Does God Send Buffalo?

Week 2 & 3: Sit Spot Report

20131114-161354.jpgDay 8-9: I forgot the whole point is to listen for nothing. Autumn sun, beautiful, wagging dog friend here with me. Mutual grins. Hum when my mind gets going. Old trauma’s voices are the only ones that break through.

Day 10: Check in with the 5 senses, as per usual. Last night’s campfires, yellow leaves, cold air, woodpecker, armor. I actually say “armor” out loud. I have been identifying things like “chilly nose” for the sense feel, not “armor.” But today I went deep inside, inspired by my husband who is a little more “woo woo” than I. He did the Sit Spot and came back with reports on his Chakras, and I realized I had been glossing over this sense, with intention.

Day 11: I go back to last week’s coyote lesson and picture taking off my fear and my urgent unders. I attempt to lift the armor. Its heavy.

Day 12: I cuddle Gebo in the sun. Death is coming; the vet has confirmed it. It looks like a warm yellow light. I remove armor; put it on a dressing form nearby in case I need it.

Day 13-16: Its quiet. Armor is back on. Mind is busy. I feel like giving up. Gebo seems happy in the sun.

Day 17: I feel like prey.

Day 18: Gebo limps to our spot. Its easier to stop thinking with the sun glowing on my closed eyes.

Day 19: I carry all 55 pounds to the sun. Gratitude for Gebo overwhelms me. God gave me one of the great ones. Armor is off.

Day 20: The crying starts. We share some goodbyes and knowing looks. He wags for me.

Day 21: We spoon in a sleeping bag in the grass, shivering together. Head is a traffic jam of thoughts. I take a deep breath and try pouring love into Gebo.

Day 22: I am frustrated and doubtful and busy. I practically shout at God that I’m done figuring out a purpose in life, a career, that makes me feel fulfilled. I’m sick of myself. I find a plastic buffalo in the same spot where I saw the coyote. Weird.

Day 23: Just us. He wags every time a child walks by. He wags at the geese flying south.

After 23 days, I write a letter of gratitude to Michael Trotta, the Nature Coach at Sagefire Institute who suggested the Sit Spot to help me on my urgent quest to “find my purpose;”

20131114-161124.jpgDear Michael,

Thirty days now feels short to me too and as you said, hardly enough. Its day 23 and I can’t imagine living without this practice. It has already been so grounding just to remind myself, “did you sit in nature today?” With that said, I haven’t been sitting in nature everyday. My heroic dog that has joined me throughout this is dying. I have followed him out into the leaves and sun to our Sit Spot over the last few weeks and watched him like a mentor, absorbed in nature. Eventually I started carrying him. This week I started criticizing myself for skipping days. Today, with death more palpable, I reversed that self-criticism. What could be more natural than sitting with the dying? The days I haven’t been out there I have been on vigil, riding the ups and downs of the end with him since about Saturday. Sometimes it feels silly to put my life on hold for a pet. Most often I thank Gebo for putting my life on hold for me. My guard is down; everyone including my mailman has seen me crying. And I feel like I must be the most special person in the world right now to have been given the world’s best dog. I feel like Pete saying goodbye to his dragon.

If I hadn’t started sitting in the woods with him, I would have no idea how to process his exit. With this gift of 15 minutes of quiet in nature everyday, his passing has become a gift as well. I am grieving the young me that raised him, the stay-at-home-mom years we were together most everyday, the tiny boys that love him so growing up too fast, and the deaths that are to come among our eldest family members. You’ve given me a trail for this journey, and I am so grateful.

You are so right; it doesn’t always work to quiet my mind. I have not yet felt free of thoughts. But I can see the value in the attempt. “Its about dropping the stuff (armor) that stops you from being awesome and as deeply connected with your intuition for yourself (as you are for others).” Thanks for this. I can hardly lift the armor to put it on now. I even called my mom the other day just to tell her I hurt; she is one tough cookie. My weapy call absolutely brought out the best in her, and let me be ME instead of what I have always been to my family; the tough one, funny one, light one, the easy one…in the armor.

“…Its in our vulnerability that we find what we are seeking…the tension and emotions you are experiencing…I see you embracing them or at least, acknowledging them. Perhaps, this is your job right now? Perhaps your exploration of stillness is your job.” This has allowed me to wait for the next track to appear, and trust that it will, without so much demoralizing effort. It also made me realize my question isn’t so much “what is my purpose” as it is “who am I now?”

I don’t know if you can relate to how my dog’s death has been such a poignant part of my experience. But remember what I explained after my first week? The first week the universe sent a loud truck, then a bulldozer, a coyote, an empty gas tank, a fierce wind, and that was easy. Then it sent some terrifying quiet and stillness. That was hard. When I was about to give up, the universe sent death. As you suggested, Michael, I could no longer see past “what’s real, right here, right now,” as Gebo began to die. Gebo translates, “a gift from the universe; partnership, forgiveness.” Gift, I acknowledge. Partnership, we’ve done. Forgiveness feels like the last step. I don’t feel like I have to go searching for what or whom to forgive; I just finally feel done with my armor. After he’s gone, which I believe will be eerily close to day 30, I have a feeling the quiet and stillness will be a whole lot less terrifying.

As I was leaving the place where I saw the coyote, I found a tiny toy buffalo on the ground. According to Lakota Shamanic Tradition, the bison symbolizes manifestation, courage, formulating beneficial plans and abundance.

In gratitude,

Shawna

Sometimes I hear voices in my head

IMG_1211The best part of a hot week in September is that it makes me excited for jeans weather and tires me of swimwear. We need the full thaw, the torching heat, in 6-month mitten-land. A month ago, however, we awoke to 50 degrees across the mid-north. Crisp air calling for hoodies; not July. My kids slept in. My dog remained curled in a knot on my rug. The sitter was late. I didn’t mind. I got on my bike and headed to the coffee shop to write under gray skies. Sunday mornings usually beckon a long line. No one came until the sun came out. I ordered my favorite iced tea, hot. Then today, 30 days closer to equinox, I poured myself a hot cup of coffee to escort my kids to the bus stop and within seconds outside my face was uncomfortably sweaty. I swear the cream curdled by the time I sent them off. I felt confused; out of snyc. It takes me back to other unseasonal days this year.

April;

This morning we awoke to glistening snow-laden branches; undeniably and implausibly beautiful. Despite the frenzy of media predicting our wintery April weather patterns, the visual of the snow’s arrival keeps catching me off guard. Last night as I watched the flurries out the window, my brain perceived an irregularity well before I was conscious of it. Late evening light doesn’t usually bounce off snow; its supposed to be dark early when snow is on the ground. A nostalgic inkling takes me back to 8000 feet in Montana where sun hits snow at angles much sharper than it should here in Minnesota, unless something unusual happens. The feeling is eery.April freeze

Yesterday I drove home in flurries and stopped at a red light despite a nagging feeling I need not stop. I’ve felt compelled to stop at red anything since I was 6; its hegemony. Why not today? No other cars were around. The houses were dark. Then I realized the red light was a reflection off my headlights; the power was out. I had known before I knew. I sat there for awhile feeling vulnerable, like a firefly in the woods. Conspicuous. The scene felt hushed, and measurably more comfortable when I turned my lights out. An oncoming car entered the intersection. She¬†turned her lights out. Hush. Hide. We both drove through. I forgot my lights were out as the snow and the moonlight were more than enough to see the road clearly. I met another car. Before I remembered to turn my lights on, sure enough, he turned off his as well. Weird.

Back to September:

I saw nearly 50 robins in one tree in my backyard last week. A duck keeps quacking from the apex of my roof. A squirrel climbed so high in our pine that the entire tree bowed to the ground this morning. Why? Because spring isn’t here yet. Because animals compensate for that which is untimely. We know without knowing, just like the robins on layover await clear and warmer passage to Canada.

A Reiki practitioner and friend of mine, Anne Murphy (www.athousandhands.com), once said to me, “We trust cell phones and wireless. Why do we doubt we can pass energy between us?” Interesting point. Even when we claim NOT to believe in silent communication, we count on it. We know so much more than we are aware. When my 15 year old dog doesn’t greet me at the door, I know his hips hurt. After he is gone, my brain will think its him when I hear scratchy sounds on the wood floors. My brain will deliver the message “Gebo” when something enters my peripheral vision at 2 feet off the floor for years. When I hear jingle bells I might even walk toward the back door to let him in. But he won’t be there. My senses know him better than I know him, and what my brain knows will both dismay and comfort me in my grief when he is gone.

I wake up most mornings at 7:00 to the minute. Some would call that intuition, some would call it intelligence. If you have an older sibling, you might understand when I say I would know if my brother’s finger was a 1/2 inch from the bridge of my nose even if my eyes were shut. I know when my best friend calls how her day has gone when she says “hi.” That’s all I need. My husband has predicted the gender of 12 babies accurately; he’s been wrong twice. How many times have you picked up the phone to call a friend and she rings at that second? We all know when rain is coming because of the smell of the wind. My mommy sense tells me when the baby is about to wake up from a nap even if I’m outside in the garden. And man, if you thought you knew when to leave the party, you certainly know now when its time to leave the playdate.

My father is a psychiatrist and has been for 40 years. He also has a tender, nonjudgmental heart. My cousin is an “intuitive” healer. Some people claim they hear the voice of God. Animals just know stuff. My dad uses his training, my cousin uses her heart, others consult Oracles and animals have instincts. Whatever we call it, more information is undeniably available to us than we give credit. When we quiet down, say on a day its cloudy and unseasonably cool, there are voices in all of our heads. We’re not so different than the robins, we’re not so distant from each other, and we’re not so intelligent we can live well without listening.