In the past few weeks I have met two former healers who are now doing other jobs. They carry the lessons of the healer into their work, but they no longer specifically do healing work. Both of them gave the same reason, as does a third former healer, a good friend: People don’t want to get well.

This may sound absurd, but I have to admit that this is my experience as well, which is one of the reasons I primarily work with four-legged creatures. They accept Reiki healing, no questions asked. They know what they need, and when they’ve had enough, they walk away. The results are often dramatic.

On many occasions, an animal that I am working with has indicated that his or her human is in need of healing. I have been told intimate details of some of these human’s lives. When I have shared these concerns with the human, asked if I can be of assistance, the human invariably says, “Oh, no. I’m fine.” Even when clearly she or he is not. I have witnessed humans accept ownership of illnesses and conditions (“my insomnia,” “my depression,” “my lupus,” “my fibromyalgia”) and seem fearful at the prospect of letting these conditions go.

And so it was a pleasant surprise when a former client (I’ll call her Anne) asked me to assist her with an ongoing health issue. I worked with several of Anne’s animals about five years ago. Anne has recommended my services to others over the years, and she has asked about Reiki for humans, but she had never before requested sessions for herself.

Anne suffers from extremely painful fibromyalgia and is following a nutritional and detoxification protocol that has healed many, many people. (See VitaRoyal.com for more information.) While she is clearly benefiting from the protocol, she felt that she had reached a plateau in her healing journey and wondered if Reiki could help. I shared stories with her—including my own story of pushing past a healing plateau with Reiki after my terrible injury this summer—and she decided to give it a try.

All of the sessions were conducted across distance. The immediate result of the first session was a change in her personal energy. A brilliant woman, whose mind is most often in overdrive, and whose manner can appear rushed and impatient at times, she became calm, almost serene.

This sense of calm not only remained fairly constant; it seemed to deepen with each session. I saw this as hugely significant, but she kindly informed me that calm was not what she was looking for.

And so I explained that for healing to occur on the deep level that she was pursuing, the body had to first be balanced, that it cannot heal in a state of anxiety or stress. This made sense to her, and so she continued with the sessions and experienced steady improvement in her health over several weeks’ time.

Another benefit—this one to her animals—was an unexpected surprise. Five years ago, I had worked with one of her birds, Lovie. Anne had been unhappy because Lovie was unhappy—to the point of biting her. Anne wanted Lovie to be “a better pet.” I explained that I cannot change an animal’s temperament, but that I would speak to Lovie in the hopes that she would tell me what was going on.

Well, did she ever! Lovie was enraged. Stressed and anxious, she angrily said she had no interest in being a “pet,” that she wanted to be free. Anne had explained that her birds were free to leave their cages at all times and had free run of the house, but Lovie impatiently informed me that was not enough; she wanted to live in the wild.

Obviously, it is not possible to release a domestic bird into the wild, and so the issue remained unresolved.

Before Anne’s first session several weeks ago, I told her that if there were any cats in the house, they would probably pile on the bed with her. Cats love Reiki. And so she brought the cat home that lives in her place of business. Sure enough, he jumped up on the bed when the session began. Anne had also placed the birdcage on the bed during the session, so she was lying in the middle with the cat on one side and the birds on the other.

She reported that after the session, the cat—who could be aggressive and hyper—was calm to the point of being cross-eyed. (She said this jokingly, of course.) But an even bigger change was in Lovie. Her hostility stopped. She now sits calmly on Anne’s shoulder without biting Anne’s ear. She is no longer fearful and hyper.

This is not the first time I have seen Reiki calm a human or animal in the room when someone else was receiving treatment. One human reported that after lying next to her dog while her dog received a treatment, she (the human) slept better than she had in months. But the change in Lovie was extraordinary. The change in her behavior was immediate and lasting. I explained to Anne that my sense was that while the Reiki itself surely had an effect on this angry critter, the change in Anne had a powerful effect as well. Her internal calm was calming to Lovie.

Horse people know this. Our horses reflect images of ourselves—our confidence, our doubts and fears, our patience or lack of it, our energy. But we may forget that everyone we come in contact with—four-legged or two-legged—reflects images of ourselves. The energy we project is the energy we get back.

And so the family that heals together . . . well, heals together.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

P.S. I have begun a Facebook group called Healing is Possible. All are welcome to join to share stories about healing (and they don’t need to be about Reiki). I hope to see you there.

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

Last month, I wrote about the healing I have been blessed to experience after an awful accident I had with one of my horses. I wrote:

I learned again that healing is all around us—in the voices of friends, in the sweet summer breeze, in the touch of my Elika’s soft fur, of her tongue on my face, in the sweet anticipation of being able to see and care for my beautiful horses again one day soon, of the healing visits from my healing partners, two-legged and four-legged, living and passed over.

This month, I want to share with you three of the visits from my four-legged healing partners.

Sunday, July 5 was a stressful, frightening day for me. For reasons I do not understand, although the hospital was full, there was only a skeleton staff because of the holiday. My bedding was never changed that day. No one would help me take my required walks in the hallway. Worse, I had to wait nearly three hours for pain medication and did not receive my other, scheduled, medication until the evening shift arrived. Most of my friends were out of town, so I received no phone calls that day. I was overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment (present as well a past) and actually became afraid for my life.

Late that night, with no interest in sleeping, I watched crummy TV, until I flipped the channel and happened upon the powerful teacher Joel Osteen. (You may know of his best seller Your Best Life Now.) It seems I have always happened on Mr. Osteen’s words exactly when I need them. This time was no different. He reminded me that while it is important to think positive thoughts in order to heal, that is not enough. While it is also important to give thanks for the healing you expect to manifest, that is not enough. You have to speak the thanks aloud.

So I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed my cane, and walked myself around the halls of the hospital—it was midnight by this time—quietly proclaiming thanks for my good health.

When I returned to my room, I called Elika, my canine companion. She came immediately (in spirit, of course) and laid her body across my chest, across my broken ribs, across my inflamed lung. She lay there all night. Every time I woke up—which was every 90 minutes or so—Elika was there, lying across my body, sending healing energy.

In the morning, I felt better than I had since I’d been readmitted to the hospital. When my doctor asked how I was doing, I insisted on being released. They had done all they could do. The care I needed was not in that institution but at home with Elika—who stayed pressed to my side for the next two weeks.

Reiki, which I gave myself as well as accepted from numerous friends and students, helped my healing to progress at an amazing rate. But one thing remained troubling: my eyesight.

A visit to the ophthalmologist revealed that I had swollen optic nerves, most likely as a result of the blow to my head during the accident. (A reminder, I was not on my horse or preparing to get on my horse at the time of the accident, which is why I was not wearing a helmet.) The ophthalmologist said that the next step was a consult with a neurologist and then a spinal tap. Spinal tap? Why even bother with a consult if the next step was a given? I had no headaches that would indicate pressure on the brain, no blind spots. I vigorously declined.

Instead, I embraced the services of an acupuncturist recommended by my physician. At the end of my five sessions with her, my eyesight was just about where it had been before the accident. But what I want to share with you is what happened during the second session.

I had the session in a recliner rather than on a table; the table session the week before had been very uncomfortable because of my five broken ribs. As you can imagine, I wasn’t sleeping at night very well either. But that day, I quickly fell into a sweet twilight sleep. As I did, my beloved friend Nikos (the bay thoroughbred who was my healing partner in life and who has continued to be my partner since his passing) came into the room, stood on my left and placed his nose just below my ribcage. The healing energy coursing through me was immediate and powerful. I thanked him for coming.

After a few minutes—and this is going to sound very odd—I saw my brain. There was nothing bloody or upsetting about it. I just saw my brain, suspended at eye level, about five feet away. It was still in my skull, but one side had been peeled down. I said aloud, “My poor brain.” For weeks, I had been concentrating my Reiki and my prayers on my broken ribs, my eyes, and the painful surgical site from the splenectomy. But what about my poor brain, which had been sloshed around in my skull when my head hit the wall?

