Several years ago, I was standing in a long line at an area tack store (the long line was the result of a summer sale) and struck up a conversation with the woman ahead of me. One topic led to another, and we had come around to the topic of bare feet versus shod. The woman’s horse was intermittently lame. She was sure that a proper barefoot trim would solve his problems, but her veterinarian didn’t agree. So the horse was shod, with wedges and pads, and received daily doses of drugs. Her horse remained lame. The woman told me that she wished the veterinary community would catch up with the new research on feet. Clearly, she said, a physiologically correct barefoot trim was best for the horse.

Puzzled, I asked her why, if she was convinced of this, her horse was shod. She said it was because her veterinarian told her to keep him shod. She said again that she wished the vets would learn about barefoot because then they could share that information with their clients—and then she could take her horse barefoot, something she was convinced she needed to do.

To say that I was dumfounded would be an understatement. Here was a woman who had clearly done her research on barefoot, understood its benefits, and was convinced that this was the route her horse needed to take. Yet she ignored her own intelligence, never mind instinct, and took a path counter to her sense of what was best for her animal companion.

This is, of course, an extreme example. But I’m guessing that each of you (and myself as well) at one time or another, has silenced the voice inside that clearly indicated which path to take.

At a recent Reiki class, a student was working with my dog, Elika. Elika is a wonderful teacher; she is very clear about where on her body she would like you to place your hands. If you place them incorrectly, she will try to move them with her head or front paws; she will squirm around in an effort to reposition her body under your hands; she will even stare at the area of her body needing attention. She is very gentle, but she is not subtle.

So here is my little Elika, lying on her back, looking at her belly, trying to squirm underneath the woman’s hands so that they are placed on her belly (they were on Elika’s chest), and the woman asked me, “Do you think I should move my hands”? Now, I understand that the woman was just learning. But the question was so absurd that I just looked at her—and then at my squirming dog. The woman, seeing the silliness of the situation, laughed, then moved her hands to Elika’s belly.

Recently, I worked with a tiny dog who had gone into liver failure and was in the hospital for a week. In our first session, the little dog told me that she would be fine; she had been depressed, but the Reiki seemed to lift her spirits and raise her energy. Coupled with the excellent veterinary care, she recovered well enough to come home. Once the dog was out of danger, the human told me that her dog had become ill several hours after receiving a battery of shots. She was sure that the shots had precipitated the illness (which began with diarrhea and violent shaking). She had questioned giving her little one all of those shots at once, but she had questioned silently. Now as she was reading more about adverse reactions to vaccinations, she was wishing she had listened to the small voice asking her to reconsider giving so many at once.

Is my point that you should leave your brain behind and simply go with your gut? Not at all. Do your research, but do it with your heart as well as your head. Do not do something merely because someone tells you that this is how things have always been done. Look deeper. Look into your own heart. Look into your animal companion’s heart.

And most importantly, listen.

A few years ago, I was giving myself a little Reiki, which always puts me in a meditative state. I saw a river, quiet, winding. Suddenly, hundreds of wild horses galloped to the bank of the river. I heard a voice. It said, “They are here to teach us. Listen.”

I took this to mean that the animals are here to teach us not only about them but about ourselves as well.

Listen.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in July 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

A year ago, when I introduced this column, I said that I would be writing about my experiences (and yours) with animal communication and Reiki energy healing. Beginning this month, though, I am also going to occasionally write about my experiences with neuro-muscular retraining (which Iíve been practicing for about 12 years). Simply put, neuro-muscular retraining is movement re-education, a method of teaching an animal to trade inefficient movement patterns for more comfortable, effective ones. Most of us have probably had the experience of thinking our horse was misbehaving and then finding out that the issue was really the result of pain (ill-fitting saddle, unbalanced feet, stiff ribcage or neck) rather than a behavioral problem. We always feel awful, of course, wonder how on earth we missed the signs, and swear it will never happen again. Many of us may have also thought at one time or another that our horse was purposely giving us a hard time when he or she refused to comply with a request, only to find out that the horse was reacting from fear, not belligerence, and that we needed to take a few steps back and fill in some gaps in the horseís training.

I wonder, though, how many of us have considered that our horseís refusal or reluctance to do what we ask could also be the result of an inability to effectively move in the way we are asking. In other words, he doesnít do it because he canít. This may or may not be a pain issue, but for the moment, letís assume that itís not. To illustrate, Iím going to share an experience I had with my beloved thoroughbred, Nikos, who passed away three years ago. At the time, of this story, he was 23 and had been with me for five years. Together, we had transformed his movement from stiff, rigid, rushing into limber, fluid, and powerful.

I had a friend who was a natural horsemanship trainer. Iíd done some work with her horse, and so (because barter is a wonderful thing), she was giving Nikos and me a lesson. The woman was a wonderful, soft trainer, and although Nikos already had excellent ground manners and had become very soft under saddle, I thought it would be fun to take a few lessons with her.

In this lesson, she was showing me how to use a soft rope to teach a horse to give to pressure (a fundamental rule of natural horsemanship). She placed the rope around one of Nikos’ legs at a time and gently pulled upwards; Nikos lifted his foot. Then she draped the rope around his hind end, gently pulled to the left, and Nikos stepped over with his hind legs, right leg over left. It took very little pressure because Nikos already understood the premise of giving to pressure and was very light.

Then my friend placed the rope around Nikos’ barrel and gently pulled to the left. She wanted him to move laterally, to step right leg over left in front and back at the same time. But he didn’t. She applied more pressure to the rope, then more. But Nikos did not move. He stood rooted to the spot, clearly thinking, beginning to look perplexed.

I told my friend that I was sure Nikos knew what she was asking him to do, but that for some reason he was having trouble doing it. I continued watching him. My friend applied more pressure to the rope. Nikos clumsily stepped over with his hind legs. She released then tried again. This time he stepped over with his front legs, just as clumsily. Aha! Now I understood. I told my friend again that Nikos was unable to do what she was asking. She told me, very kindly, that he had to learn.

“But,” I said, “You aren’t teaching him. You are asking and asking, but you aren’t teaching him how to do what you are asking.”

From watching Nikos, it had become apparent that, for whatever reason, he was feeling disconnected between front and hind. He could move the front, he could move the hind, but he could not perform the simple lateral move my trainer friend was asking for (a movement that he ordinarily had no problem with).

“Let me show you something,” I said and asked her to remove the rope.

Standing behind Nikos, I placed one hand on the left side of his seat bone and gently pushed toward his head. When I released, just as gently, I watched for the tiny head bob that would indicate the movement had traveled along his spine all the way from hind end to front. There. I then stepped over and placed my hand on the right side of his seat bone. Again, I gently pushed, gently released. Again his head gently dipped and raised.

I stepped away. “Now try again,” I said. My friend placed the soft rope around Nikos’ barrel and applied gentle pressure, asking him to step to the left. He gracefully stepped over, crossing his right feet in front of his left. My friendís eyes widened. She moved to the other side, placed the rope around Nikos’ barrel, applied gentle pressure. He gracefully stepped to the right.

“See,” I said, “you had to teach him how to do it. I don’t know why, but he was disconnected today.”

Perhaps the rope itself, draped as it was around his middle, had disconnected his front end from his hind (in much the same way that a girth does over time). Pushing through his seat bones, sending a gentle force up along his spine, had reminded Nikos of the connection between front and back, and in less than a minute he had been able to gracefully and willingly comply with the trainer’s request.

I remembered this incident recently as I worked with my green TB cross. On a large lunging circle, he kept tossing his head going left. He can be a pickle, and my first instinct was to ask him to knock it off. But then I noticed that he wasnít lifting his left hind leg as cleanly as usual, that there seemed to be a tiny bit of stiffness in his hips. He wasnít in pain, just wasnít able to move efficiently until I addressed the issue. I can get pretty focused on tasks, so I was glad I hadnít pushed him, glad Nikos popped into my head with a reminder.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in June 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

I’ve been working with a cat for about a year and a half. She is an elderly cat, very thin and frail, but with a huge spirit. Her female caregiver is the one who hired me. She said she could never tell her husband what she was doing because he would think it was stupid.

The cat had colitis, a spastic colon that made eating and defecating painful. She would howl after she ate; she would howl when she had to use the litter box. The woman was, of course, very upset. The cat and I began with three Reiki sessions in three weeks (across distance; I have never met her face to face) and then reduced them to once a month. From the first session, the cat was able to eat without howling. After about a month, she started gaining weight. We continue the monthly sessions because of the cat’s advanced age and because she always seem revitalized, energized, and happy for weeks afterwards.

The woman writes me lovely emails about how the cat loves the Reiki sessions, how they have prolonged her life and improved its quality. The emails are gracious and touching, and make me feel grateful to have these two beings in my life.

The woman’s husband began to notice the changes in the cat. After about a year, the woman told him what was going on. She was surprised that he didn’t seem surprised. Seems he knew all along.

The man now has cancer. I asked the woman if her husband had considered Reiki for himself. At first she said she wouldnít even suggest it, that he would never agree to it. But then she finally asked. He said it was fine for the cat but not for him.

The woman has painful arthritis in her knees. I asked her if she had considered Reiki for herself. She told me that she was afraid. She said her cat always falls asleep when I work with her. The woman said that this is good for the cat, but that she herself needs to stay in control.

I have been working with a beautiful Golden Retriever. When I met him, the dog could barely walk up and down the stairs but can now leap up on a bed. The woman who is his companion and caregiver suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, spends a lot of time in bed, and flies to the Mayo clinic every few months. Her illness takes up huge chunks of her life. I explain that Reiki could at the very least help to ease her pain and could very likely help her to recover from infections and viruses more quickly. She says that would be wonderful. She says she can certainly see the effects on her boy, then tells me how much her body aches and that she needs to go lie down.

Over the years, numerous dogs, cats, and horses have told me that their human companions are stressed out, depressed, cranky, or unhappy, that their human companions need to take better care of themselves. They have asked me if I can help. I deliver these messages to the humans, who most often laugh nervously, then change the subject.

It is curious. It seems that we humans are attached to our illnesses and disabilities. Some of us define ourselves by them; we become our arthritis, our slipped discs, our insomnia, become our depression, our eating disorders, our addictions.

But who could we be if our knees stopped hurting, if our backs stopped aching, if we could count on a good night’s sleep? Who could we be if our stress disappeared, if our depression lifted, if our hearts became light?

The woman with the cat, the woman with the painfully arthritic knees, said to me, “We don’t want to let go of our afflictions. That would mean we would have to change.”

But who could we be if we wanted for ourselves the same quality of life we want for the creatures in our lives?

Who could we be?

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in May 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

I believe that the animals who come into our lives do so for a reason.

I didn’t always believe this. But then I met my beloved Thoroughbred, Nikos, who told me we had been together for many lifetimes and introduced (perhaps reintroduced) me to the work I do now. He told me that we are one spirit, separate yet connected. He told me that we will be together until the end of time.

And my little white dog, Elika, my constant companion, the bright light of my life. When she told me she was mine, I had no interest in little white dogs, but she said she had come to teach me about my wildness, and so I took her in, and my life was changed.

Several months ago, I was invited to a barn to do mini-readings during a holiday event. A teenaged girl came up to me as I was preparing to leave and asked if I could speak with her horse. She had been trying all evening to decide if she wanted to do this and was clearly still reluctant.

She told me again that her horse was for sale. She had told me this at the beginning of the evening when I first met her. When I’d commented on her horse’s beauty, she’d said, “Do you want to buy her? She’s for sale! There’s another one I want to buy.” Her tone had surprised me. I was a bit taken aback at her eagerness to give up her horse. But now, as she asked me to do the reading, her tone had changed. There was sadness in her voice, in her posture; she said she didn’t know what to do.

When I spoke to the mare, she told me that the girl should not feel guilty, that the mare had come into the girl’s life not only to make her a better horsewoman, but to open up places in her heart as well. She said that the girl had learned the lessons, that she, the horse, had always known that they would not be together for long and that it was time for them to say their good-byes. She asked only that the girl be patient and careful in choosing the mare’s next home, that she closely listen to the guidance of her heart.

A client recently asked me to speak with his Border Collie. The man will be going abroad for several months this summer and will have to leave the dog behind. Even though the man’s wife will be joining him overseas for only one month, and even though the dog will be staying in the home of someone she knows well and loves during that month, the man was feeling guilty about leaving her.

The dog told me that she was well aware of the trip, and that she was fine with staying home. She said, “This trip is particularly important. Something that has been germinating will be born. Do not look for something huge, something that will knock you down. Look for something small and subtle, like a feather. It will brush your cheek and completely change your life. I do not need to be there. I will keep the space open here.” She went on to say that her human companion is quite the worrier, that when one worry is over, another begins. She said that after this trip, “the worrying will stop. That will be part of the change. He will feel giddy, light—a weight gone.”

Some years ago, a woman contacted me to speak with her cat, who was having digestive disturbances. I channeled Reiki healing to him, and we spoke about what was going on. He was a very calm and centered cat, self-assured, and so I was surprised when he suddenly asked for Holly, which is a Bach flower essence used to treat unresolved anger. This made no sense to me until I finally realized that he was suggesting it for his human companion, the woman who had hired me. When I spoke with her about it, she revealed that she had been sexually abused as a child and that she was indeed still suffering the effects.

And then there are the countless horses who say they are with their women to help them to find their courage, to speak up, to break out of the prisons they have constructed for themselves, to learn to trust their instincts, to listen with their hearts. Just today a horse said to me about her human companion, “She worries quite a bit, but that seems to be changing. She is softening, taking her time, listening. She second-guesses herself, though. Tell her she doesn’t need to do that. She is connected; she can hear; she is hearing correctly.”

And so they come forever or for a little while. They come to bring the joy that comes with play, to teach or to learn, to provide companionship, to make us brave, to soften our hearts, to help us heal or to be healed. Maybe it is worth considering: Why is this horse in your life, this dog, this cat, this cardinal outside your kitchen window?

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in April 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

The Problem

Your horse seems depressed. Your veterinarian has been out to see him and has given him a clean bill of health. Still, your horse does not have his usual energy and lust for life. He seems withdrawn and moody.

You will be going out of town for a week, and will be leaving your dog with a new dog sitter. Your dog is a creature of habit and tends to get upset in new situations.

Your middle-aged cat has suddenly started urinating outside of the litter box. A trip to the veterinarian has confirmed that there is nothing wrong with her kidneys or bladder.

In all of these situations, you might consider using the services of an animal communicator. But if you have never used a communicator before, how do you decide who to use?

Step One: Gathering Names

The easiest place to begin, of course, is with a referral from someone you trust, someone who has used a communicator and has been happy with the results.

If this isnít an option, you can begin either by searching a local publication where communicators advertise (such as this publication) or by searching the Internet. When searching the Internet, it is probably easiest to narrow your search by state, but remember that all communicators are able to do readings across distance. So if you run across a communicator who appeals to you but that lives in another state, or even another country, donít let location stop you.

Step Two: Gathering Information

The next step is to gather information about the communicator. This is obviously necessary if you are considering using the services of someone that no one you know has used. But it may also be a good idea in the case of a referral. Itís entirely possible that a friend or acquaintance could suggest a communicator that you end up not caring forówhat works for one person doesnít always work for another. So itís always a good idea to do a little bit of research on your own before hiring someone.

If the communicator has a Website, go ahead and take a look at it. The Website will give you a sense of the communicatorís background, philosophy, and approach. The Website should contain summaries of some of the communicatorís readings (stories or short case studies) and should contain testimonials from clients as well. Of course, no communicator is going to include comments from dissatisfied clients (if such clients exist), but positive testimonials should give you a sense of the communicatorís approach and level of success.

The Website will also discuss other modalities the communicator may use. For example, I incorporate Reiki energy healing into my sessions; other communicators may use other energy modalities, such as Healing Touch, oils, or crystals.

Websites may also contain articles written by or about the communicator. These are another source of valuable information about the communicatorís work.

Step Three: Making Contact

If you like what you have read, if it sits well with you, if you feel drawn to learning more about this person, the next step is to contact the communicator. Usually, you can do this either by email or phone. Email is a bit less personal, but you should use whichever method you feel most comfortable with.

Of course, if the communicator does not have a Website, you will probably want to ask questions about his or her background, experience, and approach. But if you have already gotten this information, this final step is about making a more personal contact. As you have your conversation with the communicator, let your intuition guide you. There is an increasing number of excellent, qualified professionals to choose from. You need to work with the person you are most drawn to.

Final Considerations

In making your decision of who to work with, beware of sweeping claims. Anyone who claims, for example, to be the best communicator in the area or who makes negative comments about other professionals, anyone who claims to be accurate 100 percent of the time, anyone who claims to be able to predict how much time your ill animal has to live should trip your early warning system.

Animal communication is an art form that is based in spirit. It originates in that part of us that is soft and quiet, that is humble and receptive, that is awed by the power of this gift. These are the qualities you want to look for.

Note also that the session will not only give you information about your animal companion, it will give you information about yourself as well. Some of this information may make you uncomfortable, for example if your horse is not happy with his job or with some facet of his living situation, or if your dog or cat insists that changes be made in the relationship.

A good communicator, then, will not only tell you what your animal companion said, she or he will suggest ways for you to act on this information, to make the necessary changes, to integrate the information into your heart.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in March 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

At the beginning of each of my animal communication classes, I ask each student to pair up with another student for a short exercise: Airing of the Fears. One student in the pair, student A, begins airing her or his fears about the class or animal communication in general, while the other student, student B, responds with a simple “OK.” The idea is to not get into a discussion about the fears, which would give them more substance and weight, but merely to acknowledge them.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to hear anything,” student A may say.

“OK,” student B responds.

“I’m afraid my family will think I’m crazy,” student A continues.

“OK,” student B responds.

The exercise requires student A to continue airing her or his fears for a full two minutes. Initially, students often feel this will be impossible. They aren’t afraid of anything, at least not class-related. They’ve paid their money; they’ve come to class; they’re ready to learn. But as the exercise continues, they come to realize that they do, in fact, have many fears.

“I’m afraid I’ll think I’m hearing something, but I’ll just be making it up.”

“OK.”

I’m afraid I’ll hear a cry for help, but I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“OK.”

Interesting, isn’t it, that the student starts out afraid of not being able to hear and circles around to being afraid of being able to hear. This is really common.

The wonderful thing about airing your fears in this way is that by bringing them to the light and having them acknowledged, the fears shrink, sometimes even disappear. Getting into a long, involved discussion about why you can’t hear the animals or the awful looks you’d get from your friends if you told them you were doing this or how silly you would feel trying to hear an animal and not being able to do it isn’t effective because the discussion just draws energy to the fear. You don’t want to feed the fear. You just want to say it, have it acknowledged, then let it go.

Where do these fears come from? Well, we’re not born with them. As I’ve said often in this column, each of us is born with the ability to hear the animals. So the fears about not being able to do it come from our environment, our culture. We can buy into the fears, feed them and allow them to grow; or we can let the fears go, and we can return to being the fearless creatures we were at birth.

If you think about it, all of the fears really boil down to one fear: The fear of not being in control. This is ironic because letting go is what allows you to hear the animals.

Then go do what you’ve been wanting to do, but fear kept talking you out of: Find yourself an animal communication class and sign yourself up!

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in February 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

Happy New Year!

The new year is always a time of beginnings, and so I’d like to share a story with you about beginnings. It actually happened in the spring—another time rich with beginnings—but I’m hoping it’s a good new year’s story as well.

It was the spring of 2000. I had decided about six-months prior that it was time to leave Chicago (a city that I adore) and move out to the country to live with horses. At the time, I was not in a position to buy property, and so I was looking to lease or share or work. I had been searching and frantically searching; I had no idea where I wanted to be or was supposed to be or how to make the decision.

One evening, as I sat quietly with my Reiki, a rather loud but sweet voice told me to move to Woodstock (IL). I knew of Woodstock, had volunteered at the Hooved Animal Humane Society headquartered there, and had been through the town many times on the way to my mother’s house in Harvard. But I didn’t know anyone there or have any leads about where to look or what to look for.

But the voice was so loud and clear that I told my mother about it and asked her to put the word out among her friends in the area.

Three weeks later, I got the call that a man in Woodstock was looking for someone to house sit for a year and care for his five horses. He was a military man and would be overseas for another year. The judge in my brain came up with all sorts of reasons why this wouldn’t work, the first one being that my taste in decorating would be wildly different from someone in the military, that there was no way I could be comfortable in the house, the second one being that there was no way I could possibly make a living way out there in the sticks. I know, none of this makes any sense, but the judges in our brains rarely do. Sometimes when our prayers are answered, we’re too busy being scared to notice.

Nevertheless, on a rainy day at the end of March I meandered down from a barn in Kenosha where I was boarding my horse, everything green, green, green from the days of rain, enjoying the scenery, and figuring that if nothing else at least I was having a nice drive in the country.

The moment I drove onto the property in Woodstock, my heart opened. It was a simple house, a simple barn on a 7-acre plot. There was nothing spectacular here. But the energy of the place nearly took my breath away. Sitting in the car in the driveway, I said to my little white dog, “Elika, we are going to be living here.” I was so excited that I wished I was hauling a trailer of my belongings and that I could move in right at that moment.

After spending a couple of hours with the owner, meeting the lovely horses who would become my dear friends, and making preliminary arrangements for my move, I headed back to Chicago. It had stopped raining, but there was still quite a bit of water on the roads, so it was necessary to drive with caution. I had been driving along the expressway for about ten minutes, in a state of both elation and peace, when I saw an SUV travel down the on-ramp, merge into the right lane of traffic, and then spin to the left 180 degrees. The vehicle was now in my lane, coming straight at me at about 50 miles an hour. At the rate we were traveling towards each other, we seemed destined to crash within seconds.

For reasons unknown to me, I did not panic. A clear, loud, calm voice spoke, enunciating each word: “Don’t. Do. Anything.”

And so I did not try to decide which way to turn the wheel; I did not try to decide whether or not I should brake. Although I could see the panic in the other driver’s face, I kept on the course I was on.

And then it was as though a bubble was placed around my car and all the cars around me and behind me. Traffic seemed to slow and drop back from the danger; time itself seemed to slow. The car coming towards me suddenly turned and was back on course. The driver was soon able to pull onto the shoulder, safe but visibly shaken. I would have liked to have pulled over and shared a kind word, but with the wet conditions that didn’t seem safe, and so I sent a bit of Reiki instead. I quickly glanced into the back seat to check on my precious cargo. My usually hyper-sensitive little dog, Elika, was curled up, fast asleep, apparently unaware that anything had happened.

What had happened?

I knew this: I could have died that day. But I didn’t. Divine energy scooped us all up and protected us. It was not our time to go.

For me, it was a dramatic signal that a brand-new chapter in my life was beginning: a life that began to come into full harmony with the animals.

And so I remind myself this new year to abandon all preconceptions, silence the judge in my head, and to listen to the inner voice, the sweet, kind, loving voice that offers both solace and direction.

Until next year,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in January 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

The season of gift-giving is upon us. Some of us will frantically search for just the right gift, the gift that says just the right thing, expresses just the right emotion, the gift that shows us off in just the right light. We will plan and shop and prepare. We will spend far too much money and far too much energy and will end up feeling depleted and sad.

Others of us will give as little thought as possible to the chore of gift-buying and will speed down department store aisles mere days before our family gathering or our office gathering or the gathering at our place of worship, grabbing at whatever-they can always return it if they don’t like it-and paying extra for gift-wrapping. We will spend far too much money and far too much energy and will end up feeling depleted and sad.

Several years ago, a woman in one of my Reiki classes shared this story. The year before, she had been on vacation in Costa Rica and had been swept off the beach by a riptide. Her neck was broken in two places. She was told she might never walk again.

The woman, a successful groomer and dog sitter, always had a house full of dogs. She told of coming home from the hospital and being immobilized for weeks, her bed surrounded by dogs, both hers and other people’s. When her husband would come to check on her, he had to pick his way over and between the pack because they refused to move. She told us, her voice heavy with emotion, that she was certain it was the energy and love of these creatures that made it possible for her to walk again.

Later, with the aid of a walker, she was able to take daily walks to the corner. She would take several dogs with her. “They only needed one walk,” she said, laughing. “It took all day.” She took four at a time, two leashes in each hand, inching her way down the sidewalk. She said, “I would take a step, and they would take a step. I would stop to rest, and they would sit and wait. I would take another step, and they would take another step. I would stop, and they would sit.” The woman who was told she might never walk again told us she was soon able to walk on her own. What greater gift than this?

Giving is second nature to the creatures in our lives: the dog who teaches us about loyalty and unconditional love, the cat who teaches us about independence. Giving is second nature to the horse who hears our confessions and our prayers, who lets us bury our face in his strong, sweet neck, who nibbles our hair, who carries us on her strong back down a snowy trail, who looks us in the eye with fierce pride.

I think the animals have much to teach us about giving.

Perhaps this gift-giving season some of us will strike a better balance than we have in the past, taking our cue from the creatures in our lives. Perhaps we will fret less, enjoy each other more, give freely from our hearts.

Until next year,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in December 2006.

© 2006 by Pamela Sourelis

Dusty, a beautiful gray sheepdog who had passed from this life three days earlier, entered the room and began speaking. He felt centered and wise; his voice was strong. “Oh, I know she loves me,” he said. “She is a most beautiful creature. Please tell her not to cry, that I am fine. I am free. There is no explaining this. The earth life is wonderful, a joy, a bounteous gift, but this life is boundless. I am with her still. I am always with her. I am a soft breath at her neck; I am a warmth that travels up her legs and settles in her belly. I am always here.”

“Dusty,” I said, “She wants to know if you were happy.”

“Gloriously so. Always. My life was a joy. Maria is a joy. She is my friend, my heart song forever.”

“Everyone misses you,” I said. I was speaking of Maria; her parents, who often visited; the two other dogs; and the two cats.

“I know,” he said. “Please tell them to be happy. I miss their touch, but I do not miss them because, you see, I am with them.”

Dusty and Maria had been together since he was a pup, and he had passed at the age of 19, an extraordinarily long life for a 70-pound dog. They had been the dearest of friends, and while Maria was grateful for every day they had spent together, for his long and healthy life (he had died peacefully in his sleep), there was nevertheless a hole in her heart.

When Maria had called me several days earlier for an appointment, She had been tender with grief. She missed Dusty so deeply, the pain was like a bruise on her heart. I told her that she could speak with him whenever she liked, that he would always hear her. I suggested she ask him to come to her in a dream. She said that she would try, and I told her that I would ask as well.

“Dusty,” I said, “Maria would like you to visit her in a dream. Could you do that for her?”

“Of course,” he said. “I will bound into her mind and heart, full of electric energy. I will recharge her heart. She will feel new.”

“She feels sad,” I said. “She loves you and misses you so much. You were together a really long time.”

“Extraordinary, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said, “for such a large dog. I was quite amazed.”

“I had a very good life. And I am having a good life now as well. It is all one. Here. There.”

After a short pause, Dusty continued, “She is an artist; did you know that?”

I told him that I hadn’t, but that I believe all humans are artists.

He said, “She has an exquisite sense of color. You can see it in her flower garden. She is quite amazing, really.”

As I wrote these words, something told me that Maria did not have a flower garden. I was afraid for a moment that I had heard wrong but reminded myself that information that makes me uneasy always ends up being important.

Dusty said, “I will tell the other creatures to be good to her, I mean especially good to her in this difficult time. They are all healers, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “I believe this is so.”

He went on, “They will all help to mend her broken heart. Tell her to let the love pour in through the cracked places.”

I told him that I would.

“Tell her I am always with her and that I will see her again.”

“Are you coming back?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Not now. I will see her here. But not for awhile, of course. She has a long and beautiful life ahead of her. Please tell her that she is loved forever by me.”

***

Maria has a non-traditional work schedule, which has her going to bed early in the evening and heading off to work well before dawn, so she was already asleep when I worked with Dusty. When we spoke the next day, she said that she had slept soundly for the first time since his passing, that she had a strong sense of his presence in her sleep, and that she had awakened feeling rested, strong, and at peace. (“I will bound into her mind and heart, full of electric energy. I will recharge her heart. She will feel new.”)

When I shared with Maria that Dusty had said “It is all one. Here. There.” She tearfully said that she believed that as well. She said that he had always had that peaceful grace about him, that he had helped to teach her.

When I mentioned the flower garden, she became quiet for a moment. I said, “You don’t have a flower garden, do you?”

“No,” she said. She paused and then began to cry. “I don’t have one yet, but I’ve been planning one.”

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in September 2006.

© 2006 by Pamela Sourelis