would like to know more about this. He did not.

He cautioned that it would take several months for Elika to heal and that she still might be lame at the end of that time. He also cautioned that the joint might eventually become arthritic. He advised that I keep her on a leash for two weeks so that she didn’t stress the joint with running.

I followed his directions. I also continued with the Reiki. After two weeks, I let Elika off the leash. She took off running with wild abandon. Not one bad step. I called the vet to share the fabulous news. I asked again if he would like to hear about Reiki. His response was, “Some dogs just heal faster than others.” I took that to be a No.

When Elika began limping several weeks ago, when the pain seemed to be intensifying, I wondered if the arthritis the vet had warned about had begun to set in. But had it been the left or the right foot that Nikos had stepped on? Because Elika had healed so completely, I couldn’t remember what foot had been affected. After digging through my files to no avail, I called the vet who had treated her (not my regular vet) and learned that the dislocation had been to the left front foot. The one bothering her now was the right front.

So, off to our regular vet we went. X-rays revealed an old fracture to the left front (although the vet later said it might have just been a shadow) with a little ball of calcium in the joint of one toe. Arthritis. The vet took an X-ray of the other foot for comparison, the one Nikos had stepped on. It was perfect.

Now what? Elika’s movement was being compromised. I ordered pharmaceutical grade glucosamine to help with joint lubrication. I purchased a homeopathic remedy that I know from experience dissolves calcium deposits. But the glucosamine takes weeks to begin working, and the homeopathic could take many months. In the meantime, Elika was in pain (although she never complained), and there was no way I was going to give her the anti-inflammatory the vet sent me home with-with possible side effects including vomiting and diarrhea.

Over the years, I’ve had outstanding success using Reiki to reduce pain and inflammation, and it certainly had helped with her first injury, but this time Elika would have none of it. She’d pull her foot away when I tried to work with it, casting me annoying looks. Of course, I could have sent the Reiki across distance, but instead I called a wonderful healer, one of my Reiki Master students, who eagerly agreed to work with Elika.

She asked to work with Elika three days in a row. After the first session, I didn’t notice any change. After the second session, Elika’s limp was much more pronounced. I urged my student not to worry about this, reminding her that healing can sometimes be painful. After the third session, Elika was back where she’d started before the first session. But the very next day, day four, she was her normal, active self, no longer moving with caution, once again running with wild abandon. This was several weeks ago. Since this time, she has not taken a single bad step.

I called my vet and left a message on her voicemail, telling her that I had not used the meds and that after three Reiki sessions, Elika was completely sound. I said, “I’m telling you this because I know you have an open mind.” I invited her to call me if she wanted to learn more about Reiki. So far, I haven’t heard from her.

This wild bundle of white fur, my Reiki dog, both giver and receiver of this powerful healing, has helped me to teach so many students. I continue to believe that one day soon, more and more veterinarians will be among them.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in January 2009.

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

This week, I lost a dear friend. Kinsale Star. An Irish Thoroughbred, she came to this country on an airplane when she was only one year old. I met her years later, when she was 10 and I had the pleasure of caring for her and the rest of her herd: her daughter, Tara; Willie and her son, Fuersti; the stallion, Arby. I had moved to the country from Chicago because I could no longer contain my love for horses. The drive to and from the city to visit my beloved horse, Nikos, took an insane amount of time, and on the two days a week I wasn’t with him, my heart felt oddly empty. And so I moved to Woodstock, IL, to care for Kinsale and the others for a year while the two humans who completed this family were out of the country. Nikos was nearby. The year stretched into two, then three; Arby went back to his original person, and my Nikos joined the herd. But long before that time, I had formed a special bond with the beautiful Kinsale.

The horses lived naturally, outside, with access to the barn. They rarely chose to come in, preferring the open air, except in intense heat or icy rain. One morning, after a particularly heavy overnight snowstorm, I found the horses standing in the sun. I invited them to come into the barn for breakfast, and as I headed in, I heard a clink, clink, clink behind me. I turned to see what the noise was. Kinsale had six-inch icicles hanging off her thick winter coat, sternum to belly. Clink, clink, clink.

One November, it rained for days. Cold, driving rain. I went out to the barn in the early evening to check on them and found Fuersti and Tara in stalls, Willie standing just inside the barn door, and poor Kinsale standing in the rain, unable to come in. My sweet Kinsale. I gave Willie a piece of my mind, moved her away, and led Kinsale inside. She sighed with gratitude and began munching hay.

When I returned later that night to spread their late-night hay, I saw two heads poking out of stalls: Fuersti and Tara. I saw Willie standing just inside the barn door. No Kinsale. It was still pouring, and biting cold. Bundling up, I prepared to head out into the downpour to find Kinsale, all the while yelling at poor Willie that she was a mean old mare, that she was breaking my heart, that she simply had to treat Kinsale with more kindness. I was beside myself, imagining that sweet girl shivering in the rain. Willie just stared at me as though I had lost my mind. “Really,” I hollered. “I’m serious. This is ridiculous, Willie.”