I thanked Nikos for bringing this to my attention, and while he continued to send healing to my center, I sent Reiki to my brain. I had never even thought about my brain before. But ever since that session, I have felt a sweet connection to it, like an old friend.

I am certain that the healing that occurred that afternoon pushed my recovery forward by leaps and bounds. My energy increased. I felt more joy, more peace. I could see more clearly, both literally and figuratively.

Several weeks later I hired a former student of mine, Chris, who is now a Level III Reiki practitioner, a powerful healer, to do three Reiki sessions with me across distance. I felt I had reached a plateau, and I wanted to add momentum to the healing process, both physical and emotional.

The three sessions took place in the space of one week. Chris told me that during the second session (again the second session), Nikos arrived to assist her. I asked how she knew it was Nikos. She had never met him when he was living. She said she just knew. A bay thoroughbred came into the room (not physically, of course), and she heard the name Nikos.

He told her that he was my protector, and he stood on the left side of me and placed his nose on my center—exactly as he had done in the acupuncturist’s office.

Chris said that the flow and intensity of the Reiki increased dramatically. She thanked him for his assistance.

And as I had wanted, I got over that healing plateau.

I have no conclusion to reach here, no lesson. I just wanted to share these amazing experiences with you. Thank you Elika. Thank you Nikos. And thank you Fuersti and Tara, my two living horses, who did not visit me the way the others did, but whose love and care I felt every day.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

Just for today, I will give thanks for my many blessings. 
–Reiki Principle

On June 10, two of my non-horsey friends came to the country to hang out with my horses and me. We had lunch in town, then drove out to the barn, a self-care arrangement I have on 20 acres about 10 minutes from where I live. My friends had been looking forward to this adventure for about a month, as had I. Being able to share the beauty and power of horses with others is one of the reasons I have horses in my life.

I brought my two inside—Fuersti and his sister Tara. I decided we would work with Fuersti because he is so solid and safe and because he enjoys interacting with people, a kind and patient teacher. We began by grooming him, then moved to the arena, where I showed my friends how to lead him and do very basic ground work (having him stop his feet when they stopped theirs, giving his hind quarters, and so on).

Then I asked one of the women if she would like to ride. (The other has knee problems, so I knew she would refuse.) My friend was a bit reluctant—my Fuersti is 16.2 or 3, a big-boned TB/warmblood cross—but I assured her that we’d done this many times, that I would lead her around, that it would be like a pony ride. She smiled and agreed.

I remember tacking Fuersti up—a saddle and a caveson with rope reins attached. But there my memory ends.

From what I was able to gather in the weeks that followed, mostly from the friend who was standing at the edge of the arena, when my other friend began to mount, she grabbed the saddle in such a way that it began to slip. I yelled for her to get off, but apparently she was unable to do so, and so I moved to her side of the horse, stood behind her, and tried to help.

What happened next would change my life. My Fuersti, apparently responding to pain (a friend who was caring for my horses told me days later that the muscles along his spine were very swollen) moved in a violent way that knocked my friend off the mounting block and into the sand, where she suffered skinned elbows and a few bruises.

The force, however, traveled through her and into me, sending me “flying” (in the words of my friends) 15 feet across the arena. My flight was stopped by the wall, which I hit with my back and my head. (I wasn’t wearing a helmet because I wasn’t riding.) I was knocked out cold. They say I came to before the paramedics arrived, but I don’t remember. They say I asked what had happened, asked about my animals. (I learned later that my sweet Fuersti had walked across the arena and put his head in the corner; he stood there for over an hour until a neighbor came home from work, and untacked, fed, and turned him back outside.) I remember coming to briefly as I was being lifted off the ground—I was in a helicopter, headed to a trauma center. But the next thing I clearly remember was waking up in the ICU (I thought it was that night, but it was the next night) with two of my former Reiki students, both accomplished third-level Reiki practitioners, standing over me and channeling Reiki to me. Despite what had happened, serenity enveloped the room.

I learned that I’d had surgery, had my spleen removed. (The surgeon later told me, laughing, that I cursed him out when he told me what he was going to do, but I don’t remember.) I also had five broken ribs, but somehow that information didn’t make its way to me.

I spent a week in the hospital, stayed until my insurance company (not my doctor) decided it was time to go. I’d been lying on my back for a week, my hands on my five-inch incision just about all the time, channeling Reiki, and everyone (except me) was stunned at how quickly my incision had healed. Just days after I got home, I could tell from the dull pain and itching that the muscles they’d cut in the surgery were already beginning to heal as well. Two months, they told me; the recovery would take two months. “Watch me,” I thought.

I came along amazingly well, in large part because of the healing I received from my Reiki dog, Elika. She attached herself to me for several weeks, always in physical contact, leaving my side only to eat or go for a walk (which she often protested having to do).

But after three weeks, my progress stopped and I quickly went downhill, ending up back in the hospital ( a different one), where they discovered the five broken ribs, three of which were now displaced, and a lung full of fluid. Six more days in the hospital.

You may wonder how any of this a blessing.

When I hit the wall, my spleen fractured inside its sack. I learned later that if the sack had ruptured, I could have bled to death in three minutes.

While recovering (a process I’m still engaged in), I have been overwhelmed by the kindness of people, my family and friends, of course, but also complete strangers. I learned of congregations praying for me, of friends of friends lighting candles for me. In the hospital the second time, I was told that my recovery process had been reset back to zero, that I could count on two months of pain from the broken ribs. Reiki, prayer, love—the pain subsided to a dull annoyance after 10 days at home.

I know—I teach—that a positive attitude reaps positive results. But I have never been so physically challenged before. The worse the pain was, the more I said aloud, “Thank you for my healthy, healed body.” I refused to own the pain, opted to own the health. The extent to which I did this was a new experience for me. And it worked. Each day, I leapt further into wellness. When I got scared, and I did, I didn’t muscle through it on my own; I called a friend, asked for and received comfort and assurance. I buried my face in my Elika’s fur. I sent Reiki to my sweet Fuersti, to heal his back, to let him know that all was well.

I received lessons in patience. Over the years, horses have challenged me with this lesson many times, but I was challenged anew. I wanted to work at my computer, but I could only sit for half an hour at a time and my eyes and head hurt because my optic nerves were swollen from the impact of head on wall. So I would work for a short while, then lay in my hospital bed in the living room and look out the patio door at the evergreens in the yard, at the rabbits and squirrels and birds, while I smelled the sweet air, stroked my sweet Elika and gave thanks that I could see at all, could feel, could smell, gave thanks that I was alive.

I received lessons in abundance. A healer and writer, I am self-employed and as the workless weeks went by, I started to fret. But I reminded myself of the Reiki principle, “Just for today I will let go of worry” and instead told the Divine One that I had faith in my full recovery. I gave thanks for the work that I knew was on the way. Ten minutes later, the phone began to ring.

I learned again that healing is all around us—in the voices of friends, in the sweet summer breeze, in the touch of my Elika’s soft fur, of her tongue on my face, in the sweet anticipation of being able to see and care for my beautiful horses again one day soon, of the healing visits from my healing partners, two-legged and four-legged, living and passed over.

I learned how amazingly fragile life is. How everything can change in an instant. We have precious little control. We can only live, float, in the present. I am here. I am surrounded by love and light and healing forces. I am blessed.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

Just for today, I will let go of worry.

–Reiki Principle

When you’re feeling down—financial worries, job anxieties, an argument with someone dear—do you ever wish you could trade places with your dog? I know I’ve said to my Eskimo more than once, “Boy, Elika, you’ve got one good life. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

And it’s true. She gets fed twice a day; goes on long walks twice a day; and gets to play in and around the barn for hours three seasons out of the year, helping me to spread hay and clean manure, chasing mice and rabbits and chipmunks, keeping a watchful eye while I groom, eating delicious morsels of frog when the trimmer comes.

But it’s also true that I—like Elika and my horses, Tara and Fuersti—don’t have to worry about anything either. Worrying is a choice. This truth has taken me quite a while to learn well enough to be able to say that I’ve actually learned it.

Some years ago, during a particularly difficult time, I remember waking in the middle of the night clutched by a fist of anxiety, unable to go back to sleep—night after night. As you can well imagine, this didn’t solve my problem.

But the Reiki principle, “Just for today, I will let go of worry” helped tremendously. When I began working with this principle, I began to see immediate results.

I began by stopping myself whenever I found my mind grabbing hold of a worrisome thought, night or day. I would gently say to myself, “Is this helping?” It never was, and so I would put the thought down and turn my thoughts to something more pleasant, more life-affirming—a project I was working on or had plans to work on, a book that I was enjoying, a specific step towards a future goal. These new thoughts would almost immediately bring relief from the stress, softening my muscles, deepening my breathing, often even bringing a smile.

Our animal companions are happy (or miserable) because they live in the moment. As a rule, they don’t drag their childhoods around with them (unless they have been terribly abused and are living in fear), and they don’t hold grudges. While we have much to teach our animal companions about how to peacefully live with us, our animal companions have much to teach us about how to live in peace.

Shortly after bringing my equine companion Nikos into my life, I went to California for two weeks for a segment of a two-year training in animal movement education. When I came back, Nikos, who always greeted me with nickers and nuzzles, turned his hind end to me, clearly expressing his unhappiness. But he just as clearly accepted my apology for causing him pain, which I had not realized I had done, and soon all was well. He did not worry that I no longer loved him; he did not worry that I might not feed or care for him; he did not worry that I would leave him again; he did not worry that he would be returned to the awful circumstances that I had taken him from. He did not know what tomorrow would bring, but he did not worry.

Worry is a sneaky thief. It steals time, sleep, health, creativity. It blinds us to the abundance and joy that is all around us. When we worry, we welcome into our lives the very things we fear. Stop, change the station blaring in your brain, plan a tea party with a little girl, take a long walk with your dog, bring to heightened imagination the job you truly want, invite a child to discover the ecstasy of touching a horse.

Just for today, let go of worry.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

Last month, I shared a story about my equine friend Nikos assisting me in my healing work. The experience I shared was particularly meaningful to me because it was the first time I had experienced his amazing healing ability since he had passed away. I told this story even though I knew some readers might be uncomfortable with the notion of working with spirit, even though most of us want to believe that the spirit does not die with the body.

Over the years, I’ve had quite a few such experiences. My beloved dog Shambalah, who had passed some 10 years earlier, sent me my sweet canine friend Elika and then assisted me in a Reiki healing session with her. To say that I was surprised would be a vast understatement. Shambalah just appeared and, in essence, took over the session. I actually stepped back and watched, channeling Reiki to the two of them. Shambalah had never assisted with a healing before and has only assisted once or twice in the nine years since.

In December of last year, I wrote about my equine friend Kinsale, who had recently been put down. She was not in my care, was on the other side of the country. When I knew her passing was coming, I sat and talked with her about it. She told me not to worry, that she would be assisting me with my healing work, just as Nikos does. This surprised me, but it also soothed my heart. I was not sure when she would choose to work with me, and so I stored her promise in the back of my mind.

In March, a friend of mine called to set up a series of three Reiki sessions. He was feeling very stressed, and his health was suffering. He wanted to find peace and balance. The sessions were conducted across distance. The first session was very intense in that my friend pulled in a great deal of Reiki. After the session, he said he felt much more relaxed. The second session, a week later, was not as intense but was as beneficial. The Reiki was peeling back layers of stress and helping my friend to restore his calm center and good health.

The third session and final session, a week later, began as usual, with my hands placed on the top of the head. When the Reiki began flowing, I noticed Kinsale standing a few feet away from us, watching. (I saw this in my mind’s eye, not with my physical eyes). I was delighted to see her and immediately invited her to assist, which she did, placing her nose on my friend’s chest. Then Shambalah appeared (she had known and loved my friend) and placed her nose at the base of his spine. Next, my friend’s feline companion, Nimbus, appeared and placed his nose on the top of my friend’s head. I had never worked with Nimbus, either when he was living or since he had passed, which was several yeas ago. It brought tears to my eyes to see him.

Then Nikos joined us, standing to my left, channeling Reiki to us all. And finally, Elika—who is very much alive—joined us, standing to my right, channeling Reiki to us all.

The energy was both powerful and calm. We all gave, and we all received. I have rarely felt such a deep and satisfying peace.

My friend was moved as well when I told him what had occurred, especially by the fact that Nimbus had assisted. Happily, my friend reports that his health has been fully restored.

Once again, I leave you with this thought: Healing is all around us.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

We’ve all experienced the healing power of animals, the velvet equine nose that soothes the heart, that banishes our pain and disappointment; the icy, wet canine nose that encourages us to laugh, to shake off our self-indulgent misery; the licks and slobbers and whinnies and sighs that remind us that we are not alone, that all is well. Our animal companions possess amazing healing power, and they offer this gift freely.

A few months after the passing of my beloved equine partner, Nikos, once the edge of the grief was dulled and I could bear to travel to barns and work with horses again, I was working with a very thin, timid horse who had recently been rescued. His new human caregiver, Erika, was a barefoot trimmer, and this horse had been one of her clients. The people he had formerly lived with were getting a divorce. Neither party would agree to relinquish him to the other, and so the judge—this is a true story—ordered that the horse be put down. Still, neither party would budge. The horse, Mikey, was scheduled to die in several days.

Nikos, the one who brought me to this work, who assisted me in teaching (or, more accurately, I assisted him), had formed strong bonds with a number of my friends and students. Moments after my Nikos passed, he spoke to Erika, who was not with us and did not know he had passed, sternly telling her that she could not let this horse die. He told her to “pick up the phone” and do something about the situation, and she did.

And so here I was, my hands on Mikey for the first time, standing in a sweet, quiet barn with my trimmer and friend. Erika had called me because Mikey was clearly uncomfortable: His muscles were tense rather than supple; his back did not swing when he walked; there was no grace in his movement. I was working with him (using Neuromuscular Retraining and Reiki) to show his nervous system that ease of movement was possible. I had just begun the session and was quietly explaining my approach and goals while introducing Mikey to my touch.

I moved my hands from his withers to his thin, tense neck. Immediately, my hands began to pulse with an intensity I had not experienced before. Then I saw and felt a powerful white light envelope the three of us. My voice became thick and slow; I could barely form words. I could not move. The energy coursed through my body, through my hands.

A minute later, maybe two, the light was gone, my voice returned. I moved my hands from Mikey’s neck and stepped back. Erika and I looked at each other. She spoke first: “Nikos was here.”

“Yes.”

I had hoped that by the end of the session, after about an hour, I would see a change in Mikey’s body, that the muscles would be more supple, that he would walk with more ease. But here, less than 10 minutes into the session, his wretched neck was shapely and full. In fact, the muscles of his entire body had relaxed; he looked as though he had gained a much-needed 50 pounds.

Nikos, who had often assisted me with healings when he was living, had told me that he would continue to assist me from the other side and that he would be able to assist in a more powerful way. But I had not understood what the difference would be. The few moments he had spent with Mikey had done the work of one, more likely two, of my sessions. I was able to proceed with the movement lesson that was only possible because of the work Nikos had done.

I am sharing this story with you, a story that is very special to me, that reminds me of my connection to the sacred, to remind you that the healing is all around us: in the warm, sweet breath; the gentle nudge and sigh; the music of the wild birds; the croak of the frog; the loving spirits of those passed.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

Today I found myself thinking about a tenacious little coyote who wandered into my line of sight a few years ago. I was horse sitting a friend’s herd and was relaxing in the backyard one late summer afternoon with the dogs and a cool drink, facing the back pasture, watching the horses lazily graze.

I became aware of an odd-looking figure working its way slowly, very slowly, across the pasture, moving in a halting way that I couldn’t make sense of. I got up and walked to the edge of the yard to see the creature more clearly. Finally it moved close enough that I could understand what I was looking at: a small coyote carrying a carcass of something as large as herself. She was holding it by the neck, its body stretched between her legs and halfway under her belly. She (I assumed she was a she given her small size) was entirely focused on her task; the fact that her load was impossibly large, impossibly heavy, did not deter her at all. She was radiant with energy—head erect, ears up, tail up—and while her pace was achingly slow, she never stopped to put down her load. She moved with a purpose and dignity that fully captured my heart.

Laughing, I couldn’t help comparing myself to her. If that had been me, lugging a weight as heavy as myself on a hot summer afternoon, you can bet I wouldn’t have been perky and positive. I’d most likely have been cursing a blue streak and lamenting the difficulty of my path.

Maybe I thought of her again today because she offers a lesson. Times are tough. We’re told they may get worse before they get better. The media seem consumed with their pulsing drumbeat of doom. We are told to be anxious, stressed, afraid, told that our futures are uncertain. I prefer the message of that brave coyote, slow but steady, focused on her task, unconcerned about its magnitude, confident in her success, joyfully alive.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This Column originally appeared in From The Horse’s Mouth in April, 2009.

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

I spent the whole of last week lying in a hospital bed, fighting the unbelievable pain of ulcerative colitis, a disorder I did not know I had and have no intention of keeping, thank you very much. A bit of a jolt to a healer, to be sure. But a challenge I have promised myself to rise to.

A few days after being released, still exhausted and sore, I made my way to the local chain grocery store to try to find something to eat. I was put on a “low-residue” diet, no fiber for a few weeks. As someone accustomed to eating only whole organic foods, no processing, no pesticide or chemical fertilizer, shopping at a traditional store was going to be a challenge. (I didn’t have the strength for the two-and-a-half-hour round-trip drive to Whole Foods.) I spent over half an hour in the store, and came out with about six items. It was a wholly frustrating experience.

I have been an advocate of whole, unadulterated food and sustainable farming for many years. Clean food is not only essential for the health of the individual, it is essential to the health of our earth. When we poison our land and water and air with the hundreds of thousands of chemicals we have created since WWII (yes, hundreds of thousands) in an effort to somehow improve our lives, we in reality cause deep-seated damage.

Autism and brain tumors and all manner of auto-immune disorders are on the rise, as are depression and anxiety—all environmental illnesses. Our elder cats are diabetic, and we accept this as though it is an inevitable consequence of old age, rather than realizing that their food is killing them. Our dogs have allergies and stomach disorders and suffer from anxiety and depression, and again we rarely look at their food.

Our horses are increasingly insulin resistant, overweight, with metabolic problems resulting from overtaxed thyroids trying desperately to preserve normal body function in a swirling cloud of toxins—both from food and water.

Since my attack, I have learned that I may be gluten intolerant, that the allergy causes the body to attack the enzymes in the gluten, inadvertently attacking the body itself. This is not normal. Something is amiss. Gluten is everywhere, it seems. We are all on overload in this processed-food world. The other possibility is that I have been poisoned with heavy metals, such as arsenic, which is prevalent in much water in the Midwest, I have recently learned. It enters your body through your skin as you shower, bonds with your cells. When you have reached a danger point, your immune system kicks in to attack the intruder, but has to attack your cells as well.

I stood in that large, well-lit grocery store, filled with aisles and aisles of so-called “food,” processed into oblivion, filled with artificial coloring and flavoring and preservatives, and I became unbearably sad. “Food,” I said to my companion, “should nourish the body and the spirit. There is nothing to eat here. This store is full of poison.” An overstatement, to be sure. But not by much.

And so I write this today, to urge everyone to be mindful of our sacred earth. If we care for her, she will care for us. She will care for our beloved animal companions and all of the equally beloved creatures of the wild. Maybe part of the lesson of these difficult times is to help us to take a step back, to a time when we were closer to nature, honored and respected her, nurtured her and accepted her healing bounty in return.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

[If you are interested in learning more about environmental illness and its effects on both humans and equines, I urge you to take a look at biochemist Linsey McLean’s Website: www.VitaRoyal.com. Linsey is a brilliant pioneer in this field and has helped many humans and animals restore their health.]

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

© 2009 by Pamela Sourelis

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

Articles

“What I’m Learning from Leroy”

“Good-Bye, Leroy”

Return to HOME page

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

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis