Whatever you call it

In the morning I go outside and thank everything. I light some sage, marvel at whatever the sky is doing, and start my list of grateful*. Bodie comes with. 
Mr. "more play now even if we just did what's next look at all the stuff in the yard why is that bird--squirrel!--there's a goat at the neighbor's! fireworks scary heard something in my dish..." sits quietly with me, sniffing the air. He never moves once he's done his business and come back to sit with me. Sometimes we're out there quite a while but he stays.Even at one year, newly arrived and manic.
Recently there may have been some confusion, as Chet the Dog would say, about a fire in the fireplace with the flue closed. Perhaps some smoke alarms. Bodie stopped coming outside with me, bolting as soon as I lit the sage. After several mornings alone I now go outside sageless, he pokes his head out the dog door soon after just to make sure, then comes out to sit with me. Dog's gotta pray, too.
Recently we noticed his big heart displays outside his body as well. Oh come on, humor me.

Happy New Year!

*Animoush list: Fur, wings, heated blankets/beds, gifted surgeons, the morning ritual, paws, kibble, call and response good-night sighs, shelters, treats, tongues, purring, tails, Chloe, Homer, Katie, Ruxen, Bill, geese flying in formation in near darkness, Christmas ball, Prickly, Cow, Halti, Danette, peanut butter, auto-feeders, car towels, Salmon oil, animal statues, neighbors, snow...

Horses

Since I’m going on an adventure this weekend and will no doubt want to write about it, I should give a little background.

Apologies to those who have heard this story, you can skip to the next entries.

Ann and I went to one of our favorite events, the Evergreen State Fair, which we adore in no small part because of its complete lack of irony. And the food. And earnest kids who come to show the animals they live with, train, and love. After watching agility dogs and eating way too much we wandered into the horses’ stables. We love especially the solemn Clydesdales with their impossible height and tufted feet. But at the end of a row was a light brown mare who looked like she was about to bash right out of her stall. She was spinning frantic circles, the whites of her eyes showing, racing around the tiny space in a complete panic. I had just learned to do animal Reiki, and with the naiveté of a novice I walked tentatively over to her.

I lifted my hands up to just at the edge of the stall so they wouldn’t bother her but also, so I wouldn’t get smacked as she spun. Suddenly aware I was standing so close to such a huge, terrified animal, a great fear took me over and I just froze, stunned by the huge out-of-control power of this creature towering over me. I had had only a few contacts with horses before (I was raised in L.A.!). Even though I knew I couldn’t hurt her, and that she was not freaking out because of us, everything in me wanted to run away, but equally strong was the need to do something. Her head was so big, her whole body so completely involved in the raging.

I could feel the heat come off my hands quikcly, which was somewhat encouraging. When you learn Reiki you’re taught that you are a pipeline for the energy, that it has nothing to do with you really at all. This comforted me, I knew I just had to stick my hands up and hope the Reiki would flow through and have an effect. Bit by bit she slowed her wild circuit, glancing at me each time she passed me until she finally and came to stand across from me. Did I mention she was huge? She stared straight at me, her eyes calmer now, but she was panting. I didn’t know what to do. I asked Ann, terrified, what she wanted. She wants you to touch her, babe, Ann said, rather bewildered, as she had grown up with a horse and had no such fear. So I patted the great, sweaty neck and she drew closer, and then I placed my hands there and could feel huge amounts of heat coming from them to her. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t be distracted but right then I knew, I could practically see, that she had been trapped before, like in some kind of barb wire. I opened my eyes and there they were, long scars crisscrossing her neck. I knew without a doubt she had perceived the stall as a similar trap and was desperate to get out.

I glanced at the name on the stall. Amber. She turned abruptly around, then backed towards me, aiming her butt. I was certain she was going to kick me, so I moved my hands away. But Ann said, again, she still wants you to touch her. I let the Reiki-sense take over, and placed my hands on Amber’s right flank; she moved closer. I could tell there was pain there. So I just held my hands still, and we stood like that for about 5 minutes, not moving. I could feel her power and her fear, but finally mine was dissipating. Soon she was breathing calmly, doing these big sighs I’ve since learned are a sign of energy moving. And then, and this is what I love about doing Reiki on animals, she just snorted and moved off to her feed bag and started munching like nothing had happened. All done.

