I rarely get sick. If I do, it’s usually just for a day or even a part of a day. A little extra Reiki and some extra sleep (maybe much of the day) usually sets me straight.

The last time I got a nasty stomach flu, one that had me down for three or four days, was the winter of 2001, a month or so after 9/11. Days before the attack, I had moved from Chicago to the country to care for a house and a small herd of horses. It was a beautiful move, but a huge change, and coupled with the assault on our nation, stressful.

The last time I got a nasty respiratory infection (flu, bronchitis, pneumonia) was over 20 years ago, when I was still smoking. As soon as I quit for good, the lung infections also quit for good. I haven’t had so much as a chest cold since.

So I was both surprised and disheartened when I felt a bug coming on a couple of weeks ago. I was making one of my twice-monthly treks to civilization so I could buy organically grown food for myself and my canine companion, Elika, and my eyes started to burn. Then the pain started behind them. By the time I got home, It felt like a hot knife had been driven through my right temple.

I went to bed early that night, the Tuesday before Christmas, but I did not wake up refreshed. By the next night, Wednesday, my chest was heavy, I had that awful taste in my throat that signals something nasty going on in the lungs (you know that taste), and the muscles of my legs ached so much that the pain woke me up in the middle of the night.

By the following day, Thursday, I was running a fever. My face was hot and flushed, and I alternated between feeling feverish and feeling chilled.

I could not believe this was happening to me.

 

Many people become ill around the holidays: too much alcohol, too much rich food, not enough sleep. And the biggest contributor, in my opinion, family stress: the critical in-laws or the mother who just won’t cut you a break even though you’ve been away from home for 30 years or the gossip about family members not in attendance. Some folks deal with the drama much better than others. I think it’s an art—one I never really learned.

And so, two years ago I decided to kindly, with no malice at all, decline to participate in family holiday celebrations. Of course, the folks who had done the most battering when I was present were the ones who decried my decision the loudest, but I have thoroughly enjoyed my holidays since making this change.

So my illness was not a result of family stress, and it was not the result of poor food choices or excesses. My illness, I believe, was the result of the stress caused by an ugly situation that I somehow allowed to take hold of me. As a healer, I work for myself, but I’m guessing that the situation I found myself in is similar to what many people experience in the workplace.

 

In mid-September, I moved my horses from a fabulous self-care arrangement to a commercial barn. The elderly couple whose property I had been sharing sold the place, and so my horses and I had to move along.

The commercial barn was by no means ideal, but it was close to home and had an indoor arena, and the people I’d met who kept their horses there seemed nice. Best of all, the manager, an older gentleman with lots of horse experience, was a real sweetie. I visited the barn twice, then made the decision to move my horses in. My plan was to stay for the winter, restart my horses in the indoor arena when other folks were on the property (I’d quit riding after a catastrophic accident two years earlier and hadn’t started up again because I was alone on the property), get them used to riding on the trails (a gorgeous wooded trail ringed the property), and then move on.

Two weeks after my horses moved in, the manager was fired. The way it happened was ugly and, in my opinion, grossly unfair. The manager had only been there for about six weeks. It seems to me that if he wasn’t doing some aspect of his job correctly, he should have been given a warning and coached. But, instead, he was told to get out.

That didn’t sit well with me, and so I started looking for another place for my horses. I know all of the commercial barns in the area, and none of them care for horses in a way that best suits the horse (instead, the routine is for the convenience of the human), so I was looking for another self-care situation. I’d been looking for a year, so I wasn’t too hopeful, but I was looking all the same.

When the day came for a meeting with the new managers, a couple, my heart sank. Everything in me told me I’d have to move along, and soon. I kept looking.

The new managers took over in October. Things started out OK, but the care  slowly deteriorated. By the end of November, I was getting a stomach ache every time I went to the barn (twice a day, to feed my horses who were in outdoor board). They were being fed large square bales of grass hay (about 200 pounds each) in a round feeder. I wasn’t crazy about this way of feeding, but it beat the heck out of the way the rest of the horses were being fed—small amounts of alfalfa-laden hay twice a day. Sometimes the horses were fed at five or six at night and then not fed again until 10 the next morning—a recipe for ulcers.

So, while mine were overeating, at least they had hay in front of them, except that when the bale ran out every three or four days, the managers wouldn’t set a new one out for 12 or 15 hours. They wanted the horses (my two and one other) to eat every single morsel of hay first, even if it was full of sticks or dirt or mold. And they didn’t move the feeder (which doesn’t have a bottom) to a new spot; they’d just dump a new bale on top of the packed down stuff at the bottom, which eventually grew to four or five inches of composting garbage. Mold, for all of you non-horsey people, can make a horse extremely ill. In some cases, it can even kill a horse.

Of course, I brought this problem to their attention, but they didn’t see it as a problem. So I bought my own hay and, with their permission, fed the horses myself in that interim period between the bale running out and their refilling the feeder. And I kept looking.

But then one of the managers started complaining about how I was putting the hay out—I was spreading it around the paddock; she wanted it all in one place against the fence (where my two would stand in it and the other horse couldn’t get to it). And she didn’t want me cleaning the shed (which they never cleaned), and so she hid the muck rake. And on and on.

By the Tuesday before Christmas, the stomach aches I suffered each time I went to the barn, and which had been getting steadily more painful, had developed into full-blown respiratory flu.

I should have known better. Since I was a little girl, my stomach has always thrown up a red flag when things need to change. While I wasn’t able to leave the situation (although I did finally leave the day after Christmas), and I wasn’t able to change the behavior of the managers, I should have found a way to protect myself.

Each morning, I spend 20 to 40 minutes in Reiki self-healing, which helps to keep the body, mind, and spirit in balance. The practice includes repeating and sometimes meditating on one or more of the Reiki precepts (Just for today I will not anger; just for today I will not worry; and so on). I am sure that this daily practice is what prevented the flu from becoming more serious. It did not develop into pneumonia or bronchitis, and the fever broke after a few days, although my chest is still heavy and my energy has not fully returned.

Once I’d left that place, I got to thinking about how I could have protected myself from the effects of that awful stress. I know that if my beloved animals had not been involved, this would have been much easier. But what could I have done to prevent the stress from getting inside my body and wreaking havoc on my health?

 

Here’s what I’ve come up with:

• Reiki self-healing two or three times a day instead of once
• Remembrance—the Sufi practice of quietly repeating the name of the Divine for several minutes so as to remember one’s complete connection to this loving, peaceful Source of life
• Before driving to the barn, visualizing myself in a safe, peaceful bubble that the ugliness of the situation could not penetrate
• Laughter—not in the faces of the people causing me pain, but throughout the rest of the day. Laughter has a cleansing, healing quality that it is easy to forget about when in the thick of very unfunny situations.

 

I am interested in learning other approaches from you. How do you protect yourself from the ravages of stress when in a situation that you cannot immediately change?

Thank you for sharing your thoughts.

 

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I first published this article December 2007 in From the Horse’s Mouth magazine and have been sharing it yearly ever since. I hope you enjoy it.

 

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.

 

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I know that everyone reading this blog is a lover of animals; none of us would knowingly do anything to harm them, and most of us weep at the thought of them being mistreated.

For the past couple of days, a short video has been making the rounds among my Facebook friends. It shows young beagles, creatures who have lived their entire lives in metal cages in an unidentified laboratory, stepping onto grass for the first time.

While the video is upbeat, reporting how happy the animals are since their rescue, some of them placed in forever homes, one need only look into their eyes to see that all is not well. Each of them has a haunted expression, like something inside has been deeply wounded.

Here is the link to the video of these gorgeous creatures and their rescuers:

http://www.godvine.com/Beagles-See-Sun-and-Grass-for-the-First-Time-After-a-Life-in-a-Laboratory-861.html

 

The Power of the Pen

The response of most of my Facebook friends (and their friends) was disgust at the imagined mistreatment of these creatures (which wasn’t detailed) and joy at their release. And while witnessing and celebrating this event is important, we can, we must, do more.

In the spirit of changing the world for the better, I invite you to visit the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine website (PCRM.org). This outstanding site explains the types of research that animals are still being used for, who is doing it, why most of this research is entirely unnecessary, who is violating the Animal Welfare Act, and what we can do about it.

If you sign up for their newsletter, you will receive updates on current violators and be invited to sign petitions and letters. And—this is the great part—the petitions and letters work. In the few months that I have been on the mailing list, the US Army has stopped chemical casualty training on monkeys, and several university medical schools have stopped dissecting live animals in classes.

I know you are busy, perhaps overwhelmed. You may be thinking you will get to this later. But I implore you to think about these gorgeous beagles, their haunted eyes.

 

The Power of the Pocketbook

We don’t know what kind of laboratory these sweethearts were in. While the PCRM site talks about medical research, it’s possible that these creatures were being used to test the safety of chemicals for personal care or cleaning products.

I’m guessing that most of you already make a point of purchasing personal care and cleaning products that are cruelty free. You look on the package for the words “not tested on animals.”

But did you know that “not tested on animals” can just refer to the product itself? In other words, while the shampoo you purchased may not have been rubbed into an animal’s eyes, the individual ingredients may have been. This “testing” would have been done by the manufacturer of the ingredients, not the shampoo maker.

But, again, we have the power to create change. We can sign petitions and letters, and we can make phone calls. But we can also use the power of our pocketbooks (or wallets) and look for words such as these, which appear on Desert Essence Organics hand and body lotion, “no animal testing of raw materials or finished product.”

Now that’s more like it.

We can also contact manufacturers through their websites. Following my own advice, I just contacted Aubrey Organics about their shampoo. I wrote, “Your wonderful shampoos say ‘No Animal Testing’ on the label. Does that statement refer only to the finished product or to the ingredients as well?”

I’ll let you know how they respond.

 

Can You Help?

If each of us makes a commitment to speak up, both in words and purchasing power, we can put an end to the barbaric treatment of laboratory animals in this country. It’s not enough to feel badly about it, my friends. We have to take action.

I’d like to compile a list of personal care and cleaning products that are not tested on animals anywhere in the production process, but I need your help to do that.

What truly cruelty-free products do you use?

 

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The mineral block was sitting in a feed pan in the three-sided shelter. The manager and I had just finished walking my two horses along the fence line of the paddock, introducing them to the space they’d be in at night. We were removing their halters in front of the shelter, when I caught sight of the big, red block out of the corner of my eye. I just about had a coronary.

“Holy cow!” I said. “That’s gotta’ go.”

Not terribly tactful, I admit.

But I was so surprised to see the dreadful thing—there weren’t any others on the property—that it just slipped out.

I cringed at the thought of my mouthy gelding licking the nasty thing, explained to the manager about the feed grade minerals tainted with heavy metals and who knows what else, explained that, no, it wasn’t true that only animals who needed minerals would eat it, that the molasses and other flavor enhancers the manufacturer added ensured that every critter would want to spend time with it. I explained that those big red blocks had nothing to do with nutrition, everything to do with profits. Then, having regained my balance, I calmly asked that it be removed.

She said she needed to talk to the woman it belonged to first, which surprised the heck out of me. I mean, I’d explained that the darned thing was poison. Remove it now; talk later, right?

Three days later, and the thing was still there in all of its rusty glory. I’d already chased my gelding off it twice, and who knows how much he was eating when I wasn’t around. Fearing the manager was never going to speak to the keeper of the block, I came up with a compromise: We’d take the block out of the paddock when my horses were in it, and put the block back in when my horses were out with the larger herd during the afternoon. The barn manager approved. Yay, success! And after only three sleep-deprived nights.

The next morning, when I went to feed my horses breakfast, I saw the block outside the paddock. Yay again! A few minutes later, I ran into the young woman who had placed the red monster in the horse shed to begin with. I hadn’t seen her since my horses had been moved in with hers. I said I figured she was probably upset with me about the mineral block being removed, but . . .

She didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Oh, I, uh, thought Heather had talked to you about it. We’re taking it out of the paddock when my horses are in there and putting it back in when they’re out with the herd.” She glared at me. (She’s a little wisp of a thing, by the way, and very young.

“Um, I think that when you learn about what’s in those blocks, you’re not going to want it in there either,” I said, as kindly as I could. “They’re full of toxins. The red coating is iron oxide, rust.”

“I know that,” she said, leaning towards me. And I’m thinking, leaning back a bit, If you know that the block is coated in rust, why are you feeding it? But I kept that thought to myself.

See, the thing is, the young woman’s horses had been alone in that paddock for close to a year, when the previous manager had gotten fired and taken half the place with him. So she’d been doing her own thing, had claimed the space as her own, and here I was cramping her style—and, in her mind, questioning her judgment.

I understood the wanting-her-own-space part. I’d moved to this barn because the property I’d been leasing a piece of for over four years had been sold. It was a difficult transition. But you do what you have to do.

But the defensiveness about choices—choices you thought were good but that turned out to be not so good—I’ve come up against that attitude many, many times over the years, and that part I’ve never understood.

Unable to find the article I’d once had a folder full of copies of, an article about the dangers of mineral blocks that I used to hand out to my clients, I’d emailed biochemist Linsey McLean, whose life’s work is helping people understand the effects of environmental toxins on the bodies of horses and humans. “Please,” I begged. “Send me an explanation I can share with these people.”

The day before my conversation with the young woman, I’d gotten what I was looking for:

 

Hello Pam,

Here’s the scoop:

1. The minerals are not bioavailable; they are all inorganic and not in correct ratios either. There are minimums and maxes but they don’t tell you what is in them.

2. Colored with iron oxide—rusty nails—bad for the liver.

3. Flavor enhancers added to get them to eat that crap, as in all crap-loaded feeds.

4. They would have to eat nearly a pound to get any substantial minerals at all.

5. Loaded with arsenic from hazardous waste that’s recycled in them.

Linsey

To your good health!

Vita Royal Products, Inc.

Biochemist  | CEO

vitaroyalproducts.com

 

I’m guessing you didn’t know that it’s legal to recycle hazardous waste in animal feed. That shocked the heck out of me the first time I heard it, too. And I spread the word to anyone who will listen.

I’d already left a copy of this email in the office for the manager; now I handed one to the young woman. “Here,” I said. “This is from a biochemist who knows all there is to know about the toxins in feeds. I’m pretty sure you won’t want to use the block anymore when you read this.” She glared at me.

I told her that I used to think they were OK, too. I said that when I found out they were dangerous (and that most processed feeds were unhealthy as well), I got really angry. “I mean, you trust that companies selling you food for your animals care about their health. I was really glad to find out the truth.”

She was still glaring at me. I hadn’t expected a huge “Thank you!” and a hug, but still . . . She said to just make sure the block was in the shed for part of every day.

For close to a week, every afternoon when she turned my horses out into the pasture, the manager put the block, which weighs about 25 pounds, into the shed; and then every night when I brought my horses back in, I moved the block back out. What a pain, I thought each time I had to lift the darned thing. I wished the young woman would get over herself and just get rid of it already.

Today, the young woman moved her horses to a friend’s property. It wasn’t because of the mineral block although that may have been the last straw. She was really unhappy with the changes happening at the barn. She felt displaced. I know that feeling.

Sad.

I’d known the move was coming because the day before she left, she’d gathered her things together in a corner of the feed room, and a couple of her saddles and bridles were already gone. In the midst of her belongings was the 25-pound red monster.

This evening, when I went to feed my horses dinner, her horses and all of her things were gone.  Well, just about all of them. She’d only left two items behind in the feed room: the copy of the email I’d given her and . . . the big, red mineral block.

I assumed she’d decided not to poison her horses with arsenic. “Good for her,” I said to myself. I’d opened the door, and she’d walked through much more quickly than lots of folks do. But the manager thought she just hadn’t wanted to heft the darned thing into the truck. Guess we’ll never know for sure.

 

 

What about you? How good are you at opening your mind and heart to new information? Do you find you get defensive or angry? How long do you stay that way?

Conversely, how good are you at sharing information?

Wondering what these questions have to do with the title of my blog: Healing is Possible?

Everything?

 

 

 

Last week, when I stopped in to get a book at my l local independent book store, the owner was there. We talked for a minute about the book (Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life—a wonderful book!) and the discussion group I was joining; we talked about my horses (as I brushed hay off my sweatshirt). At one point, she mentioned she’d been under the weather for a couple of weeks. Her sinuses has really been giving her fits. She’d recently been to the doctor, who admitted to having no idea what was causing the problem; nevertheless, he’d suggested surgery.

The surgery involved scraping the sinus cavities. It might give her some relief, but then again it might not. And even if it did, there was no guarantee that the problem wouldn’t return.

She had initially been very skeptical about the surgery, had passed on the suggestion, but now she was having second thoughts. She was going back to the doctor that afternoon.

I found it interesting that she was sharing this with me. Although I have taught a couple of workshops in her store, we don’t know each other well. And this was pretty personal stuff. I could have just said I was sorry she was in pain and wished her well, but anyone who knows me knows that’s not my way. And I was especially concerned because she was in such discomfort that it seemed she might be seriously reconsidering the surgery.

So I asked if she had considered removing dairy products from her diet. She seemed puzzled by the question. I told her that I, too, used to suffer from debilitating sinus pain, but that a friend of my sister’s had suggested I cut out dairy just for a couple of weeks, to see what happened. Voila! No more sinus problems. That was 15 years ago.

I told her that if removing dairy solved the problem, she could add it back into her diet once a week in small amounts if giving up dairy made her feel deprived.

“Give up dairy?” she said. “I don’t know . . . .”

I told her that we crave those foods we’re allergic to. I don’t understand the science, but that’s the claim. And I told her that a huge number of people are allergic to cow’s milk. It’s not at all uncommon. (And I’m talking about allergy, not lactose intolerance.)

I told her about almond cheese and rice cheese (and to stay away from soy cheese). She was happy to hear that almond cheese melts well. For a minute, she seemed to be coming around.

But she still wasn’t sure.

OK, now here’s the kicker: She told me that when she eats real cheese, dairy cheese, her stomach always blows up like a balloon. She held her hands three or four inches away from her stomach to make her point.

Well, there you have it, I thought. But, no, she still wasn’t sure.

And then, because other customers were coming up to the counter, I said goodbye and left with my new book.  My parting words to her were these:

Your body knows. Listen to your body.

A few days later, I saw her in the grocery store. (Interesting because in the five years that I have known her we have never run into each other in the grocery store.) I said hi. She said hi. She didn’t mention the doctor’s visit. She didn’t say anything about giving up dairy for a little while. It was as though our previous conversation had never happened. I wondered when she’d scheduled the surgery.

 

***

My mom had a malignant tumor removed from one of her breasts this spring.

She used to be very health conscious. She and her husband and my brother moved to the country when the other children had left home. My mom had a gigantic organic garden; goats, whose milk she made cheese and yogurt from; chickens, who were fed vegetable scraps in addition to chicken feed and were allowed freedom to scratch for bugs during the day; and one steer at a time that they raised for meat. She also baked her own bread (whole grain) and canned many of her vegetables.

But when my stepfather and brother were killed in a fire one Sunday morning 20- some years ago, she gave all of that up. She started eating processed foods, commercial baked goods, lots of trans fats, lots of sugar. She didn’t gain weight; maybe that’s how she convinced herself she was healthy.

But she had to have knee surgery and then a quadruple bypass. She started having a lot of pain in her lower back and legs. Her balance isn’t very good, so she can’t take the long walks she used to take. She’s 84 now, so she likes to blame age for the problems. But the bypass surgery was 10 years ago; the knee surgery was well before that. And her diet just keeps getting worse.

A few years ago, she developed a persistent cough. And she was forever clearing her throat. She blamed this on a tube that was put down her throat during the bypass although no damage was ever confirmed.

When I learned about proper food combining (GreatTasteNoPain.com), I shared the information with her. The plan is based on the fact that certain foods can’t be eaten together because they won’t digest efficiently. The result is an acidic pH, which can contribute to a lengthy list of health issues, including cancer.

I had been following the plan for about a year (it’s not a diet; you can eat what you want and as much as you want), and I had experienced the positive results. I explained to my mom that the coughing was a result of the mucous being created from all of the acid in her system. The doctor gave her a prescription for drugs, which she didn’t want to take. So she tried the plan.

The cough disappeared in one day. One day.

But after a week, she started drinking coffee again and having a glass of wine in the evening, and then she added a muffin in the morning, a cookie in the afternoon (all acid producing), and she combined her foods in such a way that created even more acid.

And the cough came back.

I reminded her that the cough was the result of excess acid in her system.

I reminded her that tumors cannot live in an alkaline environment; they can only live and thrive in an acidic environment.

I assured her that after a couple of weeks on the eating plan she would no longer crave the processed foods that were making her ill.

I reminded her that she had asked for my help.

But she refused to listen me. Worse, she refused to listen to her body.

I don’t understand this.

 

Our bodies are stunningly intelligent. Are you listening?

 

 

 

 

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When  I wrote “Live Each Day” Two weeks ago, I didn’t know there would be a Part II. But there is more to tell about the beautiful mustang, Chloe.

 

A Little Background

For those of you who have not heard me tell of Chloe, she was born a wild mustang. She was taken from the range by our government, and adopted out—three times. In the first home, she suffered a broken pelvis; in the next, she was starved. The starvation severely damaged her kidneys.

When Sue, who runs a small horse and dog rescue in the Colorado mountains, adopted Chloe earlier this year, the vets didn’t hold out much hope that Chloe would recover. But Sue was determined to create a loving, supportive, joyful environment for Chloe and her filly, Snapdragon. For no matter how long she lived, Chloe would be safe and allowed to live with dignity.

In April, after learning about Chloe from a Facebook friend, I contacted Sue and offered a series of three Neuromuscular Retraining sessions for Chloe (from a distance), who was having difficulty moving freely as a result of the injury to her pelvis. Chloe responded to the work beautifully and moved much more freely as a result.

In addition to the movement lessons, I shared Reiki treatments with Chloe as well. In the first session, I was hit with a wave of grief from this beautiful creature, who longed so powerfully for her life in the wild. I apologized for the cruelty and stupidity of the humans who had captured her, for the humans who had done her harm. I explained that while she could not run free, she now had a forever home where she would be treated with dignity and respect.

Sue reported that after that session Chloe’s spirits lifted; she accepted her circumstances with not only dignity, but joy. I never again felt this grief from Chloe. She released it, and that was that.

When the three weeks of movement lessons were over, I asked Sue’s permission to continue giving Chloe weekly Reiki sessions to support her damaged kidneys. Chloe responded so well, that about a month ago, I reduced the sessions to every other week.

 

Long Walks

Sue lovingly referred to Chloe as “my wiiiild mustang.” To help Chloe deal with her domestic life, the theft of her freedom, Sue would take Chloe on long walks on trails through the mountain woods. Sue kindly shared with me Chloe’s joy on these excursions, how she would forage for the tastiest morsels of grass, how the two of them bonded, became sisters in spirit.

For several dreadful weeks this summer, they had to forego their walks because of news that a black bear was in the area. But soon enough, they got word that he had moved on, and they were able to resume their glorious excursions.

 

Cold

It gets cold in the mountains of Colorado. One of the biggest challenges facing Sue and Chloe was Chloe’s difficulty staying warm at night, when the temperature would drop below freezing. Sue told me that her first attempt at blanketing Chloe had resulted in several broken ribs for Sue.

During one of my sessions with Chloe, I spoke to her about her need for a blanket. I showed her a blanket (again, from a distance), visualized it being placed on her, and imagined the glorious warmth it would bring. After the session, I suggested to Sue that she get someone to help her with blanketing, that Chloe now understood what a blanket was for and would cooperate with the lesson.

A few days later, a wonderful trainer successfully blanketed Chloe. Now the problem was that Chloe was getting too warm in the daytime! But it didn’t take long for her to allow Sue to put the blanket on at night and take it off in the morning.

Winter comes early to the mountains. About a month ago, in August, Sue emailed that she had awakened in the middle of the night and instinctively gone to the barn. Chloe, who was wearing her blanket and who had a heat lamp in her stall, was shivering terribly. Sue had to put two more blankets on Chloe before she was warm.

In her email, Sue expressed her terrible sadness that Chloe would not make it through the winter. She didn’t want her dear friend to suffer. She did not know what to do.

In my next session with Chloe, on August 11, I tried to get a sense of what Chloe wanted to do. My sense was that she hadn’t made a decision. My notes for the session read:

She felt solid, balanced, happy (a little joyful bubble inside).

I asked, Do you have anything you want to tell Sue?

Chloe answered: “She is perfect. She is a jewel. She has made my life worth living. I was in such despair; I thought that the end of my freedom would end me, but I am happy now. All is as it should be. I am very grateful to her.”

 

After our next session, on August 25, I wrote:

She feels great. Is it sunny today? I can feel the warmth on her back. [I learned later that Chloe has been lying in the sun during the session.]

Last time, she felt good, but I wasn’t sure if it was a transient feeling. I wasn’t sure if she was going to choose to make it through the winter. But today, I felt that she has made a decision. And the decision is to stay. I reminded her that she has a nice warm blanket if she needs it.

 

In our session on September 8, Chloe still felt strong and balanced. I gave her a complete Reiki treatment, but my hands were no longer being drawn to her kidneys.

 

Moving

Several weeks ago, Sue contacted me to say she and her husband had decided to move themselves and their small herd of rescued horses from the mountains of Colorado to Southern California. They had been considering the move for some time but now felt compelled, because of Chloe, to move sooner rather than later.

The trainer was teaching Chloe about trailers. Fairly quickly, Chloe had begun walking into the trailer herself and taking naps. Still, Sue was concerned that the trailer ride might cause Chloe so much stress that she would once again fall ill.

 

On September 12, in my session with Chloe, before I could ask a question, Chloe said, “I’m  having fun!”

I said, “You like playing in the trailer?”

Her response was that she liked playing with her trainer!

I explained to Chloe the plans for moving, which was to happen no later than the first week of October. Chloe said that while she didn’t really like the idea of being closed into a small space, she was open to a new adventure.

She had a number of questions about the trip, which I shared with Sue in my notes. But, I added, “I think with preparation this is going to be a non-event. Chloe assured me she is going to be OK 🙂 ”

Sue was, of course, ecstatic at this news. She wrote: “Hi Pam! Your email made my heart flip with joy!! I will answer the questions later but just had to send back a quick THANK YOU!!!!!! Xoxo!

 

Free at Last

But I didn’t receive those answers. Instead on September 20, two days ago as I write this, I received this email from Sue with the subject line “Free at Last”:

 

Dear Pam,

I had the most blissful week I could have imagined with my sweet Chloe. She whinnied all week in her adorable teenaged girl high pitch whinny that I so love–demanding my presence and attention at all times. She grazed and gobbled grass and hay and last night even ate treats for the first time since May. I can honestly say she was the happiest she has ever been. We snuggled endlessly and laughed together at all of her silliness.

I went to bed with a smile deep in my heart.

This morning she was different as we walked out to graze. I watched carefully because I knew something was off but not sure what.

Then she had a seizure. It was time.

My vet came up and we let her go in the lower pasture, so peaceful and beautiful and perfect, and my dear friend moved her body gently to her grave. He laid little wildflowers on her and I said goodbye to my gorgeous girl–she looked as though she was galloping free, wind in her mane.

I am heartbroken but so grateful for all that she taught me and the love and trust she gave so sincerely.

Thank you for being a part of our lives. I feel so grateful for all of the friends who were there for us in so many ways.

Big hugs your way,

Sue

 

Thank you, Sue, for allowing me time with your beloved friend.

Thank you, Chloe, for all that you have taught us, all of us, about living each day.

 

 

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Her horse is doing fine now, living outside, eating a nutritious diet; he is happy and full of energy. Still, she worries.

Her horse is prone to melanomas. A few years ago, he had a severe patch of them growing under his tail, growing inward as well as outward.

They were removed, at great cost, and with his new diet and lifestyle, he has done well ever since. Still, she worries.

Telling me the story, she begins to cry. This will happen again. The surgery was a temporary measure. What will she do when it happens again? She can’t afford the surgery again. She cannot allow him to suffer. She will have to put him down.

She collapses into grief telling me this.

I remind her that he is completely healthy now, enjoying life, that sweet fall is upon us, cool, bug-free nights. I remind her to enjoy every day she has with him.

Every single day.

 

***

Huggy is dying. This sweet, handsome, black-and-white cat has cancer in his gut. I have been working with him twice a month for about six months. The Reiki sessions have resulted in increased energy and increased appetite. He is thin, hasn’t gained weight, but he has stopped losing weight.

During the sessions, he has explained what food he likes and doesn’t like (or isn’t agreeing with him), his response to certain medications and herbs, his feelings about his surroundings (other cats and so on).

His human does her best to accommodate him while, at the same time, taking care of herself. She does not dwell on the future. She lives each day.

After my last session with Huggy, his human sent me this note:

We had such a lovely moment last week.  I was reclining in bed watching TV.  He came and sat on my chest.  I petted him, and after a while he scooted over to the crook of my arm. He finally  ended up on his back with his head on my shoulder, two good friends hangin’ out. These sweet lovey times do us both good.

***

Chloe was born a wild mustang, captured, mistreated. Her current (and forever) home is at a small private rescue in the mountains of Colorado. Chloe’s kidneys had been damaged from starvation, and she wasn’t given much hope for surviving. The cold spring had Chloe on the edge, shivering uncontrollably, refusing to eat hay, but unable to eat the deeply snow-covered grass.

I shared a Reiki treatment with her weekly for several months. She improved so much, I have now reduced them to every other week. Her human takes her on daily walks along wooded trails, hours-long walks, since she can no longer run free. A trainer successfully introduced Chloe to a blanket; her humans have fenced a larger pasture for her to run in; Chloe has become strong, healthy, balanced.

But there is no way to know if Chloe will survive the winter, the winter that has already come to the mountains of Colorado. The days are still warm, but the nights are very, very cold.

A few weeks ago, Chloe’s human shared her worry over what might happen. Thinking about losing her was almost too much to bear. Thinking about her suffering was even worse.

But when Chloe made clear in a session that she is happy and feeling good, that she is enjoying the sunshine and the long walks and the sweet days in her new pasture, her human relaxed into this sweetness.

I received an email today, after a lovely Reiki session with Chloe. Her human shared that she woke up a few nights ago and was moved to check on Chloe who, even though blanketed, was shivering. It took two more blankets to bring her warmth.

But the heart of her email was this:

How nice to hear that-she is definitely rallying! I take her on walks every day for 2-3 hours looking for yummy grazing spots—she loves it and so do I! And she and I have finally gotten to a good place with blanketing. The silly girl has a full wardrobe of different weights and styles of blankies 🙂 she has even been eating some hay! I love her even more than ever if that is possible-she is so sweet and snugly and silly 🙂

No one can know what the future will bring. All we can do is live each day.

 

 

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Respect

I didn’t notice her at first. Her friend had walked up to my booth with a big smile, her $5 donation in hand (to be given to Wild Horse Rangers), asking for her mini- Reiki treatment. She sat in the chair so eagerly, I assumed she had experienced a Reiki treatment before. But, no, she said she hadn’t. When the 10 minutes was up, she was surprised. The time had gone so quickly, she said. She felt relaxed, refreshed. She got up and urged her friend to give it a try.

Her friend a tall, thin woman, with sun-parched face, cowboy boots and hat, arms firmly clasped across her chest, stood several feet away from the booth. She shook her head no, not making eye contact with her friend or with me. Her friend asked again, her voice more insistent. The tall woman said no, clasping her arms more tightly across her chest.

“She doesn’t want to. That’s OK,” I said, trying to break the impasse.

But her friend tried once again.

As she moved past the booth, the tall, thin woman, her face tight and sour, said, “I don’t try nothin’ I don’t understand.”

After a two-second pause, I said. “That makes sense to me.” Holding out a sheet titled “Reiki for Animals,” I said, “If you’d like to know more about it, this will give you some information. Then, if you like what you read, fine. If not, that’s fine, too.”  I smiled at her. Genuinely. Something about her touched my heart. I wasn’t trying to sell her anything. I just wanted to share a bit of information.

The tall, thin woman approached the booth, uncrossed her arms. She took the flyer from my hand, a big, friendly, gorgeous grin. Her posture changed; she was comfortable in her body again, comfortable in the room, comfortable with her friend, with me. She thanked me, and she and her friend moved on to wherever it was they were going next.

Later that afternoon, I stood outside the exhibit hall for a couple of minutes, to get a breath of air and watch the pony rides going on across the path. A woman was trying to convince her toddler, a girl of maybe 18 months, to pet one of the ponies. The little girl didn’t want to pet the pony. Her mother was holding her, and the little girl visibly recoiled whenever her mother brought her closer to the pony. The attendant said, “Maybe if we just sit her on the pony’s back for a minute, she won’t be so afraid.” The mother took the girl’s hand again and tried to make her pet the pony. The little girl recoiled.

I wanted to shout, “What is wrong with you people? She doesn’t want to pet the pony!”

 

Community

How quickly our community formed in Exhibit Hall 3!

Within hours, we were chatting, helping, sharing. Volunteers passed around trays of coffee each morning; the man selling fencing across the aisle from me lent me hooks to rehang my falling-down sign; noting my lunch of sliced vegetables, he said, “We have way too many cucumbers in our garden” and brought me a bag of them the next morning; the woman selling watering systems in the booth next to his shared Hershey’s Kisses with everyone in sight; I shared my breakfast of cantaloupe chunks with the women in the booth next to me. They run an equine rescue. I suggested they raise the two-low price of their pony rides. They did, and made more money for the horses than they’d expected.

When someone made a sale or mentioned a successful talk, high fives all around.

The man sharing the booth with the Hershey’s Kisses woman came to my booth during a slow period one afternoon. He said, “OK, what exactly do you do?” I told him that I’m an animal communicator, that I’m a Reiki practitioner. He sat in the chair for his mini-Reiki session. The woman in the booth next to his anxiously observed us from a distance. At the end of the session, he said he’d had a headache, but that it was gone. He told the anxious woman that. She came over and sat in the chair. Soon, a small group had gathered to watch.

Saturday morning, a wicked storm blew in, washing out all of the planned events. We closed most of the garage-like doors of the exhibit hall, leaving one open so we could watch the sky, warning each other not to venture out, to be safe, to stay put.

When I packed up my things on Sunday, I felt like I was leaving family.

How easy it all was, how completely natural, chatting and sharing and helping.

 

Stories

On  Saturday afternoon, people sat shoulder to shoulder on metal benches in the too-small, hot tent. I asked everyone to think of a time she or he had communicated with an animal non-verbally, reminding everyone that this is something they do every day. They shared their stories in pairs; then I asked for volunteers to share with the whole group. The first couple of volunteers told their stories eagerly, but then I had to coax: “Come on, who else? You all have stories; please share.” And they did.

At one point in my talk, I asked how those present would like me to proceed. I could just explain things, or I could tell stories. Stories! They wanted stories! It was magnificent, a cramped room filled with adults remembering what it meant to be excited children. Even better, after a few of my stories, someone interrupted. “I have a story,” she said. The stories took over. The tight space opened up. I had the pleasure of becoming a student at the feet of these amazing teachers.

 

Challenge

Since I was working, I didn’t get to see much of the fair. But one afternoon, I ventured out to watch the Cowboy Challenge going on in a field not too far from Exhibit Hall 3. Most of the 20 minutes I was there, the folks were resetting the course. Finally, a man and his horse entered the field. The horse balked at every jump (barrels set on their sides), every obstacle. But the man persisted, never voicing an unkind word to his equine partner, never yanking on the reins or harshly kicking. Even though the attempt wasn’t much to look at, the spectators, who were lined up around the fence, were quiet, respectful. When the two finally managed to complete the course, the spectators responded with hearty applause.

I heard from several folks at my booth later that day that the Cowboy Challenge was one of their favorite events. Anyone could participate, not just seasoned competitors, but novices, elders. One woman said she saw a man compete who looked to be in his 80s.

 

________________

I can’t help thinking what it would be like to live in the world I experienced for three days at this rural Illinois horse fair–a world where community formed quickly; where people respected and supported each other, shared their stories, their wisdom with each other; where people challenged each other and themselves in non-threatening, nourishing ways. Add to this recipe a healthy dose of horses and small animal companions, and it sounds like Paradise to me.

 

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The Move

It turns out that Oreo is a really nice mare.

You couldn’t have convinced me of that 10 days ago, though, when I moved my gelding, Fuersti, and my mare, Tara, to the herd that Oreo leads.

Tara and Fuersti had been living together, just the two of them, for four years on five acres I’d been renting, a piece of a larger property owned by an elder couple who had retired from horse breeding. It was a wonderful arrangement: I cared for my own horses twice a day and could freely use the barn and indoor arena. I keep my horses naturally, so I had a shed built for them as well as an electric rope fence that created a 15-foot track all the way around their pasture—a round dry lot, if you will. (See Jaime Jackson’s Paddock Paradise.)

It’s probably not true that all good things come to an end, but this good thing did. The couple sold their property early this summer, and Tara and Fuersti and I were forced to move along.

While I continue to look for a place to call my own, I’ve moved them to a pasture board situation. The property is clean, the barn is clean, the herd is calm and happy. Tara and Fuersti have lived in a large herd before, so I knew that, after the inevitable adjustment period, they would be fine.

I knew that I would have to adjust as well, to personalities and barn rules. And I expected that leaving my barn would hit me hard, which it did, and that I would have to find the space and time to grieve the loss.

What I didn’t expect was Oreo.

Meeting Oreo

A brown and white paint draft with a blonde and brown mane and tail, Oreo is a lovely looking mare. Her manners, however, frazzled my already frazzled nerves to just this side of the breaking point. She immediately decided that Fuersti was hers and followed him around the 11-acre pasture endlessly. She allowed me to walk out into the pasture and bring Fuersti and his sister into the barn, but she followed closely behind, her nose practically on Fuersti’s tail. And when I got to the gate across the back of the barn, she was standing so close that I couldn’t back my horses up to allow the gate to swing open.

I could have swung the gate in, but then Oreo would have—I assumed—walked into the barn with us.

My horses have excellent ground manners. If I want them to back up, I only need to gently touch their chests and they move off from the pressure. If I want a shoulder or hip moved over, I only need to focus my gaze on it.

I tried touching Oreo’s chest. Not only didn’t she move, she didn’t acknowledge that I had touched her. She just stood, rooted like a giant Maple, looking at me.

And so I had to drop the lead ropes, flip the chain up over the gate post, open the gate a crack, slip into the barn (hoping Tara and Fuersti, who had not yet settled into their new herd, wouldn’t take off), flip the chain back over the gate post, go get my stick (a training tool, not a weapon), flip the chain up over the gate post, open the gate a crack, slip back into the paddock, flip the chain back over the gate post (by which time I was so frustrated I could barely breathe) and, holding the stick vertically to the ground, pound the handle into the ground, while making myself very big (head up, chest open), so that Oreo stepped back  . . . one . . . little . . . step. And repeat. About six times. Until there was enough room for me to swing the gate outward and get my horses into the barn.

Slow as Oreo moves, it didn’t take her long to catch up with us, and so I had to repeat the stick-pounding dance to move her back a step so that I could close the gate again.

My horses, who are used to walking into the barn themselves and going into their stalls to eat, with no direction from me, stood in the aisle, attached to lead ropes, agitated and confused about what they were supposed to do next. Unfortunately, their stalls, across from each other, are directly inside the barn, right next to the gate. To get into the barn and close the gate before Oreo could follow, I’d had to lead them past their stalls. Now I had to turn them around and coax them in. All the while, Oreo was not only leaned against the gate, she was kicking it.

Fuersti was so wound up, he wouldn’t eat his dinner (or his breakfast or dinner the next day). He spun around in his stall, while Oreo hollered for him and kicked the gate.

Three or four times, I would grab the stick, make myself big, and walk with energy and purpose up to the gate, staring at her. The kicking would stop . . . for a minute.

The evening of the second day, I was actually dreading going to the barn to feed. This ticked me off. My horses are my sanity; the barn is my church, the place where I commune most powerfully with Spirit. And because of that blasted stubborn mare, I was dreading it.

After that second dinner, as Oreo herded my two away from the barn and into the herd, she stopped for a minute, craned her neck and looked at me over her shoulder, long and hard. I spoke to her in a loud and angry voice: “I don’t like you, Oreo. I don’t like you at all. You are making things very difficult for me, and it just isn’t fair.” She turned and slowly walked back to the herd.

Stress Can Make You Stupid

After my first day of fighting with Oreo, I spoke to someone at the barn about her and found out her human has stopped coming to see her, which explained the lack of manners. No one groomed her or took her for walks or spent any time with her. Now I don’t know that horses living in a good-sized herd actually need this kind of human contact, but something was up with this mare.

I was starting to face the fact that this situation was going to be our situation for awhile, that our former barn wasn’t our barn anymore, that I didn’t know what the next steps were going to be, but that for now this is where we were. I was, to put it bluntly, coming to my senses.

I remembered that I am an animal communicator. (Yes, stress can make you stupid.) What was I doing getting angry with this poor animal?  How about talking to her instead? And so the morning of the third day, after I’d maneuvered my horses into the barn, after Oreo had positioned herself against the barn gate so she could stare at Fuersti, and before she started kicking at it, I stood in front of her and gently stroked her face.

“Beautiful girl,” I said. And I meant it. Her eyes softened, her face softened—or that’s what I saw at the time. I think now that her eyes and face had always been soft, that I had been so stressed and frustrated and sad and mad that I hadn’t noticed who this beautiful creature was or what she wanted from me.

I spoke softly to her for several minutes, then went about the business of tending to my horses. She never once kicked at the gate.

That evening, when I went out to the pasture to get my two, I made a point of first approaching Oreo, greeting her with soft words and strokes to her face and shoulder. I felt I owed her this respect. She is, after all, the lead mare. The herd is hers. She accepted my greeting and then gently took one step away. I found my horses, and we headed back to the barn. Oreo did not follow us.

She has not  followed us to the barn since. I can easily come and go, and my horses calmly eat their meals. When they rejoin the herd, Oreo quietly greets them. Only once was she standing outside the barn gate as we were getting ready to leave, and she stepped aside, no word from me, giving us plenty of room to maneuver.

Peace

Yesterday morning, Tara and Fuersti were both lying in the sun, sleeping. They were clearly exhausted, and I could not rouse them. Transitioning into a herd is tough work. I greeted Oreo, who was standing watch a few feet away, one hind leg cocked. I let them sleep while I took my little white dog, Elika, for our morning walk around the hay field. As I left, I thanked Oreo for accepting my beloved horses into her herd, for accepting me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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