At the height of my tantrum, Kinsale slowly poked her sleepy head out of a stall, as if to say, “Is there a problem here?” I laughed, apologized to Willie, wondering if Kinsale hadn’t enjoyed my fierce display of loyalty.

Because Fuersti liked to sample everyone else’s food, I fed the horses in closed stalls. When everyone was finished eating, I would open the doors, and they would go back outside. Kinsale, though, would linger. She liked a bit of quiet time. Most mornings, I would join her in her stall. I would breathe into her nose, and she would breathe into mine. We stood there in this silent communion for minutes, until I turned away. I think she would have stood there forever with me. Her sweet breath.

Sometimes late at night, before Nikos joined the herd, after I had spread their hay in the paddock, Kinsale would follow me back into the barn. She would come in quietly. I knew she wanted a treat, an apple wafer, and so I grabbed a few and fed them to her over the gate that separated the horse’s section of the barn from the rest of the barn. She would munch contentedly. She would talk to me. I would tell her to be very quiet so that the others wouldn’t hear. Sometimes her daughter, Tara, would wander in, also quietly, also wanting a treat. Then I would go to the other side of the gate, stroke and scratch Kinsale. She would groom Tara, who would in turn gently groom me. We three mares, standing in a quiet barn, our sacred circle.

Then Fuersti, who was only three and quite the clown, would come charging in. “What are we doing?” He would frantically ask. “Grooming???” And he’d try to stand in our circle, but would bite instead of nuzzle and would demand a treat, and laughing, I would tell the girls our quiet time was over.

Change is the nature of life. The couple who owned the property decided to divorce. I was asked to place the horses. I had already purchased Fuersti, to be a companion to my Nikos when we moved on. But then my beloved Nikos died. The herd kept me from dying, too. Kinsale’s sweet breath. I adopted Tara because I was afraid an injury to her back would make her unadoptable. I wanted to keep them all, but could not. A friend in Washington agreed to take Kinsale. I knew she would give my Kinsale the best of care. While I cried for weeks after I put her on the trailer, I nursed the silent hope that, one day, I would be able to bring my sweet Kinsale back home.

But Kinsale got sick. And over the course of several years, she rallied and failed and rallied and failed, and finally on Monday November 3, my dear, sweet friend Kinsale was put to rest.

I know that she will be with me always. She has told me so. She has told me she will assist me with my healing work, as Nikos does. This brings me a certain peace. But the pain is fresh.

Still, while the loss feels dark, when the wound makes me achy and restless, I know—in this season of celebration, where the days once again become longer, where we celebrate with smiles and the light of thousands of open hearts—that all is well.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in December 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

Murphy, a Chow-Shepherd mix, a big bear of a dog, was found by the side of the expressway about eight years ago by a dear friend of mine. Murphy had a number of physical problems that my friend tended to, but while she noticed that he “was a little off” in his hind end, she didn’t feel it was anything serious and so didn’t address it at that time.

But this year, this old boy started falling going up the stairs. Then he started dragging his hind legs after long walks. Normally a very active dog, he stopped running altogether. He stopped wagging his beautiful curved tail, started carrying it down by his legs instead of proudly over his back.

Murphy had other issues as well—his sight and hearing weren’t as sharp as they had been, and he suffered a seizure. My friend spared no expense in caring for him, taking him to specialists, getting a diagnosis, following up with treatment. But no one seemed to be able to help Murphy with his hind end problem. The attitude seemed to be that this was just something that happens when big dogs get old.

After searching out options, my friend decided to try hydrotherapy. The theory was that swimming would help Murphy strengthen his back and hind end muscles, which would allow him to move more easily on dry land. I explained that movement is good, but if the movement isn’t correct, it can’t help the condition. In other words, exercising a body that is out of balance will not help put it into balance. My friend wanted to try it anyway. Murphy had three hydrotherapy sessions with a well-known and well-respected veterinarian; the sessions also included light therapy. His condition worsened.

When I saw Murphy a few weeks later—my friend had come to visit—he was not the active, happy dog I remembered. He seemed very old, very sad. My friend said she was not going to continue with the hydrotherapy and asked if I would work with Murphy, doing a series of neuro-muscular retraining sessions across distance. I agreed. But before she and Murphy left, I “played” with his body for about ten minutes. I showed him each foot, each toe, so he could feel a stronger base underneath him. I took his sternum in gentle circles. I put a tiny bit of pressure up through each seat bone. I sent gentle pressure up through his tail and along his spine. In short, I showed him the big bones of his body, his support system, and showed him how to use his feet.

When Murphy stood up, his tail was up over his back and wagging. His eyes were bright. We went outside for what was to be a quiet little walk, but he charged around, running in happy circles. I’ve continued working with Murphy (across distance) and he continues to be able to move with relative ease. If he runs too hard, he may be sore the next day, and he can’t take the very long walks he used to take, but his quality of life has greatly improved.

While the results often make it seem so, neuro-muscular retraining is not magic. It is soundly based on the principles of the Feldenkrais Method® of movement re-education for humans. The sessions are referred to as lessons, and the goal of each lesson is to teach the body to move with efficiency, grace, and power.

I know this work from the inside as well. I suffer from a mild case of scoliosis, a curvature of the spine, which used to often result in painful muscle contractions on the side of the curvature. My body was trying to protect itself from harm, but the contractions could last for months and were intensely painful. My body just didn’t know how to let go and rebalance. I tried many therapies, but nothing had a lasting effect.

I learned about The Feldenkrais Method® while training with a Feldenkrais practitioner who had developed a method for animals. (I trained for two years, and have been in practice for twelve). Because I came to this work after my inefficient movement patterns were solidly established, it took a bit of time to overcome them, but now I move with much more balance and ease, and rarely experience pain.

But a few weeks ago, I took a wicked fall from my mare. I landed on my right hip, but the terrific impact shot through my entire pelvic region. My pubic bone took such a hit, I was virtually unable to walk for days. I had to waddle like a duck—tipping sideways onto one leg, then the other. I could only extend a leg a few inches in front of me at a time.

I knew that walking like this was going to put unusual stress on other areas of my body, and that I would most likely need help rebalancing. Sure enough, after about a week of my duck walking, my left glute (the large muscle in the middle of each of the cheeks of your bottom) hardened into a cement-like block. I could poke it, pound on it, and not feel a thing. But its constant state of contraction made walking extremely difficult, even now that my pubic bone wasn’t nearly as painful. And the right side of my neck felt as though it had hot nails driven through it; the pain was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

I had a variety of treatment options, of course, but my experience with Feldenkrais indicated this was the best way to go. I did not want my body manually adjusted or pressure put on the sore areas. Some friends suggested I just needed to move around more, that exercise would help. But I know that exercising a body that was in a state of contraction would not help. I wanted my body to be reminded how to move more efficiently so that it would release the painfully contracted muscle and rebalance itself.

And this is exactly what a little over an hour with a Feldenkrais practitioner accomplished.

Some years ago, when I came back to horses as an adult, I rode in a large commercial barn with at least a dozen school horses. Often, the horses would begin the lessons “off,” and the instructors would tell their students to just make the horse “work through it.” The problem with this approach, although I didn’t know it at the time, was that the body most likely wasn’t solving the problem but was merely compensating for it, stressing other parts of the body. Do this repeatedly over time, and the body will break down.

All movement is not created equal. To be useful, to be healthful, to be a thing of beauty and grace, movement has to come from a position of balance, where each part of the body moves in fluid cooperation with every other part. Ignoring discomfort or pain—either in our own bodies or those of our animal companions—is not the answer. Moving through the pain is not the answer either. The best approach, in my opinion, is to address the cause of the imbalance, to teach the body to move freely again. And the sooner you are able do this, the better.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in October 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

On August 5, I found this message in my inbox:

Leroy passed away sometime this morning.   He was his usual self this morning at 7:30 morning hay time, eager for his breakfast.

When I went back out at 9:30 for grain and mid-morning hay, he was gone.  There was no sign of a struggle, it looks like he was gone before he hit the ground, likely dozing in the sun, or meandering to the next hay pile.

Happy trails, Leroy.  I’ll miss you, my sweet old man.

Michelle

I first wrote about Leroy last July (“What I’m Learning from Leroy”). Leroy was a gorgeous old man, who had been rescued from a feed lot by Michelle Ives, who lives in Connecticut. Leroy had had a tough life as an Amish work horse; when Michelle brought him home, he was grossly underweight, sullen and depressed, and unwilling to interact with humans.

I was privileged to have been able to work with Leroy several times (across distance). After just one session (combining Reiki and Neuromuscular Retraining), he came out of his depression, began to eat with gusto, and allowed Michelle to touch him.

Last July, I wrote:

So what am I learning from Leroy?

Leroy is showing me the exquisite power of letting go. His body had been abused, his spirit battered. He was awash in pain and fear. He was in yet another unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people who, if experience was a guide, were not to be trusted. His spirit was locked inside a dark and lonely place.

Yet Leroy has chosen to heal. From the very first, he accepted the Reiki, trusted it, allowed his heart to open, and simply allowed the fear and pain and abuse and horror of his life to flow out. The transformation was immediate. He held no grudge; he let go of the darkness and embraced the light.

While Leroy had told me he was very happy in his new home and intended to stay there a long while, that was not to be (although horses and humans have a very different sense of time). He was in his new home for just under a year.

I spoke with Leroy last night, a week after his passing. I’d wanted to speak with him sooner, but couldn’t compose myself to do it; whenever I thought of him, the tears started. I never met this wonderful creature in person, but he has firmly established himself in my heart.

I told him that we all missed him. He said, “My heart gave out. It just stopped beating.” I asked him if this was a surprise. He said, “Not really. I didn’t know it would happen today [he said today although he had passed a week earlier], but I knew it would happen soon. I wasn’t strong enough for another winter.”

Then he told me how much he loved Michelle: “She was the sweetest soul I’ve ever known. She cared for me as though she had known me my whole life, and here I was a broken down old man. She gave me respect. Always. Treated me with dignity. It was hard for me to bond with her the way she would have liked. I had never done that before. I wasn’t sure what to do. But it wasn’t for lack of loving her. I hope she understands that. It is just who I was.”

We spoke a bit longer about his life before Michelle. He pointed out the bright spots in a hard life: “sunshine and sweet breezes and the touch of children.” He also mentioned another woman who had taken him in once. “But she had to give me up again,” he said. “That was very hard for her.”

Leroy spoke with grace and dignity. The power of his presence made the room quiet and sweet.

“Thank her for her love and care,” he said. “Tell her that it mattered a great deal.” He added, “There are many others.”

But you were one of a kind, sweet Leroy. Thank you for all you have taught us. Peace to you, my friend.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in September 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

One of the five principles of Reiki is, “Just for today, I will let go of worry.” I’ve learned that worry is a thief. It steals time, sleep, health, creativity. It makes us blind to the joy and abundance around us. Because thoughts are like magnets, when we worry, we invite into our lives the very things we are worried about.

The anecdote to worrying is to think positive thoughts, to be grateful for all that you have, to trust (in other words to know) that all is well. We cannot control every aspect of our lives, but we can control our response to circumstances and events. If we refuse to worry, we will soon have nothing to worry about.

What does this have to do with our horses? Our state of mind has a powerful impact on their state of mind. It has an impact on all of the creatures in our care, but horses are so incredibly sensitive, so attuned to their surroundings, that I believe that the impact of our worry is even more debilitating for them.

A client of mine recently emailed because she was worried about her gelding. He’d been diagnosed with a suspensory injury several months prior, and while he was much better, he still was not completely himself. She was most concerned about his mood. He seemed depressed, distant.

In my session with him, before I could ask him how he was feeling, he said, “I have so much to tell you! I’m ready to be a serious riding horse.”

“Serious”? I asked.

“I mean real riding,” he said. “I want to cover more ground.”

“OK,” I said. “But you still have an injured leg right? You’re still in pain, right?”

He didn’t respond. It was as though this thought had not occurred to him. He said nothing further during the session, in which I channeled Reiki and worked with his body. My sense was that he was extremely bored, which I told my client.

Several days later, I got a lengthy message from my client. Here is a portion of it:

“Thursday morning I was in his stall and asking him what he needs. I told him he knows my heart and knows I’m trying to do my best to get him well. I’m trying to listen; I’m here; what do you need?

“So on the way home last night I was thinking . . . it popped in my head from your notes that when you asked him about his injury and whether he still had pain, he didn’t respond.

You got the feeling that it never occurred to him. Then, I realized that it has been my own fear of hurting him more and my worry and negative vibes when it comes to him that may be getting in the way of his healing. I decided I was no longer going to treat him as though he was injured and in pain, not that we were going to go all out, but my attitude and thinking were going to be different.

“When I got home, I went straight to the barn, told him we were gonna ride tonight and asked if that’s what he needed. I put his boots on and saddled him up. I hand walked him down the fence line and back. He seemed to be walking pretty good, so I mounted up and we started to walk.

“The first pass down it seemed to be a little hard for him. I kept talking to him and telling him that he said he wanted to be a serious riding horse and this was going to help him. We would take it easy but if he was wanting to really ride, we were going to have to walk and get some exercise.”

Long story short, they had a wonderful ride, complete with lots of praise and a bit of Reiki. And they had two more wonderful rides that weekend, one with my client on his back, one with a neighborhood child on his back. Very slow, easy rides (but with some trotting and ground poles); very happy horse. Positive thinking had turned the situation around.

A few weeks later, I visited a large, commercial barn and spoke to about a dozen horses. The first horse I spoke to was a four-year-old gelding. His human had told me that she had lost her mare about six months prior. She tried not to, but couldn’t help crying when she said it. Clearly, she was still grieving. She’d bought this little boy a few months prior and was having trouble with him. He was hard to handle, sometimes even bucking. She loved him on the ground, but although she was working with an excellent trainer, she was fearful of riding him. She was worried that she was not the right person for him, that she had bought the wrong horse.

The horses were in their stalls because of rain. This little man kept repeating that he needed to be outside more, that he needed to run and play with his buddies, that he was bored, that he wanted to go out, that he wanted to play, that he WANTED TO GO OUT. Because he was so fixated on turnout (and who can blame him?) and because his human was the person who had set up my visit, I checked back in with him a few days later (with his human companion’s permission).

His first words were these: “Her grief gets in the way. She doesn’t know how to have fun.” When I told him that his human was fearful of his behavior, he said, “Well, I don’t know what to say. I’m just being me. I don’t mean any harm. I just want to play. I stand around too much. This isn’t good for me. And then she is afraid. I think it’s sadness more than fear.”

A bit later in the session, I asked, “Do you have a sense of why you are with Lilly [not her real name]?

He said, “Maybe to help her get her laughter back? But she would need to play by my rules, no worrying, lots of playing.”

I passed this message on to Lilly, in the hopes that she can lift her heart, stop worrying, start playing with this gorgeous boy.

About the same time, I began working with a four-year-old Percheron cross who had been a PMU foal. His human companion wrote: “I don’t even know where to begin . . . He has been with me a little over two years now; he still has huge trust issues. When he came to me he was skin and bones, very malnourished and I think depressed, unhalter broken and basically unhandled at all except for being fed and occasionally wormed . . . I’m worried about my boy . . . I am really hoping you will be able to help us . . . I talk to Buddy all the time, try to explain things to him and I know he listens but we are still at an impasse. I have people telling me all the time how dangerous he is. It’s heartbreaking. I don’t know how to get through to him.”

In a subsequent email, she added that Buddy does not like to be touched anywhere and absolutely refuses to allow her to touch his legs or feet. She said she was also worried that Buddy doesn’t like the barn owner, that this is causing him stress. The client was so worried about him she said she had not gotten a decent night’s sleep in months.

But when I spoke with Buddy, the first words out of his mouth were, “I’m a very lucky boy. I’m in a home where someone loves me deeply, cares for me.” When I asked him about the barn owner, he didn’t respond; to him, it was a non-issue. His only complaint was that he was confined in a stall too much. He asked to be able to live out in the open (as he had done in the past).

I worked with his body, which was holding tension, showed him how to let someone pick up his feet, and channeled Reiki to him. [This was all done across distance.] It became clear to me as I worked that his problems with being touched stemmed in great part from his human’s worried attitude, her negative energy, which he was absorbing like a giant sponge.

After a few sessions, Buddy began to relax. His human companion began to relax, too. She emailed me a few days ago to say Buddy is calmer around her now, is allowing her to touch his legs, and that she talks to him about the property she is looking for so that he can be outside as much as he likes. She breathes more deeply around him, enjoys his presence. All is well.

I think sometimes we drive our horses crazy. I think if we learned to breathe deeply, gave thanks for the abundance in our lives—which includes our gorgeous horses—praised and patted and played, a lot of our problems would simply melt away.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in August 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

The day after I was attuned to Level I Reiki nine years ago, I couldn’t wait to get to the barn and try it out on my beloved Nikos. Would he feel it? Would he like it? Could I really do this? He did. He did. I could! In fact, Nikos loved it. He was eating hay when I laid my hands on him, and he immediately stopped chewing, let the hay drop out of his mouth, got a glazed look in his eyes, and stood absolutely motionless for the half hour or so that I channeled Reiki to him. I was thrilled.

After I teach a Reiki class, I like to check in with my students to see how they’re doing, hoping they are as excited about their newly discovered ability as I was (and continue to be). This month, I’m going to let four of my recent students do the talking: Cindy, Nancy, Carol, and Monica. I’d like you to hear how powerful Reiki can be from the get-go, from the moment one is attuned to this amazing healing art.

When I emailed Cindy, who owns and operates a funeral home and breeds exquisite Maine Coons cats, and asked how she was doing, this was her reply:

Any day upright, is a good one…thank God for my Reiki and you. Since my special day [the Reiki class], my favorite cousin ( the brother I never had) committed suicide, my parents are almost unmanageable, and John will have to have a total hip replacement, my major dental work, plus the usual dead people and animal care and loving.

I truly have to admit, I did well, I have a calm, deep core feeling, which has helped me keep focused on the immediate issues, and putting out fires.

I spoke with Cindy a few days later, and she told me that while she had been concentrating on self-healing in this time of stress, she had also been giving Reiki to a kitten that was having health issues. She let it sleep in her room with her and her husband, in a little bed with a blanket. Before going to sleep and again in the morning, she would Reiki the kitten; it would purr, extend one paw from beneath the blanket, and playfully bat at her hands.

Nancy emailed me this wonderful story:

I had the most incredible experience last night. I was giving Bob [her husband] some much needed Reiki last night about 6 p.m. when a orange wing black bird flew into our dining room door. She flew up to a branch but immediately fell down. We watched to see if she would fly up again but there was no movement. Bob said I should go see if she was okay; she might benefit from Reiki. So, I swept his aura and went to her. As I approached her, she stood still; her eyes were blinking and she was listening as I approached. I reached down and cupped her in my hands. I walked over to the grass and sat down with her in my hands, gave her Reiki for about 5 minutes and spoke to her. When I opened my hands, she did not fly away. So, I continued to pet and talk to her. Thinking she needed a little more, I cupped her again for another couple minutes. Again, when I opened my hands she just sat in my hands.. I asked her if she was okay and she hopped on my finger. I said you are free to go. She jumped down on the ground, took a couple steps. I told her be well, and off she flew!!

It was just incredible. I’m still in awe of being able to hold this bird in my grasp!!

These stories are from Carol:

I have been using Reiki regularly on my dogs, the other night actually on my nephew who fell and got a nice cement burn on his arms at a baseball game, and here and there whenever I get the chance.  Of course I do my own “old” knees regularly since I am a biker and my knees seem to be where I ache the most.  A few weekends ago I did Bike the Drive—33 miles total on the bike—and I thought for SURE I would be hurting the next day, but when I got home I Reikied my knees for quite a while (both of them) and to my total surprise, the next day I didn’t hurt AT ALL!!!  That’s a first, I have to tell you.  If for no other reason then to heal myself, the class was a TOTAL success!  Now every time I bike I Reiki my knees and I’m fine.  Thank you so much.  I also don’t take any medication at all anymore!  That’s just since the class.

I will tell you the story about my one dog.  My Java, 4 yr-old Labrador mix, is such a lover.  She is such a good girl, but doesn’t like to sit for Reiki.  She has been sniffling lately and I know she has allergies, but I hate to give her the medicine because it makes her “loopy.”  So whenever I get the chance I try to give her Reiki. She doesn’t sit for too long, but this morning when I caught her still asleep in bed she seemed to lay for longer. She would let me Reiki her heart and root chakra, but not anywhere else—STRANGE!  She’s so funny, because she will use her paw to move my hand to where I assume she wants it to be. Then she closes her eyes and just sighs really loudly !

Monica, is a barefoot trimmer. Last month, I wrote how the day after she was attuned to Level I Reiki, all of the horses she went to trim were intensely interested in her hands: licking them, biting at them, trying to get her to put them on top of their heads. Several weeks later, she sent me this story:

I was trimming an older horse. The owner told me that the last farrier had a very hard time trimming his hind feet because of his arthritis (or whatever) I performed Reiki on his back for about 15 minutes (Something not right with the back. A hump in the vertebrae. I told her to have a professional look at it). Afterwards, I trimmed him with very minimal interruptions. Also at the same barn I trimmed an old mare. She was a very fidgety and also had arthritis issues. I performed Reiki on her to relax her. Worked very well. Again, she stood very nicely in comparison to prior, and again, I trimmed with minimal interruptions. All the horses, after trimming, galloped around the pasture like they had never done before. The owner was both amazed and scared. She had never seen her horses behave this way. They looked like they were going to run right through the fence. They put on quite a show for about 15 minutes or so. They sure did not look like crippled rescue horses that day.

And another story from Nancy:

This just happened this morning when I went to the barn to feed Holly and Chisum.  I hadn’t done Reiki on Chisum for a while but this morning he appeared to be hurting a little (he’s healing from a suspensory ligament tear in the right hind), not sure if the humid weather is affecting his leg. I put his boots on first thing and then fed him and Holly their breakfast.  While he was eating, I stood slightly off center behind him and proceeded to give him Reiki on his hips, moved up to his root chakra, back down his hips. When he was finished eating, he moved in front of his stall door.  Once he got situated, I picked up where I left off.

He stood for a bit and then started to move backward.  I then brought my hands up on his withers. He turned his head slightly toward me and I reached out my left palm to his nose. He then started to lick my hand to death. I kept my right hand on his withers and let him lick my left hand. We held this position for a bit.  When he turned his head straight, I moved my right hand to his poll. He again turned his head toward me. I again gave him my left hand; he licked and licked and licked.  When he turned his head  straight again, I moved my right hand to his heart chakra, same thing happened. He turned his head, I gave him my hand, he licked and licked.  When he moved his head forward the last time, I put one hand on his spine and one under his belly and moved my hands slowly along his body. When he moved forward, I took this as a sign to end our session.

This reminded me of Monica when the horses were all over her hands right after her attunement.  I had given Bob (my husband) Reiki right before going out to the barn. Maybe my hands were “warmed up” :)!!  Anyway, thought it was pretty cool.

Pretty cool, indeed!

These women are Level I and have only been practicing Reiki for a couple of months. Imagine the stories they will be telling in a couple of years.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in July 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

As I write this, yet another horse race has ended with a catastrophic breakdown. This time the Kentucky Derby. Horse lovers across the country are up in arms, as well they should be, making their case for sanity in this industry—a ban on racing babies whose bodies are not yet fully developed, improved track footing, barefoot racing. The Internet is awash with discussion, with pleas to sign petitions, pleas to write letters to those in charge.

It is a fight worth waging, an education campaign worthy of our best effort, even though the odds are that change will come about very slowly.

We act out of our love of horses. These high-profile cases outrage us and consequently energize us, but what about the daily abuses that just about every horse person has witnessed? Are we doing all that we can do?

Eight or nine years ago, I was riding with a group of women on the Barrington trails. Parts of the trail are on public property; parts of the trail cut across private properties, most of them horse properties. It was a cold day, but sunny and beautiful, the trees sparkling with snow. We were taking a route I hadn’t taken before, and as we passed by a pasture, several horses came up to the fence to greet us. They were not in good shape. Their hair coats were poor, and they were grossly underweight. There was no hay in sight.

The leader of our group, a woman who had recently bought a boarding facility on the trails, knew some of the people in the area, but she didn’t know whose property this was. I said what to me seemed obvious, that as soon as we got back to her barn, she should call the Hooved Animal Humane Society (the only equine humane society in the area at the time) and file a complaint. But when we got back to the barn, the barn owner wouldn’t make the call. I assured her that her identity would be protected, but she was afraid that the owners of these starving horses would make trouble for her. “What kind of trouble?” I asked. She didn’t know, but didn’t want to “rock the boat.” I finally convinced her to give me the location of the property, and I made the call myself.

I had known the barn owner for awhile, knew her to have a good and generous heart, knew her to be a lover of horses. I was, quite frankly, shocked by her behavior. But since that time, I have met many people who have witnessed neglect or abuse and do nothing, out of fear, our of a feeling of helplessness, out of a sense that horses are private property and owners can do as they choose.

Others just don’t see it. Several years ago, a client and student of mine, I’ll call her Rachel, wanted me to meet a barn owner and introduce her to my work. This barn owner was special to Rachel because she owned the barn where Rachel, as an adult, had learned to ride. Rachel thought very highly of this woman and was sure she would be excited about my work. And so she arranged for the three of us to meet.

When I arrived at the barn, the barn owner was teaching a lesson. She seemed to have forgotten about the meeting but said we could talk in an hour or so. Rachel, full of excitement, took me on a tour of the property.

The tiny, muddy paddocks were fenced with wire, some of it barbed. A few horses stood in the mud picking at moldy looking round bales. We walked around to the back of the property. Here lived the “pasture board” horses. Ten or twelve of them were packed into a two-acre lot stinking with mud and manure. I saw one grayish round bale. An industrious horse slowly made his way over to the gate through mud and muck up to his knees. His knees.

I commented on the condition of the paddock. Rachel listened as she fed the sweet horse a carrot. It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that anything was wrong.

Then we entered the main barn.

What I saw just about broke my heart. About thirty horses were lined up in small, dark stalls. One very thin stallion stood propped against his stall wall. Rachel hastily explained that the barn owner occasionally rescued horses, and tried to assure me that this must be one of those horses. But because of the general condition of the barn, I wasn’t reassured.

The water buckets were dirty, the stalls were dirty and dank, lacking light and fresh air. Most of the horses were so emotionally shut down that they didn’t even register our presence. Their eyes were blank, their gaze turned inward.

At the far end of the long aisle we reached a stall that at first appeared empty. But no, there was a baby in there! All by himself, lying in dirty shavings, unable to even see out the bars of his cell.

I had seen more than enough. My stomach was knotted, and I had a terrific headache. Although I could feel the sadness of each creature in that barn, although I wanted to scream with their pain, I knew there was no point in having a meltdown. I pointed out to Rachel, as gently as I could but definitely with an edge in my voice, that the conditions were pretty darned awful. Rachel seemed puzzled. This was the barn where she had touched a horse for the first time. This was the barn where she had learned to ride. To her, this was normal.

I asked Rachel to tell the barn owner that I was unable to stay, and I drove home, finally able to scream and cry, in anger and in grief.

Some days later, after I had calmed myself and found the words to say to Rachel, I called her and quietly explained my position. I told her that I knew I risked losing her friendship, risked offending her, but that the welfare of the horses we both loved was more important. I explained that Rachel was the one who needed to address the situation. Because she had a relationship with the woman, she was the one to tell the barn owner that all was not well. Clearly, the barn owner was in emotional trouble, had lost her capacity to care for others, had lost a sizeable portion of her common sense.

Somewhat to my surprise, Rachel thanked me for opening her eyes to issues she had not seen. She was a bit upset with herself, wondered why she had not seen these problems on her own. She was going to examine this more carefully. But, she said, the problem with speaking to the barn owner was that her husband was an employee of Rachel’s family’s business. She feared offending him and making the workplace uncomfortable. I asked her to consider what was most important.

While Rachel took the time she needed to think about her passive complicity in the conditions at that barn, thought about what she could do to help promote change, the barn owner’s husband was arrested for molesting a young girl who had come to his wife’s barn for riding lessons. Apparently, it had happened more than once.

We need to open our eyes. Open our hearts. Listen to the voice inside that says, “Something is not right here.” We need to speak up. We need to do this for the horses, and we need to do this for ourselves.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in June 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

As I’ve said many times before, Reiki is amazing. I’ve used it for serious conditions: cancer, serious wounds, emotional trauma, pre- and post-surgical healing. But the beauty of Reiki is that it works in all kinds of situations, even relatively minor ones. It’s such a kick to have a first aide kit of sorts right on the ends of your arms, to be able to lay your hands on someone, including yourself, and bring relief.

Last week, in a moment completely devoid of coordination and common sense, I managed to slam the passenger door of my RAV-4 into my head. I was in a hurry. I was trying to talk to my dog in the back seat and quickly retrieve my bag from the front seat, and somehow missed the fact that I needed to back away from the car before closing the door.

The door hit me just above my right eyebrow, so hard that I saw stars. I was on my way to a meeting, and when I walked into the house, the host, after hearing of my mishap, asked if I wanted some ice. I almost said yes, then realized I didn’t need it. “ No thanks,” I said. “I have Reiki.” I did take a few doses of homeopathic Arnica (which I always carry with me) so that the area wouldn’t bruise, but I counted on the Reiki for the pain and swelling.

By the time I’d gotten myself a cup of tea and found my seat, a knot had already begun to form above my eyebrow. I removed my glasses, which thankfully hadn’t been damaged, and held my hand vertically over the right side of my face, covering much of my forehead, my eye, my cheek. Almost immediately, the pain—a slow, low throb—stopped. Within a few minutes, no more than two or three, the swelling was completely gone. The spot never turned blue, or any other color. Today, four days later, if I push on the spot, it’s a bit tender, but otherwise it’s as though the incident never happened.

How else can you use Reiki in everyday life? It’s terrific for stress-induced insomnia. With Reiki, you can lull yourself to sleep in five to ten minutes. And it’s great for indigestion. Forget about the antacids. A few minutes of Reiki will calm your unhappy stomach. It works for headaches, too.

Of course, you can help your critters with Reiki. You can use Reiki to calm a nervous horse before riding or before loading or before a show. You can reassure a sad horse whose pasture mate is gone for the day, or longer. You can soothe the aches and pains of your dogs and cats as well.

Some years ago, when I was boarding my beloved Thoroughbred, Nikos, I came to the barn the day after he’d had a tetanus shot and noticed a baseball-sized swelling at the injection site. Sue, the barn owner, was in the barn, and I showed the swelling to her. My mantra has always been, “When in doubt, Reiki,” and so I did. I put both hands over the swollen area and continued my conversation with Sue. After a few minutes, it felt as though my hands were lying flatter against Nikos’s body. I removed my hands to see how the swelling was. It was gone. I couldn’t believe my own eyes, so I asked Sue to take a look. Her eyes got very big.

When I was able to live with Nikos a few years later, I would often give him Reiki with his late-night meal. An elder, he needed three meals a day to keep the weight on. He lived outside in a small herd but happily came into the barn alone (the others ate twice a day). He would stand in the stall, munching his food, while I gave him Reiki. He would sometimes adjust his position so that my hands were in the right place. When the Reiki stopped flowing, he would thank me with a nuzzle or a loving glance and then slowly rejoin his herd. This special bonding time is one of my most precious memories of my life with Nikos.

You can share Reiki with your human family as well. But your critters may try to steal it. A woman who recently took my level one Reiki class called to report that she had been practicing Reiki on her husband (who had a headache) and was quickly surrounded by all three cats and one of the two dogs, who then all tried to jump into her husband’s lap. They know a good thing when they see it.

But the best Reiki theft story I think I’ve ever heard comes from a student in that same class. I called to check on her a week after the class and she said everything was fine, but she had a question. She’s a trimmer. The Monday after she was attuned to Reiki (a procedure that gets the Reiki flowing through you and out the palms of your hands), she had eleven horses to trim and lots of driving to do. It was a busy day. As always, she greeted each horse before beginning to work with her or him. But this day, the response from the horses was like nothing she had ever experienced. Each one of them was fascinated by the palms of her hands. They sniffed them. They gently bit at them. She said that several of the horses put their heads under her hands and flung them, trying to position them on their heads. She was busy and didn’t have time to give Reiki to all of these horses, and so she didn’t. But each of the horses, she said, was clearly irritated with her decision. “Is that possible?” she asked. “Were they mad at me?”

I’d have to say yes. If it were up to the animals, we’d all know Reiki.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in May 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis