A Secret (Language) Revealed
What I am about to share may freak you out. It may sound weird or over the top or cause you to roll your eyes or maybe even close out of this tab. But, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
For a little while now, I’ve been waiting for the right time to share. To open my world further and give a glimpse of one of many projects underway that’s turning my life upside down–for the better. It’s Liz Gilbert who said, “Create whatever causes a revolution in your heart.” If this newest unfolding chapter hasn’t been that, then I don’t know what is.
It’s one I’m in the middle of. That I don’t have all figured out neatly. But a surge of lasting thrill like this also seems totally wrong to keep all to myself.
Also, for the record, I racked my brain high and low for anything else to talk about this week. For real. Usually, my process for writing these blogs goes something like: take a shower, plop on my bed, close my eyes and wait for something to pop in. Any lead, any twinkle of an idea. Run to my computer and pound out some kind of outline before it leaves me. And fill in the rest later.
This week, nothing else would come. Which told me, welp, I guess now’s the time!
Before I go further, I also want to be clear. My aim here is not, nor will it ever be, to convince or prove. My intention is to share openly about my journey. If it strikes a chord with you as a reader, I’m so glad to hear that. And if not, may you be on your merry, galloping way to finding whatever does that for you elsewhere.
Alright, onto the juicy stuff.
I know I am not alone when I say words weren’t necessary between my soul pup and me. Sometimes, they even seemed frivolous. A layer of frosting covering an already delicious angel food cake.
Ferg and I talked more between our hearts than we ever needed to speak aloud. What we had –what we still have–is innate and strong. Flowing.
I thought it was just because we knew each other so well. Sprinkled with my desperation to do anything to feel better after his body left this earth. And maybe my empathetic, sensitive nature had something to do with it. Maybe. Ferg always had lots of opinions. He still does as my little guide dog. This latest development, he’s pretty giddy about. In fact, I’m pretty damn sure he’s been headmaster of the brewing process.
One weekend in late March, I got up early to drive to the Delaware shore. There, I would meet up with several fellow aquarium volunteers for a boat ride to learn about sea life native to the area. I had been looking forward to this for weeks. So I topped off my travel mug with milky coffee setting off on a three hour drive, pulled into the meeting spot and walked toward the dock.
But not before a couple stopped me mid-stride, asking, “Did ya hear?”
Uh, hear what.
“Capitan just canceled the tour due to high winds.”
Disappointed, I hung around and chatted with my crew before deciding not to make a U-turn back to DC. How odd, I thought, that this had taken place exactly as I had pulled into the lot. I knew better than to tempt fate. So I made it an afternoon of exploration in quaint Lewes, Delaware. And for the first time in a while, meandered without a destination in mind.
That’s when I looked up and saw a charming second hand bookstore. Without allowing me even a full stride inside the place, a table elbowed its way out in front, like an eager kid anxious to get to the beginning of the ice cream line. I quickly understood why.
That coveted front door spot was overflowing with books about animals. Dogs, mostly. Memoirs and poetry and then, something in the back I couldn’t quite see. Tugging out the white paperback, I read the title: The Language of Miracles by Amelia Kincade.
I told no one I was reading it. I rationed each chapter detailing how this celebrated animal communicator, deemed animal psychic, could speak to animals alive and in spirit. It was my own little foil-wrapped chocolate square on top of my pillow before bed for weeks. I lapped up every single true story, skimmed the “now your turn” exercises. But something stopped me short from trying myself.
A teeny tiny pang of disbelief, for one. And the thought that this was only for “gifted” people.
But that book’s contents kept staring at me.
This year, I’ve been toying with ideas for how I can help pet parents in grief. How I can share what I know (through this blog, for one) and how I can contribute to the wildly under-resourced world available to people mourning the loss of their furry or scaly or feathered family members.
I don’t have an idea. I have too many.
When I told this to a dear friend, she sent me the name of an animal communicator she adored and followed closely on social media. There was my second sign.
That fantastic human, Nikki, is now my teacher, too.
I’ve shared before that speaking to Ferg and listening to the signs he gives me has been the number one aid that has helped ease this grief journey from overwhelming to hopeful early on. So eventually, it dawned on me: if I can speak to him, why can’t I speak to other animals, too?
As an animal communicator in training, I’ve learned this indeed is not a “gift.” Rather, it’s a skill to be honed. Turns out, we’re all born with the ability to connect in dialogue with animals (newsflash: humans are also animals) through telepathic means. We’re also taught to shut it out faster than we can flex that muscle when we’re young. It’s not a new ability by any means, either. My current read hails from a brilliant author born in 1882.
It’s quite literally a whole new world I’m diving into. Getting to know this ability within myself takes patience, curiosity and open-mindedness. And a lot of guts.
One of my first practice sessions was with a dog named BamBam. When I asked BamBam what his favorite food was, I expected to hear “kibble”… duh, what all dogs ate, I thought. But instead, I heard clear as day, “hamburger!” in the forefront of my mind. When I (hesitantly) told this to his Mom expecting to look like a fool, she laughed and said the night before, they all ate burgers from a take-out restaurant. BamBam even chowed down on his own. The other day, I spoke with my very first fish. Yes, you heard right. An angelfish. A phrase that made absolutely no sense to me (again) popped into my head, so fast, so clear. “A whole new world.” I almost didn’t even say it out loud. Maybe this fish was in a new house? Or a new tank? I asked Mom about it at the end of our time together. Not exactly, she said. Earlier that week, Mom had been singing karaoke in the house belting out “A whole new worrrrlldddd…” You know, that song from Aladdin. Apparently, that giant angelfish had heard it all.
It’s these wild occurrences that have me wide-eyed and itching to see what else lies ahead, too.
Some may read all this say, my god, she’s (literally) gone off the deep end.
And that’s fine.
Those who know me may say, there she goes, off doing crazy stuff again!
Depends what you deem as crazy.
But those who know me well will say, when she commits to something, she goes all in. Never having been much of a “scratch the surface” kinda gal, let’s see where this latest leap takes me.
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