The Healing Nature of Animals

The other evening, I woke to my cat Phineas snuggled between my husband and I. Pressed into my left side, curved into my underarm, I closed my eyes. This was unusual behavior for him, as he usually sleeps by my feet. A few moments later, I opened my eyes to a ball of white light hoovering above the left side of my body. Phineas was doing healing work on me.

This orange cat of mine was a homeless cat up until a few years ago. My mother had found him outside in her yard feasting on Purina that she left for the other homeless cats and hungry squirrels, possums and birds. She noticed that unlike many of the cats she met over the years, he was extremely friendly and simply wanted love. She brought him into her home, but with so many cats of her own, could not keep another indoor cat.

I'm a sucker for helping animals. All of our pets are rescues. At the time we had three dogs and three cats. Still, when she said he needed a home, I couldn't say no. She called him "Buttons." I looked at him, and said "He's Phineas." I had no idea what led me to that name. I tend to listen for their names.

He adjusted to our household immediately as if he always lived here. He didn't run and hide. He wasn't tentative with laying on the couch or asking for food along with the dogs. He waits with them each morning to share their breakfast (after he eats his own, of course). Even our senior cat, Bella, who didn't get along with the other cats and only tolerated the dogs because they kept away the cats, grew to like being around him. He stayed with her until she breathed her final breath in our bedroom.

My husband calls him a dog. I call him a cat. He goes between the feline and canine species in our house with ease. He plays and rubs against the cats. He let's our shih tzu, Charlie, give him hair styles and clean him thoroughly. He shares our bed with our Yorkie, Teddy, who is quiet particular with who is allowed on the bed.

As I closed my eyes once again, I felt a presence on my right side. At first, I started to feel my heart pumping, my hair stand up on end. My veins were tingling with the sensation that someone from the other side was here. I was about to try to send them away as I do in the middle of the night, when I get scared in the dark. Instead, I said to myself "screw it," which isn't the nicest thing to say when you have a visitor. That being, of which I could not see more than an outline of a thin person, joined Phineas in working on me. I did not know what could be wrong with me, and instead of focusing on that, I spent a moment in gratitude for their gift

After I dozed back to sleep, I instinctively awoke when the process was complete. Phineas turned over, started to kneed my underarm, but drew back. It's as if he knew that his little cat claws would pinch into my skin. He paused, then started to do a kneeding-like press with his claws drawn in. A few moments later, he stopped and turned to move away.

As a reiki practitioner, I am amazed at the wonders healing energy can do for a person. To see my cat in the middle of the night giving me such a gift was awe-inspiring and humbling. Animals have such intuitive abilities to sense human emotions, physical issues, the world around them. As humans, we draw away from the connection that runs through all beings, plants, trees, life. Perhaps, if we could close our eyes and see with our heart, our vision would be much clearer.

Many of us with pets can attest to the joy they bring into our lives. They are not pets, they are family. For me, I am blessed to have had the awesome experience of seeing the essence of our furry family beyond what my two eyes could see. And Phineas, whose name in Hebrew means "oracle," showed me how.

Story

When we were children we were enamored by the stories our parents would read to us. We imagined ourselves in these fables being princesses and warriors. As we grow up, we may still continue to get lost in the written word, a film or a story someone else shares about an experience. We are beings consumed by stories.

A friend of mine, Ms. Cuba, is a teacher of storytelling and drama. She moves children into unfolding a fable, creating their own and understanding them.  Ms. Cuba, like everyone asks me about her future. My answer used to be "it is based on your decisions."

A few years ago I focused on a quote from Kundalini yoga teacher, Yogi Bhajan, where he said our life is a journey; we are living it, creating it every moment. So, why are we always wondering where we are going when we are unfolding our journey at every turn?

Last year a chiropractor introduced me to his term for people's journey, for their quest for their future-"story." At first I was taken aback, put it in my pocket, and forgot about it. What is someone's story? The more Walter and I spoke, the more I became entranced by his concept of someone's story. To him, these twists and turns we take are part of our story. When we fall, when we get a scrape and get confused which way to go, it is all part of our story. We are all Snow White lost in the forest, finding friends in unusual places and pursuing a dream.

I have always been fascinated with people's "stories"-where they've been, what they have seen, things they've done. My in-laws backpacked through India and Iran. My mother had an arranged marriage. My husband's co-worker would steal neighbor's farm animals to play with (with her mother constantly having to return the chickens, goats and dogs to her neighbors). All of these actions and moments peaked my interest leading me to think each time "Do people know this about you?  People should know this!" Still in these moments, I never connected their experiences to the story of their lives. They were still interesting moments.  People were fascinating. I felt that everyone should be sharing more about themselves.

If anyone asked me a year ago what I thought about my life, I would have said boring! Maybe not to you, but to me. While I was always creating and moving, it was hum drum. Same old. The most interesting parts of me were about my three major experiences early in life.  One - I was in a bank robbery when I was around two years old in Manhattan, my mother telling me to be quiet so we didn't get shot. Two-I was in a coma due to an inner ear infection (around the same age) and came out of it when a family friend and babysitter sat with me praying all night. Three-I shook the hand of a former pope-Pope John Paul II when I was a little child.

Sure, I had other interesting moments in my life, but these three things, two of which I could not remember, were the highlights of who I was.  These were my stories I could fascinate people with. 

Walter changed my thinking. What if our lives, our journey that we are on each day, was our story?  Whole and complete. Not just a moment in time. Not the funny story of a water balloon exploding or meeting someone famous. Not just the time we went sky diving or ran a 5k. What if the accumulation of our lives was our story? What would that mean?

Photography by Poras Chaudhary

Our future is not yet written. Isn't that an old adage? And yet we seek our future, the end to our book. If the book is written, then the last phrase would be "The End."  Do we really want "The End" just yet. Or could we possibly still fill a few more pages, adding to our story, who we are. We are all unique individuals creating our story every day. That is our immortality. Who we are, right there in the pages of our lives. We create, we share, we co-create.  People we know are characters in our story influencing who we are and how we grow. 

In The Muppet Movie, we are left at the finale without a typical ending.  I personally love that little ribbon tied at the end of every film. Give me the obvious. Instead, the muppets tell Lou Lord they came to Hollywood to be "rich and famous." Mr. Lord tells his secretary to "prepare the standard rich and famous contract for Kermit and company."  The muppets move onto the sound stage where in the making of their film, accidentally tear it apart.

What happened? They were given the contract. They tried to make a movie. Did they get kicked out? The film ends with the muppets watching their film. No one else attends. No red carpet. We know they become famous because they had a television show I watched as a child and subsequent films. However, in the moment of our lives where we are challenged, we can't see our own successes, of where our disasters may take us. We also don't see how we influence other people.

As a writer, I am known for tossing much of my work into the electronic recycle bin of my computer. My husband told me when he worked at a distribution center for artists in Toronto, the artists would call to ask for their earlier works to be destroyed. "I don't want anyone to see the crap I made when I was younger," they would say as their skills grew. My husband would reply "Don't you want people to see how you grew as an artist? Don't you think it would make budding artists realize that everyone started somewhere?" But his replies fell on deaf ears like it did with me as I deleted my files and emptied my recycle bin.

How often do we see artists, cooks, scientists influenced by another's creation. French filmmaker, Michel Gondry's Bachelorette cycling a story like in The Muppet Movie. Kushari, an Egyptian dish of lentils with rice and elbow noodles with its Italian and Asian influence. Thai Yoga drawing in energy points and body movement from India and Tibet.

What if we kept the good, the bad, the rough starts and the undiscovered masterpieces of our decisions? Would that show everyone how life has its bumps, nudges and hills, but as a person we forge ahead? 

Kermit sings "life's like a movie, write your own ending." Today, I start to think of my life as whole. I am writing my journey every day. Each piece. Each word. Each thought. Each action. Part of the story of me.

A Community on Social Media

A few months ago I was ready to stop reading the newsfeed on Facebook because everything seemed depressing, angry and bitter. HOWEVER...with all of the commotion around the world getting ramped up (Gaza, Iraq, Ukraine, Ebola virus-already on top of turmoil in Egypt, Thailand, etc.), it seems like everyone's posts (both people & pages) have turned into inspiration! I've seen more videos of human and animal compassion in the past few weeks than in years. I've seen people sharing more touching & inspirational stories (I'm talking more than just cat videos). 

HONY (Humans of New York) has turned into the best reporting and support group for various places in Africa & Iraq. They are reflecting the lives and thoughts of real people. It's amazing how we've turned into supporters on social media, being grateful for our gifts, becoming vessels of compassion. 

My husband and I are movie fanatics. I grew up acting and he went to school for cinematography and worked on indie films, and television shows. So, we get into these philosophical talks about film. After the Vietnam War, people needed a relief from the years of tragedy. Star Wars was such a success because people needed the dream of something else. 

This past week, instead of a movie, we've turned to each other. I know I needed to see these moments to know we can see and have compassion for all living beings. So, thank you!

Sitting on the Sidelines of Depression

Last night as my family watched The Fisher King in the family room, while I sat in my bedroom. I could not bring myself to watch the movie. While it was their ode to Robin Williams, I was in a different place. Sitting in-between anger and sadness, my heart asked for time to process the latest news of his passing. He committed suicide. 

I did not know the man. I never even glimpsed him while on a movie set before. I was only, like many, a fan of his work. He inspired me as a child in Mrs. Doubtfire, annoyed me in Mork and Mindy, memorized me in What Dreams May Come. Even now as I write this, I am conflicted. Am I riding the Robin Williams trend? Shouldn't I be working on writing something else? This, however, is where my heart is at the moment. Perhaps here I can find some healing.

The conflict running through me is not around the shock of his suicide, but rather, on the suicide itself. It brings back the memory of a friend who killed himself when just starting adult life. It brings back my brother's best friend who killed himself in his twenties. It brings me back to the funeral service I sat through with my teenage daughter trying to bring her peace even when her peer killed herself. It brings back my brother's attempts at ending his life, and my mother saying endlessly she didn't want to live anymore. It brings me back to conversations with an overdosed family member who said she didn't want to live anymore, and with another who already had rope in the woods waiting for the perfect day. All of those suicides, attempts, plans, heart aching moments, came flooding back.

The trends online are not only spiking about Robin Williams death, but about his "battle with depression." Battle. It's an interesting word. Wikipedia defines battle as "Generally, a battle is a conceptual component in the hierarchy of combat in warfare between two or more armed forces, or combatants. A war sometimes consists of many battles. Battles generally are well defined in duration, area, and force commitment.[1]" If the depressed are one side, who is the other? 

<sup>A battle with depression would signify that the depressed is fighting the faceless state of depression. However, according to Wikipedia, it can be "two or more." So, I say, there is a third. The family, friends and loved ones who are present during the fight. We show empathy, concern, anger, frustration, and retreat into our own mini bouts of depression as we deal with the battle, too. However, it is a battle we are not in the middle of. We are like the weapons provider trying to sneak in ammunition in the middle of the night, figuring out peace deals and trade embargoes. We are not on the streets fighting. We cannot see the bombs launched, the triggers pulled. We only see the aftermath of each warring moment. 

My husband, until recently, was on an antidepressants since he was a teenager. My mother was diagnosed with manic-depression when I was a teenager. My brother also inherited the trait. I saw my mother on Prozac not leveling out, but rather like a roller coaster from one emotion to the next. Do you know what happens to those who are on the outside? We are left behind. 

While the battle ensues, we, the peacekeepers, the arms dealers, are left outside of the wall, not knowing what the end of the current slaughter will look like. We are isolated. We cannot move ahead with our lives because we are so caught up in helping. We feel guilty for leaving the room, for going to work, for laughing. My mother used to tell me as a child, Don't laugh because you will cry. And walking on those pins and needles is just like what my mother said.</sup>

And it is in this point in the story where the depressed, losing their own internal battle with self-love, seeing the ones around them also melting away, that they feel it would be better not to be around. Life is too hard. My loved ones are suffering. It would be better if I wasn't here. That's when I get angry.  War isn't about two sides fighting. It is also about the survivors. Whether the opposing offenses survive or perish, we are the ones left behind. We have to pick up the pieces. It's when I want to shout You are selfish! But I don't. I understand their pain. We can all relate to intense, merciless heartache.

<sup>A wise young woman told me recently that it's tough climbing out of depression. It is like a good friend. It takes work to try something different, but it is easier to stay in the comfort of sadness. I think we can all relate to staying in an unhealthy relationship or pattern because we understand it. We know what happens next. But I cannot help but think about the turmoil I watched as a child of an abusive home. My mother told me after she left, she should have left sooner. 

I am not a sufferer of depression. Occasionally, I'll have bouts. They may last minutes, hours, days, even weeks, but then it's over. I remember the sun is still shining. I count my blessings. And then, I'm back to bouncing around like me like nothing ever happened. Those I love who live with this debilitating issue cannot readily do that. In my nature of wanting to save others, I want to butt in and say have you tried meditation, Holy Basil, yoga, running, painting, anything? When I was in my twenties, I thought I could easily fix the world by tying people up in a chair and talking reason to them until they understood. I was never given the chance, and with age realize that it wouldn't work. My will is not the will of others. 

We are all born into this life alone. We die alone. We, however, are never on this journey alone. Not even one of us. We cannot go anywhere in this world where we are isolated from each other, a tree, a bird or other animal.</sup> 

Standing helplessly by those who suffer, what can I do? It seems that all I can say is this: You are loved. You are safe. You are held deeply in the arms of those who love you, even when you don't realize it. And when, and if, you are ready, I am here to help you fly once again.

Courtesy of http://lakeandhomes.com/