Earthfire Stories | May 26, 2011
By the time I was able to make the trip to Minneapolis to work with the Bun, his movement had been impaired for just over a year. His human companions, Mia and Paul, were not sure what had happened, but Bun had suddenly been unable to use his left hind leg, which after several months had begun to atrophy. Bun had allowed me to work with him several years before when he had somehow strained his back (he and his human, Mia, had formerly been my neighbors in Chicago), so while he was a bit wary, being a bun, he was nevertheless willing to give me a chance. Because I was spending the weekend in Minneapolis working with horses, I planned on working with Bun on three consecutive days. Because he was a bun, and not thrilled about being excessively handled, we kept the sessions short, about 20 minutes a piece.
In our first session, late on the evening of my arrival, I sat on the living room floor with Bun and began with gentle touching, using only my fingertips. My intent was merely to bring Bun’s awareness to his body. His movement had been severely diminished for a long time, and I wanted to reintroduce him to his body parts and their ability to move. I outlined each vertebra of his spine, gently pushed his tailbone towards his head to remind him how his hind end connected to his fore, outlined his ribs, and gently moved his sternum (or breastbone) from side to side, all with the tips of my fingers. I would have liked to work with Bun’s feet as well, but he would not allow it. At the end of the session, Bun still had his left hind leg tucked up under him, but he seemed much more alert and energized when Mia returned him to his area in the dining room where his bed and food were and where he now spent much of his time.
The next morning, I worked with Bun again before I left for the day. This session was similar to the first one, in that I was still attempting to bring Bun’s awareness to his body, but this time I wanted to bring his awareness to a slightly deeper level. Once again, I used my fingertips to I gently outline his spine and gently push his tailbone towards his head. But this time, instead of outlining his ribs, I gently lifted his ribcage, one side at a time, to show him that it was capable of movement and to show him the connection between his ribs and spine. And this time, when I touched his sternum, I used both hands—one hand on the point of his sternum, one hand underneath his body, directly behind his front legs. I gently, slowly moved his sternum back, forward, and from side to side, again to show him that movement in this area was possible and pleasurable, and to show him the relationship between his sternum, ribs, and spine. Bun listened attentively to this lesson. When he appeared to have had enough, Mia took him back to his area in the dining room.
Late that evening, when I returned from working with horses, I decided to work with Bun again. I was leaving the next day and wanted to work with him as many times as I could in the short time we had. I felt that the way to make the best use of our time together without overloading his nervous system with too much information was to do more frequent, shorter sessions. I began our third session by sitting on the floor and placing Bun between my outstretched legs. In previous sessions, I had worked on my knees, bent over him. But now, I wanted to offer him a secure, enclosed space, as I was going to work at a deeper level than the previous sessions. My intent in this session was to prepare Bun’s body and nervous system for standing on all four feet. Once again, I worked with Bun’s sternum. I used both hands to slide it from back to front to back to front. My touch was gentle, but I asked the sternum to move more fully than I had before. As I eased the sternum back towards his tail with one hand, I used my other hand, which was under his belly, to gently lift him onto his feet. As I eased the sternum towards his head, I gently set him back down. After showing Bun this rhythmic movement a few times, I began alternating it with gentle pushes through the pelvis—first one side, then the other—and the sternum. I still had one hand underneath him, offering him support, and now I was raising him completely off the ground to prepare his nervous system for standing. At first, he was alarmed when his feet left the ground; Mia pointed out to me that his eyes were beginning to bulge. But he did not try to escape or bite, so I gently continued with my work.
I then set Bun back on the ground and began working with his right hind leg. Remember, it was the left hind that was giving Bun problems. But I wanted to bring to Bun’s attention to how smoothly and efficiently a hind leg can work, and so to do this I worked with the one that already worked most efficiently. I placed the flat of my hand underneath his right hind foot, creating an artificial floor. Unlike an actual floor, my hand could move. And so with his tiny foot on my palm, I slowly rotated my hand at the wrist, causing the “floor” to slant in this direction and that, bringing Bun’s awareness to the flexibility of his foot and each of his toes. I then played with Bun’s leg, gently and very slowly showing him the range of motion he had available in the leg and hip. Bun was very quiet as we worked, clearly listening to the information I was sharing with him.
Finally, I was ready to touch the left hind, the leg that Bun had kept tucked up under him for so long. I gently touched his toes, one at a time, showing him that the foot was not an unyielding block, that it was flexible. His foot spasmed momentarily, then released and softened. As I had done with the right foot, I now played the artificial floor game with the left foot and then showed Bun the range of motion he had available in this leg and hip. As I worked with Bun, as his body softened, I became more and more convinced that the injury he had sustained was not to the leg itself but to the nervous system, that he had suffered a mild stroke. And so at this point, I decided to play a trick on his nervous system.
I eased one hand under his belly to support him and to lift him to his feet, then with the other hand I gently crossed his left hind leg over his midline-the imaginary line running vertically through the middle of the body. I had already shown him that his right hind leg was fully functional. Now I wanted to trick his nervous system into thinking that the left hind was in fact the right hind. To do this all I had to do was move the left leg to the right side. I had no expectations at this point. I merely wanted to give Bun this information. I still had one more day to work with him before I had to leave, and I planned on continuing our dialog the following morning. But, incredibly smart creature that he was, Bun only needed to be told once. Moments after I crossed his left hind leg over the midline, Bun jumped off my hand, shook himself, and hopped—using all four feet—into the next room. I started laughing, Mia started crying, and Bun no doubt wondered what all the fuss was about.
The next morning, I decided not to give Bun another session. I felt his nervous system had received enough information over the previous two days and that he needed to be allowed to integrate it. I sat near him while he ate his breakfast and gently stroked him a few times. Then I showed Mia a few ways she could work with Bun until I could return to Minneapolis several months later. I did not get another chance to work with him. Two weeks after my visit, Bun died of natural causes. Mia assures me that his last two weeks were good ones, that Bun was able to hop around the house and that one day he even scratched his face with his left hind foot, something she had not seen him do for over a year. I am forever grateful for that, and that I had a chance to work with this intelligent and gentle creature before it was time for him to leave.
Earthfire Stories | May 26, 2011
Last year I found a starling chick that had fallen out of the nest. At first I thought about letting nature take its course, then I decided to try and save the baby. I fed it game bird starter mixed with water. I named the bird Curley (from the 3 Stooges) because the fluffy feathers on his head reminded me of Curley. When Curley fledged, he “trained” myself and my husband to help him get crickets. Curley stayed until it was time for the starlings to migrate. One evening he pecked me hard on the cheek and that was the last time I saw him. I learned some things from Curley and this year I have been blessed with another starling baby whom I named Buddha. |
Bears, Blog | May 18, 2011
So we tried to go to give the bear brothers, Major Bear and Huckleberry Bear Bear, antibiotics in marshmallows, their favorite treat – usually they only get healthy foods. As per our last blog it didn’t work. Not even close. Plan B: honey, molasses, lemonade, and porridge sweetened with honey and raisins. No good. Huckleberry was recovering on his own but Major Bear wasn’t. So Plan Y, which we wanted to avoid, was to tranquilize Major Bear to be able to give him a long acting antibiotic shot and examine him to get a better idea of what was wrong. More details coming in a future blog but that is what we did. Upon examination, x rays and blood work we realized Major Bear would have to got to a bear hospital. To be continued…
Major Bear and Jean
Blog, Deep Ecology, Ethics & Whole Community | May 18, 2011
The animals know
when to come to us
because they are
knowingly linked
by the web of listening.
The miracle motions
of birds flocking
turning left, turning right,
they’ve not forgotten
how to listen
to the Great Listening.
The Great Listening
goes on beneath our feet,
above our heads,
inside our hearts.
And the animals swirl
in delightful fashion.
They seem to move
before the wind moves them,
as if they knew the future
and were bringing it back to us.
They let themselves be moved.
They hear the Great Thoughts
circling this Earth,
the larger language
circling this Earth.
They transmit messages
because they’re listening
without thinking
and we can learn from them
by watching movements
scribbled in the Earth,
above our heads,
inside our hearts.
The animals know
when to come to us
when we are listening
without thinking.
Like them
we are linked by litening
without thinking
linked by listening.
-Lyn Dalebout
Watch “The Great Listening” video
Earthfire Stories | May 18, 2011
While many who have attended summer programs at Clear Sky can attest to their considerable rewards, I once had the chance to spend a substantial period of time at the centre during its “off-season.” In the winter of 06/07 there were generally only three or four of us in residence, and on a number of occasions the peerless feline Sultan and I were entirely on our own. My memories of this delightful solitude include weeks of study and meditation, long walks, and the simple pleasures of splitting wood and stargazing. As spring progressed, a lone Engelman spruce – visible from the house in a spacious clearing on Bull Mountain’s lower southwestern slope – became an agreeable part of my daily itinerary. I discovered a superb natural meditation seat near the tree and there I spent many happy hours, body tingling from the hike, mind borne aloft by the spectacular view. However, the most memorable recollection I have of Clear Sky are those involving wildlife.
When there are few people around, our non-human neighbours become bolder. Seeing groups of deer or elk just yards away out the living room window is commonplace. Now and then skunks, badgers and even the occasional adventurous bear cub are observed, sniffing around the house. I never saw a wolf, but sometimes I heard them – a primal, dead-of-night presence pervading the moonlit forest. If you’re meditating, ignoring that sound isn’t an option. Like a Burmese monsoon downpour on a metal roof, the wolf pack’s howling becomes your meditation object.
One experience particularly stands out for me. On a Saturday morning in early June, I was walking alone along one of the paths near the property’s Northwest boundary. A large mound of soil there – piled up the previous yer in the course of some project – had become over grown with thistles, and I’d set out to pull them. As I was strolling through the forest, three deer abruptly bolted down the path away from me, about forty yards ahead. I assumed that my approach had triggered their flight.
Then one of them – the last in the group – screamed and fell to the ground. I thought it must have stepped into a gopher hole or been caught in a tangle of discarded wire, and I hurried to see if I could help. When I was only fifty feet or so from the struggling animal I became aware that its body seemed strangely misshapen. Suddenly I realized that there was a cougar holding it down! Stunned, I just stood and watched as the cat strangled its prey, teeth clamped around the deer’s windpipe.
I felt no fear, only awe. In our tradition we cultivate metta, the mind of lovingkindness, toward all beings, and the power of that benevolent energy and the confidence it inspires can be quite remarkable. IN the East, the development of strong metta is widely understood to confer immunity from the perils of the jungle, and there are countless anecdotes of forest monks living in harmony with tigers and other wild creatures.
I’d been in retreat for months and was in a very calm and positive state. It occurred to me, however, that should my metta wobble just a little bit I might be in danger. Momentarily I turned away and looked around for a stick and, as I found one, the cougar became aware of me. It looked up and our eyes met, and held. A wildlife expert might not recommend this kind of challenging behavior, but it felt right – anyway, it worked.
After a brief pause, the cougar let go of the deer, turned, and ran in the opposite direction. Keeping a close watch in case it should return, I cautiously approached the deer. It was still breathing, though unconscious. There were no obvious wounds or any bleeding, just the cougar’s saliva around its neck. I knelt down beside it, repeating the mantra of compassion – OM MANI PADME HUM – and gently stoking its side. Gradually it began to move and blink its eyes, regaining consciousness within a couple of minutes.
Then it looked at me, startled, scrambled upright, and dashed off into the bush, apparently unscathed. I sat in stillness for a while, feeling my heartbeats, breathing and listening, then stood up. I decided to postpone the weeding. As I turned back toward the house I began to recite the ancient Pali formula for sharing merit*, drunk with the unexpected blessing of the empowerment of Vajara Mountain Lion.**
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*Merit is the poitive energy created every time the mind inclines toward the wholesome and sharing merit is a practice common to all Buddist schools. At the end of every meditation session the merit generated is traditionally shared with all beings.
**In Vajrayana Buddhism an empowerment (Tibetan: Wangkur) is the ritual initiation into a particular meditation practice (sadhana). The teacher enters into amd ambodies the vibration of the archtype, bestowing upon the student a direct mind-to-mind transmission and planting a seed that will bear spiritual fruit when nurtured by diligent practice.
Earthfire Stories | May 17, 2011
A few days ago, I watched a video from Earthfire Institute of a woman doing a healing on a wolf, Apricot, who was suffering from inflammation of the spinal cord. The video is deeply moving. You can view it here.
Watching the video got me to thinking about a wild creature I had the honor of assisting many years ago, a seagull that I now call Sydney.
In the Water
It was a hot summer day in Chicago. I had been struggling with a piece of writing for several hours and needed to give my brain a rest, and so I headed out for a walk to the lake, a few miles away.
Sitting on the rocks, I looked out over my gorgeous lake. The water was clear and calm, gently lapping against the shore. The sky was pale blue and dotted with those fluffy white summer clouds that fill your heart with the ache of a peaceful summer afternoon.
After a few minutes of this luscious peace, I noticed something moving on the water, making small circles just to the left of my line of sight. I remember briefly thinking that it must be a duck. But a moment later, I snapped out of my trance, remembering that ducks don’t swim on Lake Michigan.
I turned to look more closely and saw a seagull, not an uncommon sight near the shore; one end of the beach a half-mile away was always filled with them. But this creature was alone. And he was swimming in an endless, tight circle. Looking more closely, I saw that his left wing was dragging behind him, skimming the surface of the water.
I couldn’t bear the thought of what was bound to happen to this creature: succumbing to exhaustion, dying alone. My heart ached for him.
I had only been practicing Reiki for about a year, but already it was a powerful force in my life. I thought, “When in doubt, try Reiki.” And so I stood up, drew the three primary Reiki symbols in the space in front of me, looked at the struggling seagull, and invited him to follow me to the beach, where he could come to shore amid others of his kind.
He turned to face me, treading water, and then began to swim parallel to the rocky shore, following me as I led the way. He couldn’t swim as quickly as I could walk, so from time to time, I would stop in a shady spot, it was so very hot that day, and wait for him to catch up. When he pulled up even to me, he would stop, turn and face me, waiting. I drew the Reiki symbols anew and once again set off towards the beach.
We were about a third of the way to our destination, when he came upon a pier of sorts, blocking his path. It was only about 15 feet long, made of rock and concrete and wood, protruding maybe three feet above the water. I’d seen it hundreds of times before, but never really noticed it. Now I wondered how it had come to be there, what its purpose was.
My seagull (my heart had already claimed him), swam right up to this blockade. I held my breath as he tried to flap his wings and jump onto it, but he only had one useful wing, and so his effort to gain dry land couldn’t work, and he fell back into the water.
He looked as though he was going to try again, but I was so fearful for his safety that I asked him to please go around the pier. I said the words silently. “Please, go around. Swim around. It’s not that far.”
He hesitated for a moment, treading water, still looking at the pile of rock and concrete and wood, but then did as I asked. He swam the 15 feet to the end of the pier, swam around it, and then returned to his spot parallel to the shore. Treading water, he looked at me. I refreshed the Reiki symbols and we set off once again.
On the Beach
Our journey of half a mile took us close to an hour to complete.
As we approached the edge of the beach, thick with seagulls, my friend, my teacher, swam around another, smaller pier, this time needing no instruction. He did not return to his place by my side but, seeing the flock, positioned himself to join them. When he walked up on the beach, I instinctively moved towards him, but he flapped his one wing in warning (the other wing dragged uselessly in the sand) and ran backwards, away from me.
I understood that it was time for me to leave.
A lifeguard was walking the beach not far from us. I stopped him, told him our story, asked if he knew of a wildlife refuge in the city, someone who could help my seagull. He looked at me as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what I was saying. “He followed you all the way from there?” he said, pointing to the place, so far away now, where our journey had begun.
“Yes,” I said, not yet realizing how sacred this journey had been, how utterly amazing.
He instructed me to go to the boathouse at the other end of the beach and look for the lifeguard supervisor. He said the supervisor would be able to help me. Then he said, “I get off in a little while. I’ll make sure he takes care of this.”
“Do you promise?” I said.
He said that he did.
I walked to the end of the beach. I looked, but couldn’t find the supervisor or anyone who could tell me where he might be. But I trusted the young man to keep his word, and so I went home with a peaceful heart, believing I had done all that I could do.
Back Home
That night, I finally returned to my desk, to the writing I had needed a break from that afternoon. After an hour or so, at about 10 pm, I felt a presence in the room. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was, but I quickly realized it was my seagull. He insisted I leave my desk and tend to him.
I sat on the couch in the living room, lit a candle, and took him (not literally, of course) into my lap. I drew the Reiki symbols in the space in front of me, said a prayer for healing, and held his body, the idea of his body, in my hands. About twenty minutes later, he was gone. I wished him well and returned to my desk.
The next night, again at about 10 pm, I felt my seagull’s presence, urging me to leave my desk and tend to him. I again sat on the couch with his beautiful self in my lap and shared a Reiki healing with him.
The following night, at the same time, my beautiful friend called me away from my desk once again and directed me to assist him. But this time was different. At the end of this third session, just before he vanished, he stood tall on my lap, fully extended his wings, and slowly flapped them with tremendous power and grace.
I did not know, and probably will never know, if Sydney’s wing had mended, whether he was alive or had left this earth. I did not know if he had been accepted by the flock or had been pecked to death, if he had managed to feed himself or had died of starvation. I did not know if he had been rescued and cared for by humans, if he had been returned to the wild.
All I knew, and the knowledge broke over me in a warm wave, was that Sydney had been healed.
Thank you for teaching me the meaning of healing, dear Sydney, for your courage and persistence, your wisdom and grace. Blessings to you, my friend.
Earthfire Stories | May 13, 2011
Ray of Light is my boy kittie family member. He found me one day 5 years ago when I went to donate towels etc, to the shelter at the MSPCA. I had been there many a times and I also would visit the animals and then leave. This time however I visited the kitty room and the moment I
walked in Ray or Light’s eyes looked at me and I looked at him and that was it. He lengthened his long young body like an improvisational dancer and said, “Where have you been? ” It was truly a match made in heaven. He has been such an amazing teacher and family member.
A few days ago he and I went outside. We mostly go out together and he explores the yard. We hang out together as well as do our own thing depending on the day. We had been outside for about 20 minutes
when I picked him up and walked to the door to go back inside. I felt that he wanted to stay out a bit longer so and I figured I would make a phone call and then we would go in.
He was right near me during the phone call, yet when I finished the call, I did not see him anywhere. I began to look high and low. He was not in any of his usual places and after awhile I began to get a bit anxious. I looked all around once again with no luck.
I then went and sat in my car in the drive way and got myself grounded and let go of the fear. (I can easily let my fear get in the way, at least in the beginning of something) Not this time though, as I knew that I could indeed communicate with Ray of Light and he with me.
I telepathically let Ray of Light know that I was feeling some what aggravated that did not come to me when I called his name. I told him that my feeling of aggravation would not out weight my feelings of sadness if he were not to come home.
I asked him to find me and to meow so I could find him if need be.
And seconds later, there he was walking from behind he house meowing loudly.
I was ecstatic. He not only heard me, yet took the time to let his voice be heard and to find me. He also let me know that he had wanted to hang out with me and not me on the telephone. I got it!
Blog, Deep Ecology, Ethics & Whole Community | April 20, 2011
Yukon biologist and professor discusses the importance of preserving the Yellowstone to Yukon Wildlife Corridor with Susan Eirich of Earthfire Institute.
Animal Tales, Bears, Blog | April 14, 2011
Huckleberry Bear Bear and Major Bear
There comes a time, in the course of human events, when you have to give a bear a pill. Or in this case, eight of them twice a day because unfortunately they don’t come in bear size. You might think it would be easy. With a wolf, as long as there is breath in their body, put the pill in a piece of meat and they “wolf” it down, no questions asked. If there is any difficulty at all you keep a second piece of meat in your other hand and they focus so much on the second piece they might miss, that they wolf down the first while eyeing the delectable second (the grass is always greener . . . ). If there should be any possible problem even then, you offer a piece to another wolf, and they are so upset that the other is getting something they aren’t, they wolf it down. No problem giving pills to a wolf. But a bear is another matter. A black bear in particular is quite particular in what he eats and does so slowly, with thought and care, methodically sniffing, examining, then folding his front legs and laying his bulk gently down preparing to take his time enjoying his meal. A bear does not wolf down his food.
Going into this process we thought we had Huckleberry Bear Bear buffaloed. He loves marshmallows. We thought ”this will be a snap - just put the pill in a marshmallow”. Try the wolf trick to be certain; first give him one without a pill and then when he is lulled into a false sense of security, give him one with it hidden deep inside, and then quick another without a pill (that does mean about 20 marshmallows for one bear two times a day, but hey – worth it). Huckleberry Bear Bear, however, was not about to be rushed or tricked. Anything going down his bear gullet to add to his tender and precious massive self was going to go down carefully and slowly. And be thoroughly enjoyed. It took forever to finish a cherry pie for example. First the whipped cream had to be licked off, then one edge of the crust lifted; then the cherries licked out one by one using his long sticky pink tongue . . . and on and on. You would think something he loved so much would go down quickly but no. Slowly and methodically with thorough sensual enjoyment. They do not pig out (except in amount).
So we watched in suspense as he took the marshmallow, us willing it to go down. But with his sensitive and agile tongue he realized something was amiss. He got a funny look on his face, “Uh oh” I thought - “he broke the capsule and doesn’t know if he should swallow or spit it out”. But he hadn’t even nicked it. He chewed and rolled the marshmallow around in his mouth and managed to extract the whole intact capsule from its sticky enclosing walls and let it drop, clean and intact, to the ground and then enjoyed the marshmallow. Out-foxed. We tried all the above-mentioned wolf tricks using his brother Major Bear as a foil but to no avail. There’s no fooling around with a bear and his food.
So – now Plan B. Wish us luck . . .
By Susan Eirich
Animal Story, Animal Tales, Blog, Wolves | March 16, 2011
Midnight Journey is a big and extra-intense, extra high energy wolf; rangy, long legged and active. His emotions are filtered through a strong masculinity and dignity – he does not wear them on his sleeve, entirely unlike that passionate little wolf Cucumber for example. He is go go go go go go go, looking about, looking for food; restless unless he is moving, searching . . . exploring. He is so handsome that he was selected to be in a photo shoot. We are glad for these opportunities as they help feed the animals.
The set up took forever from our point of view and even longer from Midnight’s. Wolves are not the most patient beings and he was pacing back and forth in frustration as Chimayo, the other excellent wolf on the shoot, was getting treats, a lot of them, and he saw Ev-er-y- One – Of – Them. To ease him I started to massage him … inside his ear, back of his ears, back of his neck, down his spine to his hips and lower back and then up again, feeling each vertebrae as I went, taking my time to dig in just so, feeling where there was tension and just enjoying his wolfness. That big restless wolf with enormous pent-up energy, with strangers doing strange things with lights and cables and things and another wolf getting treats…. this wolf suddenly stood still, got an inner look in his eyes, quieted, then melted into the massage. Just melted. He turned his head just like a dog does when you get the best spot on his rump, communicating to me through his body just where to stay longer. Go deeper. For 15 minutes I massaged him and for 15 minutes he stayed stock still, melting against me, receiving the sensations. It wasn’t just the massage he was enjoying – he was sucking in the attention. As I mentioned, he does not wear his heart on his sleeve, but in his own dignified removed masculine way he accepted and (dare I say) loved it.
I like working with photo crews because it is an opportunity to show people who often know nothing about wolves, something beyond the clichés. The wolves do the teaching, by who they are and their unexpected sweetness and responsiveness, their usual state when they feel safe. One of the crew looked over wonderingly and said “He is really enjoying that!” A wolf, enjoying, accepting, a massage from a human … allowing it to calm and reassure him … more effective in changing minds and hearts than lectures about their habits and nature; than the philosophy that they have a right to live; than the fact that they are vital in the ecosystem, important and true though all those are. If only decision makers could see their unexpected sweetness and responsiveness; their intense enjoyment of life, their fear and vulnerability, their grief … I keep hoping we will reach a tipping point of numbers of people who value them so we can create a more humane policy.
I was invited to dinner the other night and the guests next seated next to me turned out to be a hunting guide. He was a nice man. We were talking about wolves and I described how they rolled over for tummy rubs. He said “really???” in astonishment. Obviously that aspect of wolves had never occurred to him. He just saw them as two dimensional; as fierce predators and rivals for his prey, the elk. I wish he could have been there. It just never occurred to him before that they are living feeling beings. He never had to a opportunity to meet them that way, and it might have changed his mind.
Touched By Nature by Dennis McMahon
