Category Animal Wise

‘Animals as Guides’ sheds light on difficult subjects

Nancy Crowe
Photo by MabelAmber:Pixabay(Photo by MabelAmber/Pixabay)

As much as Susan Chernak McElroy gets it right with Animals as Teachers and Healers (Ballantine Books, 1997), she gets right to the heart with Animals as Guides for the Soul (Ballantine Books, 1998).

This follow-up is not only a worthy exploration of the relationship between humans and animals, but also a potentially transforming walk through some of the thorniest aspects of these relationships.

8482McElroy, who has worked as a technical writer and editor as well as in several animal-related occupations, writes largely from her experience on a small Wyoming farm. Insights from people who wrote to her after reading her previous book are included.

I appreciate so much in Guides for the Soul, but here are three primary take-aways.

The first is that the healing benefits of our relationships with animals are often subtle, but no less powerful. It isn’t always the spectacular, tossing-away-the-cane miracle with the therapy dog. More often, it’s the steady warmth of the cat curled up on the patient’s lap or the jingling of tags along a quiet country road day after day. Sometimes the miracle is only seen in hindsight.

“We are so conditioned to expect drama and heroics in healing that we forget the staggering importance of all the healing that goes unseen,” says McElroy, a cancer survivor. (Check out this wonderful six-minute video about two guys — one a morbidly overweight human, the other a middle-aged rescue dog — who healed each other.)

What if, she asks, we were to believe that the being at the end of the leash, in the cat carrier, or on a perch could heal by his or her very presence, offering exactly what is needed in every moment? That the dog nuzzling a crying adult was administering critical emotional first aid, or the horse heard the bullied teen as no one else could? Is that so far off the mark?

Second, McElroy delves into the rocky territory of death in a way that can benefit anyone who has lost a much-loved animal, particularly when the loss is accompanied by shame and guilt. These experiences and memories, however long ago, stick to us until we acknowledge their multilayered impact, she says.

Quoting respected authors on pet loss as well as people confronting long-buried grief and remorse, she offers perspective and tools for healing. However, she is respectful enough not to put forth easy answers. The stories of McElroy’s precious llama, Phaedra; and Jody Seay’s elderly black Lab friend McKenzie, are likely to bring both a tear and a spark of hope.

Finally, even when the animals involved are not our own, what can we do when we witness the inexplicable and cruel? When McElroy was about 11, a young coyote with his mangled leg still dangling in a steel-jaw trap was part of a wildlife exhibit at a nearby park. Day after day, he lay in a rusting wire cage with no food or water. She pleaded with the park rangers to care for the coyote. They ignored her. She begged her parents to do something, wrote to the local paper, and contacted the town mayor and her family’s veterinarian.

No adult would intervene until she called Mrs. Roberts, the mother of a friend, who picketed the park. The exhibit shut down within a week. The coyote made the front page of the local paper and was released to Mrs. Roberts, whose veterinarian husband helped care for the coyote in a backyard pen. Months later, Mrs. Roberts drove the coyote to the desert and released him back into the wild.

“She reminded me that although it was she who freed the coyote, it was I who had brought the coyote to her attention. At the age of eleven, I learned that one person can stand up against suffering and make a difference,” McElroy recalls.

We should all have, or be, a Mrs. Roberts.

Oscar the ambassador

Nancy Crowe
Oscar Tennessee Aquarium 05.18

Oscar, a green sea turtle, gets around at the Tennessee Aquarium. (Photo by Nancy Crowe)

I first met Oscar in 2007. The green sea turtle at the Tennessee Aquarium was missing his right rear flipper and a good part of his left rear flipper. A boat propeller had cut through his shell. Like many turtles who survive trauma, he’d developed buoyancy problems and bobbed, bottom up, like a cork in the big multi-species tank that was now his home.

Florida’s Marine Science Center had treated him initially. Covered with green hair algae, he looked just like Oscar the Grouch from “Sesame Street” — hence the name. When it was determined he could not be released back into the wild, he came to live at the Tennessee Aquarium in 2005. He was then about the size of a dinner plate.

By the time I saw Oscar, he was about the size of a saucer sled. Clearly, he was growing and had found a home where he would be protected and cared for … but still, I thought. How sad.

It is sad when animals suffer, especially at the hands (or boat propellers) of humans, and when our actions result in species becoming threatened or endangered. We should feel sad and angry about all of this.

But it’s so, so tempting to get stuck in the awfulness, which is probably what I did upon first hearing Oscar’s story. I remember my thoughts veering off to the pain he must have experienced, the terror when he was picked up and brought to the marine hospital … and could I ever, in good conscience, ride in a motorboat again? Was there such a thing as turtle-safe boating? Shouldn’t there be a law about that? And on and on.

I was new to animal communication at that point, which is to say I was still pretty cautious about trusting the intuitive information I was getting. My experience as a journalist had taught me to listen with my ears and mind. Communicating with animals requires listening first with the heart and then using a calm, clear mind to translate. However, the voice of this sea turtle was unmistakable.

“Are you kidding me? I’m the luckiest guy in the world. How many other sea turtles get to do this?”

Well, I didn’t have an answer for that, so I just stood for a few minutes and watched Oscar cut through the water with his front flippers and partially wedge himself under a rock to keep him from bobbing back up when he wanted to sit a spell. His joy — at having another shot at life, at being in a place where he was loved and cared for, at figuring out how to get around and stay put, and at showing people of all ages and walks of life what is possible after things go seriously, horribly wrong — was palpable. It carried through the water, glass, and crowd, and wrapped itself around me. I thanked Oscar for clarifying what it meant to be him.

My animal Reiki teacher, Kathleen Prasad, would echo this lesson years later during our training at an animal sanctuary. She taught us to both consider and look beyond the exteriors of what has happened to an animal to see the bright, beautiful light that animal essentially is. All of us, humans and animals, are not our wounds. We are not our histories. They are part of us, but we are so much more. Honoring this in ourselves and others helps us all heal and get around a bit more gently in the world.

I must add here that Kathleen is not in favor of zoos and aquariums. Though I agree with much of what she says, I’ve seen too many good things happen to and for animals at places like the Tennessee Aquarium and other accredited and/or mission-based facilities to write them all off. That’s my current thinking, anyway.

When we allow ourselves to move from the awfulness into seeing who an individual such as Oscar actually is and what he can do for the thousands of people who visit the aquarium, we can much more clearly see the next right action. Then we have a fighting chance at solving the cause of the awfulness. People who meet Oscar might be inclined to use less plastic to protect turtles from the waste, support wildlife conservation efforts with their time and finances, volunteer at a wildlife rehabilitation hospital, see their own injuries and limitations in a new way, or simply smile at his upside-down pluckiness. Any of these and more can have wonderful ripple effects for us and our world.

I visited Oscar this spring, and he is now at least as big as a saucer sled. He hangs out in his favorite spots among the rocks and plants, and as Emily Dickinson put it, dwells in possibility. He assured me he has plenty of work to do.

How a Reiki session works

Nancy Crowe 1 Comment
img_0717

The first lesson of animal Reiki? The animal is always at least one step ahead … and that’s OK.

If you are considering Reiki to support a beloved animal’s well-being, it may help to know more about what actually happens during a typical session.

Getting there

For in-person appointments in the Fort Wayne, Indiana area, which last about an hour, I come to your home, barn, or clinic. When I arrive, we can get acquainted and talk about whatever concerns you may have. Then I’ll find a comfortable place to sit or stand near the animal. After I say a silent prayer and gain the animal’s permission to share energy, I will enter a peaceful, meditative state. The animal is free to lie still, stand, move around, eat, get a drink of water, go out for a pit stop, etc. The Reiki energy — the life force that animates all living things — will go right to work, wherever it is needed, regardless.

Why it works

It works for two reasons. First, the energy comes not from me but from a higher power: God, the Universe, All That Is. There are many names. I’m the conduit, not the source. Reiki is a stress relief and relaxation modality and not affiliated with any particular religious tradition, but at the same time, it is based on the notion that the energy comes from a safe, loving place where all living beings are connected.

Second, I am sharing the energy with the animals rather than doing something to them. During a session, cats or dogs will often come closer, curl up next to me, or settle in my lap, but they sometimes prefer to be a few feet away or even leave the room. That’s OK; I won’t chase after them. However they want to participate in a Reiki session, or not, is up to them. It’s really not the same model of the Reiki client lying on the table and the practitioner moving around him or her using the hand positions.

That’s why it works. More often than not, we don’t know how, and that can be hard to get our heads around. I’m a skeptical journalist who never expected to be doing anything like this, and I wouldn’t keep doing it if I didn’t see the benefits.

A peaceful presence

An animal Reiki session is not about fixing the animal or getting rid of what’s wrong. Reiki, which never harms, is about creating and sharing a peaceful space that promotes whatever healing needs to happen. The animals often have a better sense of that than we do, which is all the more reason to let them lead.

You and any other humans or animals present are welcome to participate and may also benefit from the session, but I generally keep conversation to a minimum during the meditation. After about 30 minutes, I will gently bring the meditation to a close and we can talk about any feelings, questions, or impressions that arose. I may share intuitive information I received during the session that might be helpful to you, but I am not a medical professional and do not diagnose. Most animals (and humans) feel relaxed and rejuvenated after a Reiki session.

We can then discuss and/or make an appointment for further treatment. The benefits of Reiki are cumulative and it helps the animal to get to know me over multiple visits, so I generally recommend a series of three sessions over 10 days to three weeks, depending on the animal’s circumstances and needs. Then I’ll be on my way, and you are encouraged to call or email me with any questions or concerns.

Animal Reiki and animal communication

Animal Reiki may involve communication, and I often send distant Reiki energy as part of an animal communication session. However, a Reiki session is a time of meditation and quiet healing, and an animal communication session is about gathering information and insight. So, while there is some overlap between the two, the objectives are different enough that I handle them separately. Please see my animal communication page for more information.