Native Americans call it medicine, as in Bear medicine, Wolf medicine, Eagle medicine—the healing each animal, bird, or other element of nature has to offer if the human chooses to take it in. I call it messages—what the elements of nature can show us in ourselves, highlight for us, alert us to, if we only tune in and listen: an aspect that needs attending to, what we have been neglecting or suppressing, what part of us needs activating, what part needs healing, what is blocking us from opening our heart and letting love and compassion flow.
At times it can be a general message like: You need more stillness and rest in your life; or you’re too much in your head, and your body and soul need your attention; or, as in the old way of saying it, stop and smell the roses more often.
At other times, it can be a specific message, like one I got from a horse some years ago. I was doing a trade with one of my editing clients—riding lessons for editing the book these two horse communion women had written. These were not typical riding lessons (I wouldn’t want to participate in that because too often the horse is treated like a vehicle for human use, overridden, unconsidered in the riding equation, and/or disrespected). The focus was on developing communion between horse and person, the person learning to “listen” with all the senses and become one with the horse. This mare and I usually communicated well—I had spent time with her before ever getting on her back—but on this day she didn’t respond to my leads and resisted all my attempts at teamwork. I became increasingly frustrated and descended into feeling incapable and rejected. I ended the session early because I didn’t want to inflict myself on her.
My client said matter-of-factly, “She doesn’t want to be around your anger.”
Though I considered myself a conscious person, I hadn’t even been aware that I was angry. But I had, in fact, arrived still angry over an unpleasant interaction I had had with a demanding client earlier that day. I thought I had worked through my anger before I got there, but the horse knew better. Even unaware, I wouldn’t take my anger out on an animal, so I didn’t jerk the reins around or indulge in another typical display of temper. But because of my suppressed anger, I was unable to enter the calm place of communion. And my slipping into a sense of unworthiness in response to the horse’s very appropriate response of distancing herself from someone who was out of touch with self and the moment, and therefore not to be trusted, didn’t help matters. What I needed to do was stop, tune in to myself, figure out that I was still carrying anger, let it go or get out of the arena if I couldn’t, apologize to the horse for exposing her to bad vibes, thank her for pointing it out to me, and recognize my fallibility and move on, instead of indulging in self-doubt and self-denigration.
Anything that brings us into the moment can deliver the messages that animals and all of nature have for us. Breathwork, meditation, and quiet contemplation all give us a chance to quiet the mind and attend to what lies beneath in the silence of ourselves, just as a walk in the woods or listening to birdsong in the trees or running a hand over the soft fur or wool of a willing animal can. If we don’t take the time to tune in somehow, it is harder to be fully present. Part of us may be held in thrall to experiences of the past (even from earlier in a day) and another part may be projecting into the future with plans and schemes. We might be walking around like I was the day of the horse—blocked by an undealt-with emotion and not even aware it.
So the horse gave me horse medicine that day, brought me a message I needed in order to heal. Not just from my anger, but from my tendency to attack my self-worth. The medicine of acknowledging what is, but not creating a web of emotional responses to it is strong medicine. Observe and be practical, instead of overanalyzing and getting lost in emotions.
Animals and nature are practical. A number of inspired people have noted that humans are the only species that question their very I-ness. As far as we know, a leopard doesn’t question her leopardness, a booby bird doesn’t lament his blue feet, a whale doesn’t wish she wasn’t so large. They fully occupy themselves and the moment, and in each moment get on with the business of being a leopard, a booby bird, or a whale.
Since we humans have filled ourselves with a lot of impediments to being who we really are, we have to act by turning inward to clear them. Turning inward means observing what is happening in the moment, so you can remove the obstacles to being fully present and living your fullest, most glorious self.
All of nature is living its fullest, most glorious self in every moment, and every element of nature—tree, river, mountain, bird, leopard, whale, sheep, cow, horse, chicken—carries the message for you to do the same. Once you are aware of this, it can become a kind of shorthand. Then when a bird flies over or you pass a tree in full fall color or wintry bareness, you will remember to breathe and feel your own gloriousness.
© Stephanie Marohn, 2007