I was hooked--on giving Reiki to animals. I loved the immediacy and the rawness of it. But at the same time I was pretty startled at my terror. I had truly been shaking in my boots.

In a few weeks I’m going on a 48-hour vigil/walkabout/pilgrimage, during which I hope to be outside as much as possible to live in the rhythms of whatever is happening there, particularly whatever’s going on with animals. When I was looking for a place where I could be undisturbed, I found a yurt that had no running water or electricity. I wrote to the woman whose property it was on, and asked if I would have quiet. “Total silence, except maybe from my horses,” she said. Of course I had to find out more. Turns out she runs workshops/ retreats that help people get over their fear of horses, but also teaches horsemanship and runs clinics and retreats, and writes about life on Orcas with Horses. While I hadn’t been feeling any particular “should” to dealing with my fear, I’ve certainly learned that when something falls into your lap you should pick it up.

So I am going to a workshop this weekend, with my pals I met at Earthfire. We all do energy work, at which our wonderful teacher Kate Wood got excited, and we’ve been writing breathlessly back and forth ever since. Finally we are here. Then three weeks later I return for my walkabout, with, I would think, a bit better understanding of my surroundings and the source of snorts and snufflings only a few feet away.

Carried

Anyone who knows me has had to listen to my rants against technology, despite my making my living with it. But a recent flu helped me nail down what exactly I object to most. The insistence on the binary. Computers are so literal. Most of us grew up hearing stories of how machines would take over, becoming smarter than us. What's become apparent is that we are simply growing more to think like machines, in the binary, no shades of grey. What makes us human-animal. We get impatient when we can't get an answer right now, or the answer isn't definitive. No need for machines to take over, we're almost them. Human-machine.

I was astonished by how much the flu laid me down. As with everyone else who got it, it seemed to work with whatever they were prone to, a customized presence in the body that stayed for a brutal three days or so, then left slowly, reluctantly. Every time I'd try to get up, I'd have to lie down again, and wake up a few hours later wondering what had happened and where the day had gone.

Of course, this was completely excellent for the pets. Yes! A human lying down all day. For 17-year old Dimitri, it meant a full body of places to rest, from chest to feet. For 14-month old Bodie the pup, it meant many opportunities for surprise licks (dead sleep to wide awake via tongue is a very favorite sport).

But at some point, when I was at my sickest, they stationed themselves in a perfect harmonic convergence, one small old one at my feet, one large young one at my head. I was vaguely aware of sighs and then nestlings, and a large paw draped over my own sticking out from beneath the covers. There was a deep stillness, and I slept as if carried on pillows by animals, through a gentle path that ultimately let me back to health. 

The crux of it was the floating, then rising, then licking, petting, more floating, gazing, then deep sleeping. All nuances with no edges, all without any "parameters," "settings," or "end date."  Just drifting. A guest in the house of animal.

And ANOTHER thing!

That voice you hear may be yours joining in.
http://video.msn.com/video.aspx?vid=f32e4309-24ae-4fa6-bf83-89f19ffa8f98

Courtesy of my wonderful neighbor BWren.

Deepening

For this little tangent you will need: the image of an animal stretching. That deep, amazing full-body elongation. Every toe on every paw, eyes closed shut in the overwhelming pleasure of it, completely lengthening, tail out, ears up or flat, and just when you are marveling at how pleasurable the whole thing looks, they reach out just a bit more, maybe arch their backs and go flat out, or spread everything so wide you can see every little hair stand up and get completely involved. And then a quick tuck into a spiral, they are ready for the grand finale--a nap. Just watching them makes you want to stretch and maybe you even do. So:

I had been coordinating a bunch of logistics including taking care of someone who needed help at every step. I was anxious as hell, fretting over getting to the right spot, directions in hand, the person in place, chatting easily as if nothing were fraught, racing because for once I was a little late and might actually miss getting the person to the next caretaker. As I raced I noticed there was almost no gas in the car. The little light had even come on. With all the anxiety around the whole scene I knew this was like the final, dumb sitcom joke but still I let myself get completely floored by the possibility that I would not only run out of gas but would make my friend miss her ride. 

Two seconds later it was over; I found the site, the ride was still there, and out of the parking lot I tore, still racing. Out of sheer habit. 

Of course there was a gas station right down the next block. And of course plastered all over its pumps were out of order signs. 

I jammed the gas pedal (for some reason when I'm lost or out of gas I actually drive faster, which is several shades of stupid) and raced down the next block. There, in full corporate glory was a bigass gas station, with 10 pumps to choose from. I filled up and headed back down the road, flipping on the radio. Some perfect song played and I realized I hadn't been breathing normally for probably hours. I slowed down. Inhaled a huge breath. Took stock of all the logistics of the last half hour and realized I had done every one of them.

But instead of being saturated with relief I had hurriedly started a new list, the next hour's list, the endless list. And not just of tasks, but of things to worry about. Most not under my control. The voice known as the-one-that-I-wish-would-come-more-often said, slow down, take a minute and bask in this.

So I did. It was spring and the sun was truly out, the air so sweet I could almost feel it suffusing my cells. My body began to relax and I thought of those animals stretching, how they do it with every corpuscle involved. So I did that with every thought and sensation of that moment only. And everything that had already been wonderful simply got better, like when you stretch. Oxygen and blood flooded the body of my mind until it expanded into pure pleasure. I lingered, amazed that while it felt fantastic, the longer I stayed, stretching into it, it kept getting even better. I realized that right there in the car I was getting high. With merely an orientation.

Later when I thought of this marvelous moment I pondered how when something terrible happens it's seared into your body and your memory. That's partly why it's so terrible. You never forget it, you remember every part of it, how your body felt, what you were thinking or doing, where you were. Because you stay with it, and it deepens. But not so the great moments, at least not so much with adults. I realized I had done that instinctively, had seared the pleasure right into my body. Like animals do. Why we love to watch them do that so much. I find myself waiting now for just an ordinary, good moment, so I can try it again.

(Please visit this site for more pictures by this wonderful photographer.) 

Matins

Every morning when I drive to work I am moved, anew, by the site of a man doing his morning workout on the dock by the lake. He does push-ups, sit ups, jogs in place, all in the rain or shine. I mean, really, rain or... I often notice what isn't there. He isn't in spandex, just jeans and a T-shirt. He doesn't have some kind of gadget attached to him to verify that he is indeed, exercising. He doesn't have a hat. He doesn't have a special Northwest jacket. It's a nondescript one, usually lying on the dock beside him. Sometimes I can hardly make out his shape in the driving rain.  

The other part of the picture is a bird. Always. I used to think there was one gull who followed him. A kind of companionship borne of many mornings together. But sometimes it's a pigeon, sometimes a crow. One time there was a heron. Why? I love to speculate. Maybe because humans rarely stay in one place doing something without making noise. 

Next time you say "Crickets..."

Apparently I'm the only one who hasn't heard this, but on the off-chance that goes for you, too: This is the sound of a chorus of crickets slowed way down. Overlayed on that is the sound we usually hear.
(Thanks to Bridgett for the link!)

To...

To owls, to cats, to musicians, to filmmakers, to bloggers, to brain, to heart, to life.

(Thanks to Sarah B for the link!)

Watch to the end

A lovely, gentle dance. At first it is mere food-luring, yet another trick to get some footage. And then...

(Thanks to my friend Jan for sending.) 
See more about the filmmaker here. 

Meditation

The sound of the shower shutting off means, to Dimitri, the morning practice of watching drops. The pet who is "no trouble" never gets any blog time and that's just wrong.