September, 2023

How the chickens saved my life (part 2). You can read part one here.

I have three chickens. I don’t have favourites, but each of my girls holds a very special place in my heart. If I was a chicken, I would be Niala. Noisy Niala. Exuberant, childish, enthusiastic. Niala is the little chubby girl in the playground who’s a bit too boisterous and gets told off for being a bully. But really, she’s just excited. Underneath her bluster she’s a sweet gentle girl desperately trying to be loved. In fact, it’s not even trying to be loved, but trying to love, because she’s all about giving. She’s the life and soul of the party in the right crowd. With the wrong people she’s seen as brash, noisy, mis-understood. Niala pushes to the front of everything, full of life, bursting with energy. Niala responds to everything with loud animated enthusiasm bordering on frantic. Especially food.

Niala has a tumour. At least we think it’s  tumour, she has a bacterial infection of her sinuses which has not responded to antibiotics. The first round of antibiotics was in their water, painless enough. It didn’t make any difference. The second round was against my better judgement but it was tablets and she was good as gold, devouring the tablets in whatever I offered her. Blindly, unquestioningly consuming with relish whatever tidbit I put in front of her. How unlike the cat I thought grimly. Sally used to be like that then suddenly something switched and now she eyes me with suspicion and turns her nose up at anything I offer that has a tablet in it. How does she know I wonder? How does she know. As an animal communicator I know how she knows: animals are reading us all the time, she’s reading the shift in my energy because I worry she won’t take it, and she knows something is off. But as a pet owner I forget all that and assume my cat is just difficult. If Niala did know, she didn’t care. Perky bright eyes looking at my fingers, eager for more. No suspicion about why I brought her into the house, just naively eager for more.

At first there were 5. Ella, Niala, Wambui, Pink and Dora. Red, orange, green, pink and purple were the tags I put on their legs before we could tell them apart. Except Niala, she had a speckled neck, she was easily identified. Pink was supposed to be Aisha or Alysha, but I could never remember which so she stayed Pink. Ella was Red for a long, long time. Dora the Explorer was the first chicken to get ill. She silently and suddenly shut down, like a robot with the power switched off. She would muster up a peep, peep when you approached her and half open her eyes, and then almost immediately shut them again, and her head would sink back into her fluffed up form, tail firmly tucked between her legs. A little fluffed up penguin. The vets poked around but didn’t come up with much. I noticed her crop was full in the mornings, now I realise that was a sign that she was shutting down, but the vets took her in and flushed it out. I learned two things after Dora passed. One was that you need an avian vet. My vets were lovely but they didn’t know any more about chickens than I did and they shouldn’t have listened to my Google inspired theories. I am horrified now that we put her though this procedure, I should have just let her be. The other is that when the end is nigh I need to trust myself with what is appropriate. I came home to find Gary had her in a box near the Aga, anxiously trying to make her comfortable with some warmth. That little act of kindness in Gary broke my heart: Gary is appalled at the thought of chickens in the house. In the end we had her euthanised. So desperate was I to do everything I could but after Dora I realised that just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.

I don’t remember much about Wambui, it all happened so quickly. I didn’t do any procedures on her. The familiar “sick chicken” sight that the online chicken forums are full of. I had just learned muscle testing and when she said it was time to go, I just took her to the vet to be put down. It was so ironic, I had been healing Niala and Pink non-stop, daily, for weeks as Niala had been bullying Pink and just as all that settled down, Wambers just drifted off. I feel so guilty that I hadn’t been spending time on her, one minute everything was getting better between them all, the next Wambers was fading away.

I found an avian vet after we moved: I had read somewhere that it was pointless seeing a normal vet and my experience had re-enforced that. My previous vet had given me horse-sized tablets to be dissolved in water and squirted down Ella’s throat in 3 syringes, twice a day. To this day Ella doesn’t like anyone coming close to her. When Pink got sick I took her to the avian vet expecting to come home without her, but instead he gave me manageable antibiotics and within days she was back to normal. But I have a very strong sense about what I would and would not put a chicken through to “save” it’s life.

The third visit to the avian vet with Niala she managed to convince me to give her more liquid antibiotics. This meant waking her up in the evening. Chickens go to bed at dusk, no exceptions so the short winter days meant that we had to open up the coop in the dark and drag her into the light, shove antibiotics down her throat (always a worry you’ll squirt it down the wrong hole and drown them – they have no gag reflex) and then put her back to bed. But actually it was fine – but I don’t know why I let myself get talked into it. Like doctors, vets seem to be focussed on what’s possible rather than the bigger picture of what for the best for the animal. I had decided enough was enough, but whilst I can blame the vet I suspect it was my deep seated belief that if I wasn’t actively doing something to save her life then it was my fault she was dying. Niala had told me repeatedly that it wouldn’t work, and I sensed she has a tumour in her neck. The next procedure suggested by the vet was opening up the wound and flushing it out twice a day – by this point I had found the courage to say enough was enough.

That was several weeks ago but the swelling on her face has grown. Every day I ask if she’s in pain. Every week I get my friend to check in with her as well. Every day she tells me it’s fine. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but she’s happy to be alive and yes, she will let me know what it’s time go, but meantime, she likes the breeze (not wind mind you, she hates the wind) in her feathers, the sun on her face, the smell of the damp grass, the musty earth under her feet. She still sunbathes on the grass and digs a hole under the hedge. At least she would if it hadn’t been raining for a week.

This week has been hard because I can’t see her interacting because the weather is so dire they hide in the shed all day. When I see her she is actively interacting with me, but I don’t know what happens when I leave the shed. Does she sink into the fluffy sick chicken pose? I constantly doubt myself. Last week however, I realised, with some gentle persuasion from Niala, that maybe, just maybe, the reason I don’t want to do “things’ for my animal is because I am more closely connected to them than I realise and that I know, intuitively that they don’t want me to “do things” to them. As soon as the vet offers procedures or repeated drugs, I feel a whole weary, “oh no not that”. I immediately think that it’s me being selfish. Because I can’t bear their distress. The former because my Mum drummed it in to me, how selfish I was, the latter because I have learned that my sensitivity is all about making myself more comfortable: if I can soothe your pain I don’t have to witness it. That makes me selfish too. Maybe Mum was right.

I notice Niala pecking repeatedly in the grass, and on closer observation I realise that she is missing the seed. The swelling on her nose is fouling her sight and she obviously can’t see depth. I try giving her a pile of seed and she has a little more success, but in a few days I see that she’s not pecking at all. My heart breaks a little bit more as her world gets a little bit smaller. Pecking mindlessly at things is a big part of her day. I do find her pecking at the orange flash of a bag of compost and that makes me feel better.

I find a V shaped vase I made on a pottery course, with a softly curved narrow base. I start soaking Niala’s seeds to make them bigger and putting them in the vase, propped up in a saucepan with newspaper so she can’t knock it over. Come “snack” time, I carry the little saucepan outside and she’s learned to recognise this contraption as hers. The vase funnels her peck to the bottom and she happily eats like this for a few more weeks. She’s still able to eat the pellets – I tried mash for a while but they all emphatically ignored it and I had to throw it away.

Eckhart Tolle says when a cat can no longer jump up on something high, he doesn’t pine about it. He doesn’t spiral into a depression about getting older or berate himself for not being as limber or fit as he used to be. He simply finds another way. Or sleeps somewhere else. Despite my aching heart, Niala isn’t mooching around the garden feeling deprived and unhappy. She keeps reminding me of this but it’s so hard. I’m constantly looking for evidence that she still has quality of life. Her head is misshapen and I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter. All that matters is how she feels. She’s a lot quieter now, and I’m already regretting the final dose of antibiotics because she’s not keen to be near me now. The blind childlike trust has gone and she’s wary of being poked and prodded. This is something I will get right eventually, each dead chicken makes me realise that I don’t need to do all these things to “save” them, I need to trust my own instincts, do what I can without imposing too much, and then let them be. My relationship with them, their trust of me, is far more important than “saving” them for a few more days, maybe weeks. I am not required or obliged to save them at any cost, I know that. Yes of course I do my best but I can choose NOT to do something that will make her last days awkward with me.

In the community I’m a part of we are all sensitive animal lovers and there are some folk who literally give up their lives for their pets. Nursing them through illnesses that require 24/7 care. I wonder if I’m a fraud because I don’t do enough. Niala helps me understand we’re all on a unique journey. My need to save my animals comes from my need to to save. To feel worthy. To feel good enough. To be doing something. If you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem. It isn’t representative of my love for her. My sacrifice is not proportional to my love for her. For some people staying home to care for an animal may be the animal’s way of giving their person a purpose, or making them reassess their lives, priorities and their relationships. There are so many factors at play, and our animals are controlling all of it. But my animals are teaching me to do less, not more, for them, because I need to relinquish the responsibility for all the pain in the whole world that I carry on my shoulders.

When the time comes l notice her huddled and fluffed up and unresponsive and I know. I ask Niala if it’s time and this day I hear yes. No hesitation. I went to find Gary but before I even ask his opinion he says “I think it’s time”. The tears fall as I write this. I miss my little girl so much more than Dora and Wambers, because I’ve had so much more time with her. I’ve had Niala over 6 years. She’s been beside me on this journey of healing, then animal communication. She’s even been the subject of other students’ learning, everyone wants to read a chicken. And they all got her huge energy, her loud boisterous personality, her dancing shoes… Her sweet, sweet gentleness under all the brashness. Because when I stared into her beady eye at the first visit to the vet a few months earlier I knew nothing I did would change the course of this tumour and she was telling me it would be OK. I don’t often have that clarity with my own animals, but for a few moments she held my eyes steady as a rock and it felt like time stopped.

Life is quieter without Niala. Pink and Ella form a surprising team, top and bottom of the pecking order: I never envisaged they would be the two left. I just assumed Niala would live forever. They groom each other awkwardly but it’s good to see them relying on each other. Ella will still pull rank every now and then but it doesn’t come up much. When Pink wanders off, it is Ella who squawks and flaps her wings to catch up. But I miss Niala. I could always get them to do things because Niala was so eager and compliant, she waddle along happily to me, and they would follow. Now they just look at me, suspiciously. Our relationships have all changed again. I worry about what’s next, what will I do when there is only one, but Ella and Pink remind me they are still here, thank you very much. I’ve been picking Ella up to steam her nostril as it was blocked, and we’ve actually bonded in a different way. Pink will still scream like a stuck pig if I pick her up, but they’ve both enjoyed a bit of grooming, and I intend to do more of that. We’re all bonding in a new way.

All my girls are so different, and with each change, our relationship shifts. If anyone had told me the depth of relationship you can have with a chicken I probably wouldn’t have understood. I know now you can have a relationship with any animal. The chickens have taught me so much I can’t begin to describe it. They have brought so much joy into my life that I am eternally grateful to them. When I first left work, Gary said “I worry you don’t want to work because you’d rather be at  home with the cat and the chickens”. I was appalled. And ashamed. Because it was true. I could never have admitted that back then. But now 5 years later I’m not ashamed anymore. I can say, YES, I want to stay at home with my cat and my chickens, what’s wrong with that!

It’s not over yet, but Niala has left a big hole. But as write this I can feel Ella nipping at me a bit, reminding me that they are both still here and not to be overlooked. Plenty more to come, she says

In the Emotion Code, overjoy is defined as “intense delight elation which is too overpowering for the body; joy that is a shock to the system”. Emotions get trapped because we don’t process them, either because it’s too traumatic or simply because we get interrupted. Generally it’s only negative emotions that get trapped in the body because we tend to shut them off, ignore them, stuff them down… Positive emotions are easier (and more pleasant) to process so they tend not to get trapped, however if the emotion is so intense that it is overwhelming, it can become trapped as “overjoy”.

After giving up my corporate job 6 years ago, I did not expect to see the Maldives again. I was happy to sacrifice the 2 weeks of luxury holidays in exotic locations that we used to have in an effort to have a more tolerable existence for 52 weeks of the year instead. I don’t spend money on much, my clothes and general appearance can attest to that, but holidays (and my animals) is where all my disposable income went. It was the thing I was most afraid would negatively impact Gary’s life, that expensive holidays, for me at least, were no longer possible. In fact, no holidays at all, but then there was COVID and no one was going anywhere, and then the guesthouse, when it was doing well, meant I had the money but couldn’t get away. Then last year we did manage a holiday on the money Gary’s Dad left us and we went diving in Egypt. The diving was expensive, but the resort was extremely basic, a camp almost, divers don’t seem to care about anything but getting back in the water it seems, but it was charming and we loved every minute of it. I was confident that 5 star Foggo might now appreciate that cheaper holidays could be just as much fun. When I finally closed my guesthouse business account, I mentioned to Gary that I could go on holiday with the final balance. My sister had a window in November she could pet sit the girls and it felt like the Universe was complicit in the holiday plans. Whilst I Googled $29 a night pensions on the beach in Thailand, Gary was looking up luxury holidays in the Maldives. When he found one that exactly matched my absolute top budget, I was astonished, and delighted. I’d never have considered going so far for only 7 nights, but it suddenly all seemed so worth it to see the delights of the Maldives again.

If you’ve never been, let me tell you why it’s top of the list for anyone who has ever been there. Imagine the most perfect deserted island, pure white sands, turquoise, gently lapping warm water, clear as glass. Lush, jungle interiors, screeching fruit bats to entertain you, and mad whooping koels calling in the distance. Tropical reef fish of every colour and shape you can imagine, just inches from the shore. The coral gardens are varied, many of them bleached and broken by the sun and tsunamis, but the sheer volume and variety of fish make snorkelling an exquisite, all immersive experience. It’s hot, but not unbearable, and the resorts are all luxurious, and it’s still possible to find rustic, traditional Maldivian beach huts or water villas. They are all so expertly designed that they feel so incredibly quiet, you could be the only couple in the world a lot of the time, winding paths through lush vegetation screening the essential buildings, staff housing, laundries and activities of running a resort all crammed together on an island the size of a football pitch, but it’s so cleverly done you’d never even know it was there. The planting, if you didn’t have a garden and know what’s entailed, is casual, effortlessly jungle chic, but in reality is incredibly controlled, constantly pruned and rearranged, and barefoot staff quietly and constantly sweep and rake the paths and the beaches, so everything looks picture postcard perfect. Thatched roofs and wooden panelling, large open reception and dining rooms, open to the elements to the sides, huge domed roofs with ceiling fans gently stirring the air, sand underfoot. It reminds me so much of Kenya, where I grew up, that I feel instantly at home.

An 8-hour flight to Dubai, a few hours in the airport there, even though Dubai is not my cup of tea, it was surprisingly welcome to be in an airport where everything works. Nothing is shabby. Edinburgh Airport seems to be falling apart, cubical doors not fitting, every other sink broken, stained. Apologetic “out of order” notes scribbled on various toilets, cupboards, doors, lifts. The hospitality staff bored, rude, indifferent. The security staff with that special brand of Scottish dourness that seems to have returned to all staff serving the public since COVID. Or is it just that the more pleasant, possibly more appreciative immigrant staff have all been chased home? The food bland and expensive. Generally extremely irritating given that you have to pay a fortune just to drop someone off at the airport never mind set foot in it. Inexplicably run down. Annoying. Grubby. After an 8 hour flight, sometimes you can’t get to the loo until baggage claim because they’re out of order. Obviously Gary’s relentless complaining has rubbed off on me, and I know I shouldn’t let it, but the last couple of times I’ve been through the airport I can’t help but notice how shit it all it. Scotland. Best little country in the world screams the advertising. Most shit airport in the world though. In contrast Dubai is gleaming. Shiny. Beautiful. High lustre. People gliding through the mirrored halls, floors polished to a high glassy sheen. Expensive, but you can see where the money goes. Glossy, smiling, helpful staff. Capitalism as its fragrant, blatant best, but somewhat comforting when you’re tired. Can’t afford to buy anything there, but they at least offer free drinking water. And reclining seats. Spotlessly clean, sparkling toilets, and bizarrely, hot water in the toilet bowl. It must be cheaper to let it run hot than cool it down, but it’s an odd experience feeling steam on your ass in an air-conditioned cubical.

A few hours drifting through Dubai, another 4 hour flight, when tired and crabby you step out into Male airport, busy, bustling, a wave of humid warm air smacking you in the face. Crowds of cheerful, noisy people ferrying you to and from the seaplanes, transfers in small air-conditioned buses, hordes of hotel reps, travel reps, dazed tourists and nifty, wiry little men who dodge through the confused crowds, spiriting your luggage between the tourists, man-handling you through the crowds. It’s overwhelming, but it all just works, you just need to smile and go with it. A bit like crossing the road in Vietnam. If you hesitate, you’ll be crushed by a million cyclists, mopeds, donkeys and cars, but if you just keep walking they’ll part like the red sea around you. They’ve eventually opened the shiny new sea-plane terminal, which is a shame. Whilst it’s as glossy as Dubai airport, I miss the sand-floored, palm-frond thatched open sided building that used to stand there, open to the sea, where the frenzy of seaplanes fills the air.

There is nothing as fun as a seaplane, and the best job in the world must be a seaplane pilot. Often young, inevitably barefoot, wearing baggy shorts and mirrored shades, the pilots and crew are cool as fuck. The whole seaplane experience ranks up there in the world for me, and this journey was no different.

What happens every time, is a wave of emotions so strong I have to fight tears. Flying has always been emotional for me, though I’m not sure why. As a child, travelling to the UK was a huge excitement. Was it the only time we banded together as a family? Was it the proximity of Dad being involved? Was it that there were relatives in the UK who offered me the sort of love I realise now was never offered at home? People who indulged me, looked forward to seeing me, hugged me and kissed me? I don’t remember Granny much, Grandpa no doubt loved us dearly but he was a bit weird, Aspergers in the extreme I wonder now, but certainly Aunty Ruby and Uncle Claude vied for our attention, delighting in us kids, making us feel special and loved in a way we never were anywhere else. Aunty Ruby holding my hands in both of hers, asking why we didn’t call her Granny (Dad’s way of punishing his foster parents for sins only he remembers) and being delighted when we obliged as long as our parents weren’t around. It’s all so sad looking back, so many broken hearts, so many hurt people, but I was young enough to be oblivious to it all. Sitting next to Uncle Claude whilst he played the organ, the wheezing of the bellows, his shaking hands making the notes tremor, I marvelled at the music, lapped up the attention, and buried myself as close to him as I could. Getting in a plane, flying up into the skies to this faraway land full of people, food and things, my God, so many things, we never had at home made it seem almost magical, I was convinced England was a fairyland in the sky….

You can see into the cockpit of the seaplane, see the hairy knees of the pilots, their bare feet on the pedals, a million miles from the barricaded cockpits of commercial flights now (I remember when they let kids sit on the pilot’s lap on long haul flights, I did a few times and I don’t remember anything Jimmy Saville about it. I also remember air hostesses brought us colouring books and crayons…. different times!). The sheer plethora of switches, knobs, buttons, dials, flaps, levers…. it’s all fascinating. Both pilots have to hold their hands one over the other when they commit to take off, I’d love to know why, is it the physical strength required to hold the throttle? Is it a psychological check that ensure both commit to it? I Google’d it but lost interest in the smug nerdy answers picking apart the technicality of the question. Gary and I always sit on the column of single seats on the left, all the better to see out of the windows. The humming of the fans, the throb of the propellers, watching the crew nimbly untie the plane, and climbing back into the plane as it roars off, much to the shock of newbies who hear the door behind them open up as the plane appears to be taking off.

As the engines roar and we finally lift off, the emotion is palpable for me. I’m choking back tears. Abraham Hicks talks of how people get emotional at rainbows, sunsets and whales. Apparently with whales it’s the sheer presence and volume of unconditional love because of their size that attracts people, a real life example of the impact of a huge presence of high vibration. I can’t remember what she said about rainbows. Abraham says crying can be because you’re full of joy, but you’re not used to that feeling. Neale Donald Walsh says crying is your soul recognising the truth but either way as the plane rises up I am completely overwhelmed by the beauty of the Universe. Infinite blue seas, graduating from the deepest blue it’s almost black, to the palest turquoise as the shallow islands are visible through the water. White froth cresting like lace across the sea, areas of bizarre glassy flatness, ripples, textures, but mostly the incredible beauty of seeing all these islands, some above the water with their dark green bristling interiors, a border of blistering white sands, pale sandy shores and bright translucent emerald green water, to the submerged islands, “thilas”, a whole complete underwater world visible from the sky. Deserted islands, a tangle of green jungles, looking completely untouched by humans, to the busy populated islands, with harbours, tennis courts, veg gardens, water plants, all tiny and fascinating, and then the tourist hotel islands with antenna of water villas gracefully arching into the deep blue. They are obviously all designed with a view of how they appear from the sky and they don’t disappoint. Tiny beach villas nestled between palms trees, endless white beaches. Skies stretching timelessly, so clear they’re eye-watering, streaks of misty clouds flashing past, huge fluffy cumulo clouds so opaque they look solid. Flashes of sunlight off the propellor. Gazing down to see the shadow of the plane skitting across the surface of the water… But for me the underwater worlds, so visible from the sky, the texture and contrast of the corals, seaweed, sand, the colours of the water as the seafloor drops is simply overwhelming, but in a good way. Looking out of the seaplane, with tears running down my face, face pressed to the glass like a kid, I feel the presence of a greater force. A  force of love and abundance that dwarfs anything man can accomplish. A tsunami of wellbeing; a manifestation of everything that is good, beautiful, inspiring and passionate. A wave of appreciation and I have a knowing that this is what drives people to paint, to draw, to write poetry, to compose music, to sing songs, to express. To express the inexpressible. To witness the glory and beauty of a world that we did not create, nor can we destroy. We are tiny, powerless, honoured guests in this incredible creation, here only to experience the magnificence and glory of this Universe.

And that’s just the seaplane journey – wait till I tell you about the fish!

I had been doing a course on self-love with Eva Beronius. I’d love to summarise it for you but it’s already a couple of months ago and since then I’ve been through another rollercoaster of learning and experience, and it would be hard to pinpoint what I learned when, as it all merges and emerges in a huge dynamic cycle of suffering, detachment and realisation. What I did learn, which I think triggered this latest cycle, is all about the feeling of emotion. Law of Attraction teaches us it’s all about FEELING. If you can feel it before you have it, you’ll get it. You have to believe it to see it, and so on. And you can read about visualisation techniques and meditations but for most of us it’s hard to conjure up, never mind sustain, a physical sensation at will.

I don’t recall the context, but the lesson was life changing. Eva asked us to pinpoint the feeling of loving. This was new. I’ve often been asked or prompted to “feel love” but Eva distinguishes between the different sensations of sending and receiving of love. My curiosity pricked, I conjure up my go-to images of love. Usually it’s Twiggy, my first cat as an adult, the instigator of my spiritual path. Twiggy, tiny but ferocious little hunting cat, a cat with more character than you could pack into a TARDIS, sleeping in her little round hammock. Though it was shallow as a teaspoon, Twiggy would still disappear into the hammock with nothing but an ear poking out. I would bury my face into the middle of her soft, warm body and breathe in her smell of grass and dirt. My heart would constrict. “Is this what people feel for their children?” I would wonder, knowing I would rip limb from limb anyone who harmed my precious Twiggy. I have come to realise though, that this feeling of love is somewhat, humanly, tainted, twinged with a sense of impending loss. That’s not the unconditional love: I want the warmth of that feeling without the fear. So I conjure up the living objects of love. I see Gary sitting in the grass outside, with Sally the cat cuddled in his lap. I see our three little hens. Niala is pecking at him gently with that glaikit* look on her face, and Ella and Pink, grotesquely sprawled out, sunbathing beside him. Sunbathing chickens can be alarming if you haven’t seen them before, they stretch out like roadkill, limbs all strange and awkward angles as they lever every joint they have to get maximum solar exposure! This little tableau of the things I love generates a warm sensation in my solar plexus, radiating to my heart, and I lean into this feeling, trying not to veer into the heart constriction which indicates I’m tiptoeing into the fear element of human love, the fear that you can lose the physical presence of those you love. Trying to feel only that outgoing feeling of warmth. This feeling comes easily to me, but to sustain it and focus on it takes discipline, we don’t tend to indulge these feelings unless we’re in sorrow (or in love, ironically!) So it takes practise and persistence to try to hold that feeling. I encourage you to try it, with practise it suddenly made me realise that I CAN feel that, and although I need to keep at it, it imbued me with a knowing that this is the key to my self-love, practising this physical sensation of “to love” and “to be loved” until I can conjure it up at will.

Next comes the receiving of love. This is what most of us struggle with the most. I have been trained to give my entire life and it’s taken years of self-awareness and practises to recognise what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. Giving has never been a problem. Receiving on the other hand… like “boundaries” the words don’t really mean much to me, I stare blindly at the words that describe accepting, receiving, enjoying love, with no visceral understanding of that it all means. What?

Before I finally imploded at my corporate job I would wistfully explore other career options, desperate to find something that floated my boat, but that used my current skill set. As a manager I longed to be technical again, to be free of the politics and finances. I love problem solving and software engineering was a brilliant obedient puzzle, and I loved coding. I loved all of it. Or I thought I did. I had managed to wangle a side hustle of creating a user interface and I thought I’d be in my element. After all it was user interfaces I had done at university and the opportunity with advances in technology were mind bending. But it just didn’t excite me in the way I thought it would. Neither did web-pages – though the feedback was instant and gratifying and I’m really good at all the design elements, but nothing really did it for me at all. The malaise was still there. On top of that I was massively stressed with managing the people and budgets, but getting zero pleasure out of anything I did. Even the spreadsheets lost their shine – I’m kidding! –  that would never happen – but you can love a spreadsheet and still rather do something else. Then I read an article about “white hackers” and I thought that’s it! That’s the thing! That’s technical, but fascinating. I mentioned it to one of my colleagues. He was doing an MSc in digital forensics. The next day he arrived at my desk with an armful of information. He had burned CDs with all his lecture notes and assignments. He had books and a vast array of things he had collated for me that must’ve taken him hours. I was mortified! I felt awful. Unworthy. Ungrateful. Awkward. It’s only now that I can see that it was no more that I would do, did do, frequently, unasked, for other people my whole life, but that he had done it for me, wasn’t even humbling, it was crippling. I simply didn’t know how to accept gracefully this unbidden gift of someone else’s time and energy.

So now we turn our attention to receiving, and again, Eva Beronious has found the magic words that got through to me. Abraham Hicks says that if humans had found a way to monetise the sun, we would have done that. That if we humans can embody our deserving of money in the way we take for granted our supply of sunshine, we would have limitless supplies of money. I appreciate it’s an odd concept for someone in Scotland, but I can still get it, just. Or maybe I should think of the rain. Every single day the sun rises. I never question it. Maybe the days I can actually feel it on my skin I am more aware of it, but generally I never question my deserving of sunshine, air, rain, grass. And these things are in abundance around me all the time. If I can coax my brain to accept money into that category, I’ve arrived in monetary abundance.

Where I am is exactly where I should be and right now I can feel my receiving when I close my eyes and think of lying on the deck of a water villa in the Indian Ocean. I can hear the lap, lap, lap of the water against the steps down into the turquoise water. I know there’s a batfish that hangs around the steps, with his enormous billowing yellow and brown fins, his curious, glassy but penetrating look. Previous guests must’ve fed him because he’s very brave. I idly wonder what you feed a fish but pull my marshmallow brain back to the sensations. Sunshine is great for melting your brain. I can feel my skin against the warm wooden boards, radiating warmth under my body. I can feel the trickles of water dripping from my swimsuit as they pool and run off my skin. I can feel the soft warm breeze tickling my arms. I can almost sense the steam rising off my body as the water evaporates. I can hear the crabby bats squabbling in the palm tree on the island. I can hear the whoop, whoop, whoop of the Asian Koel bird that spirals off into a crescendo of warbling, far, far, far away. AND as I lie on the deck and can FEEL, yes I can FEEL my receiving of this warmth. This, my friends, is love. I can imagine the sun on my skin and my body opening to receive this warmth. This light. This life giving force. Receiving. It doesn’t matter that it’s light, or warmth or love, it’s that I’m open to receive. I can expand the image to the receiving of love, gently radiating from Niala, from Ella, from Pink and from Sally. From the sheep in the fields. The robin in the hedge. The magpie, hopping across the lawn. Harder to imagine from humans but I know that all my animals are beaming unconditional love to me all the time. I don’t want to risk resistance by imagining humans in the mix. If my brain wakes up this party is over, and my brain wants to define love, poke at it, test it.  My ego has accepted the love from my animals is unconditional, but my ego has a whole pile of observations and opinions around human love and what that should look like. So for now, we stay with the animals.

It’s early days for me. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I will effortlessly receive love from humans. I am still only taking baby steps. If anyone offered me the love I used to think I wanted, I think I would hate it, feel suffocated by it, shun it, despise it. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. But I also know that I am only just learning about what love actually is, and it’s not what I thought it was. It’s not what most humans think it is. It’s not about laying down your life for someone. It’s not about waiting hand and foot on someone. It’s not about providing for or taking care of someone. It’s not about doing what they want. It’s not even about supporting them emotionally. It’s about being present with them. It’s about observing them exactly as they are without needing them to change. And maybe from there you can only respect and cherish them. Until I learn to love myself unreservedly I can’t attract it from others. Until I can love myself without needing me to change, I’m still learning.

But it’s a start. I can feel it. I can feel the abundance of love in the world. I can feel that this is the love I want, not all the things I thought love was. If I can accept everyone just as they are, without needing them to change, that’s happiness right there.

*glai·kit [ˈɡleɪkɪt]

ADJECTIVE SCOTTISH, NORTHERN ENGLISH

• stupid, foolish, or thoughtless.
  

I sit on the brink of greatness and I feel sick. My unworthiness is coming in waves. After years of this work I feel like I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I’m removing heart walls* every other day but I wake up in a state of heightened anxiety most mornings. I know how to calm my nervous system, but when you’re in a state of high alert, it’s really hard to do, and you don’t want to do it. It’s like someone telling you to calm down after they’ve had a good old rant at you. It’s so clear to me now why that this is why I used to drink, to get rid of this feeling, this feeling I have denied for years.  Now that I’m clear headed and allowing, I’m still not coping with it very well. I know from all the wise books that people drink alcohol because they are hiding from something but I never really understood what I was hiding from, and now I know. This. And it was so present and pervasive and constant in my life, like a distant ringing bell, that I didn’t even know it was there. And now I do and I’m not sure it’s better this way.

It feels so unfair, I’m doing all the right things? I wallow a bit in angry self pity and try to piece together how I actually feel. I had an insight yesterday into a huge unhealed wound. I was talking randomly one of my colleagues when a wave of horror washed over me as I recalled the height of my anxiety over my mother. We knew she had dementia, the doctor had diagnosed it months earlier but the memory clinic, for reasons unknown, dragged their feet for months and refused to give her a formal diagnosis. Every session they gave me a form to fill in about how I was coping and as the months went by I started actually telling them how hard it was. I started writing about how Mum got more and more difficult to control, more and more antagonistic, needed more and more help but became more and more resistant to instruction. I wrote in tiny helpless letters all the way around the edges of the paper. They never asked me once about it.

Looking back, a formal diagnosis might not have made any difference, Mum never believed it anyway, but at the time it felt like a kick in the teeth, a denial of what we were going through trying to cope with her. And then there was dear little Spencer, a little black and white dog that we got for Mum, hoping to bring joy into Mum’s life And he did, he brought huge amounts of joy into our lives, but to me he added another layer of panic. I didn’t trust Mum to take care of him. She loved him and I knew she was feeding him and taking him out, but what she fed him I was never sure, she lied and denied and shouted when I questioned her and counted the pouches I had laid out and the feeding checklists and posters I had stuck above the sink for her to check off. And I would go home hollow-eyed and frightened. I don’t think Spencer really gave a toss about it, he was obviously eating something and he was a happy, loving little dog, but I worried and worried and worried. And looking back I don’t know how I survived that worry. I’ve never, that I can remember, considered suicide, not even on my darkest day, but I realise with fascination that that’s only because unconsciously I believe it would have been selfish and inconvenient. But I don’t know why I didn’t, because there was not a single thing I could think of to live for, except more of the same, never ending torture. The little snippets of joy from people and pets in my life faded into insignificance against the stifling weight of my worry.

These are wounds that don’t heal easily. I know there is still hurt there because it still brings tears to my eyes to think of it. I close my eyes and address the fear. In Matt Kahn’s words I say “I see you fear. I see you and I respect your power”. Matt Kahn has taught me that there is no such things as entities and evil spirits (which the Body Code™ will recognise) but they are in fact just pieces of yourself that have broken off in trauma and stay frozen in that trauma, full of hate and resentment as the rest of you moves on, denying them, ignoring them, abandoning them. So instead of casting out your demons, he offers that you address them with compassion, and ask them if they are ready to come back. To be resurrected into your light, to become one with you again. Like inner children. Angry, resentful inner children that cause chaos if you ignore them. Children that throw tantrums when they are triggered. Children that twist your behaviour into appalling scenarios that you can’t control and can’t logically explain. Hence the words “I respect your power”. Acknowledging, without approving of, their power over you. I address these wounds. “Come on out,” I say, knowing here is always more than one. There is always more than one.

A small steady stream of dirty, ragged children come out of the cave. They look at their feet, shifting and fidgeting. They won’t meet my eye. These tiny, fragile pieces of my soul, lost and abandoned as Kate the Great marches through her adult life, brushing aside her insecurities and hurts and fears, as she strives to survive, to be efficient, to be effective, to be a grown up, to be all the things everyone else wants and expects her to be, casting aside her needs and her feelings as these tiny fragile children that fall by the wayside and are left cold, hungry, unloved and un-nurtured. Of course they are angry and resentful. Acknowledge them, says Matt. You don’t have to agree with them, just meet them where they are. I clear my throat tentatively. “I understand that you are all angry and hurt, and that you think I have abandoned you. I understand and I acknowledge all the fear and hurt we have all experienced, for I was there too.” I wave vaguely to my promised land, where all the reconciled little Kates play in a green and pleasant land, being children and being themselves, with all my passed pets, frolicking in the water, in the sunshine. “We were all there.” I  shift uncomfortably. I don’t like this type of thing, I feel stupid, but I know it works so I continue. “I’m asking you now if you are ready to let go of this anger and pain. I would love for you to join us here, where you can do no wrong, where there are no rules or expectations. Where little Kate can be herself, a sweet and loving child. Where you can’t be misunderstood or shamed or scolded. I would love for you to be resurrected into the light with me”. They look at me doubtfully. Some people talk of their inner children being resistant, angry, but most of mine are sweet, frightened and desperate to be loved. There’s no lingering resentment or anger. As soon as I offer any form of comfort, they are right there, forgiving and gentle, just wanting to be accepted. I open my arms and sure enough, they pile in. We stand in a large untidy group, holding each other, as waves of compassion and love wash over all of us. Soon there is a little giggle and I know it’s going to be OK. I sit them down on the ground and explain the rules. “No rules,” I say. “You can do no wrong here. There are lots of animals there too – look there’s Arthur!” I point to a beautiful chestnut pony in the sunshine. They look at me wide-eyed and eager. They seem to be getting cleaner, fuller, less ragged as they sit there. It doesn’t matter though, in my promised land you can be as dirty as you like.

I watch the children disperse in an excited murmur, as the already resident children (there are a lot of them) take them each by the hand and lead them into my nirvana. I know there are more to find, growth is painful and never ending, but over each hill is a new vista. I listen to the growing shrieks of laughter and know that all this is worth it, this seemingly endless struggle for peace and silently promise myself I will never stop trying. I can’t go back anyway, I can’t unlearn what I’ve learnt, I just need to remember that love and compassion will win every time, and most importantly, that I am the most deserving of my own love and compassion.

*A heartwall is a collection of trapped emotions that build a wall around your heart to protect it. Whilst it protects you, it also stops your heart being open to receive. The Emotion Code®/Body Code™ removes heartwalls.

August 2018

How the chickens saved my life (part I)

This blog post is dedicated to Annie, my mentor, who first encouraged me to write about my chickens.

We had 5 ex-battery hens – we got them in September 2017 after a serious of seemingly random events led us to them. I’d fancied chickens for a few months by then – it probably started whilst I idly watched the ducks roaming free at a friend’s wedding at a posh country house hotel. I had wanted them more and more as time went on. Another friend at work had chickens and we used to chat about them, then one day, out of the blue, he asked if I wanted his coop as all his chooks had been polished off by a fox. I got all excited (not by his loss obviously) but hadn’t really committed in my mind, but when I went back to my desk minutes later there was an urgent appeal in my email for battery hen rehoming in a few weeks in our area. It felt like fate.

When I phoned Gary he’d just seen the latest KFC advert which was a cartoon of a glamorised chicken bouncing along having a great time as he danced to his death – he was so offended by it he was going to complain about it being hugely inappropriate. He wasn’t the only one, apparently it was widely considered disrespectful to chickens and distressing for vegetarians, vegans and children and got taken off the air (though I see they have a similar one just airing now). Thus softened and outraged by the plight of chickens in general, when I asked if we could get some he said yes. I don’t think he realised how serious I was, but before he could draw breath I’d hired a van and collected the coop. The level of excitement I felt can only be compared to how people talk about preparing for babies, I was over the moon. The area round the back of the house had always been waiting for something and it was an ideal area for them. I got it fenced and it all felt like it was meant to be.

I made them a wee shelter of bits and bobs lying around and it was such fun, as it didn’t need to be anything special because I trusted they wouldn’t judge me and I really enjoyed just creating stuff randomly. From the mere idea of having them they gave me so much pleasure. I read a lot about what to expect and I waited impatiently like a child going to Disney.

Enter Dora, Pink, Ella, Niala and Wambui and our lives changed forever. The lines of people in a garden centre car park, all there to adopt these pathetic, forlorn looking creatures was heartwarming. They were quiet in the car, and we placed them gently in the coop. Photos of them now look unrecognisable, but they weren’t as shabby as I had expected. Some of the rescues had been collected a couple of weeks previously, some the week before and some only days before. We didn’t know which ones we had but they had feathers, just looked a bit shabby, more so in the pissing rain. Ironically we had rescued them from a constantly warm environment and chucked them into a dreich Scottish drizzle! Looking back at what they were, compared to now is shocking though. They huddled warily in the coop whilst Twiggy the cat came to investigate.

Dora the Explorer was first out (or so we thought, we weren’t really sure, apart from one with a speckled neck – Niala, we probably couldn’t tell them apart). When Twiggy appeared at the door though, they all shot out, startled. Soon they started scratching around. We had been warned that they may not be able to walk or perch which makes me think these ones had been free-ranging for a couple of weeks and they seemed to be able to do everything. However they soon grew so much stronger that we realised how weak they had been. It was amazing how they just knew what to do, their peculiar 3 step moon-walk when they scratch, ferreting around – I was captivated by their joy and how their natural instincts just kicked in.

Gradually the chickens had the run of more and more of the garden and I picked up after them every day before Gary got home. It was just nicer having them around everywhere. They would literally gallop out of the coop to the “bird tree” and pick up bits. I had to move the bird feeders as they would hoover up debris all day, every speck that fell and thinking that couldn’t be good for them I ended up moving the feeders rather than fence it off. Whilst they aren’t affectionate they would peck gently at your legs, constantly, in retrospect I think it was Niala that started that. She loves pecking, blindly, mindlessly – a bit like cats when they pad up and down in a glaze. It’s very gentle – though you get the occasionally nip I’m sure it’s just curiosity. She loves a life-time shopping bag, but in time they all a start doing it – it’s so bizarre and funny to watch. Shiny leaves, plastic, stones…

Niala became Noisy Niala as she crows and calls constantly and gradually all their personalities began to come out. I’d got them coloured leg rings as they all looked the same to us at first (apart from Niala with her beautifully speckled neck). Pink was supposed to be Alish or Aisha but it never really stuck so she’s just stayed Pink. Wambui had the green tag, Noisy Niala was Orange. Red stayed Red until she was ill and because we spoke so much about her her name Ella finally stuck. Ella has always been the boss, she’s the smallest and feistiest, and always looked really shabby and tiny compared to the others. She started off ruling quite aggressively but as they all settled down it’s clear she was in charge but she doesn’t need to fling her tiny weight around anymore. Wambers grew lighter in colour and more distinctive, and she was always in the background – simply because she wasn’t ever a problem, but she and Niala hung out together, thick as thieves. Wambers was much calmer and measured than Niala who can be a bit frantic – and terrified of a bin bag although an orange Sainsbury’s shopping bag is like catnip to her.

One day, a few months later, Dora shut down. That’s the only way to describe it. I took her to the vet but no one could find anything wrong with her. I realise now that when we got soft eggs I had thought it was her and when she was off I had held her in a bath of Epsom salts, and she laid one eventually (and ate it) then seemed to perk up. However now she was just a husk of a chicken, first she would respond when you were around but just shut down when you went away, but eventually she just stopped moving around at all. After the first vet visit revealed nothing we started trying to feed her treats. Then her crop filled up and we thought it was sour crop and got it flushed but in retrospect it was just her body shutting down and I wish we’d had her put to sleep before putting her through that. I know now that you need to see an avian vet. Our vets were lovely and helpful but they just didn’t really know and I wish we’d just put her down then. I’d put her back in the coop at night but the next day Gary fished her out of the pen and put her in a box near the Aga as she was just standing in the rain, unmoving. She wouldn’t eat or drink and it was heart-breaking. When we spoke to the vet I asked if I could just leave her be to die, rather than trying to force feed her but the vet said they can hang on for a couple of weeks so we took her and had her put down immediately. I couldn’t bear for her to be manhandled in her last days on earth if she wasn’t going to survive. RIP gentle Dora, Jan 2018 – she was the most gentle of them, whilst she wouldn’t let you cuddle her, she wasn’t quite as quick and determined in dropping away from your hand and would tolerate you stroking her.

I knew someone was laying soft eggs, we had always assumed it Dora. But they continued, nearly every day. I notice Ella squatting a lot, not trying to lay or anything, just down on her haunches, but she would get up as soon as she saw you and always looked like she was investigating something, looking bright and busy so I wasn’t that worried. Then one morning I saw an egg shell hanging out of her bottom and knew that she had been laying them. I took her to the vet and he said there was nothing stuck in her but it would likely happen again and prescribed antibiotics. A dog sized pill (drugs companies don’t cater for the chicken pet) to be dissolved in water and put down their throat. He gave me an enormous syringe, and after Googling how to medicate a chicken endlessly on YouTube, I found a smaller syringe we’d used on Twiggy. You can only put a few ml in the chicken at a time and to squeeze it down their throat you have to slide the syringe down, avoiding the windpipe or you’ll drown them. If you think holding a cat still for medicating is hard, a chicken moves like a blur compared to a cat. Whilst they don’t have claws, they are so brittle and vulnerable it’s terrifying. The best advice I read online is that when you hold them (trapping their wings so they can’t flap) they will squawk like they’re being murdered but after a few seconds when they realise they aren’t dead, they’ll calm down! Dissolving a horse sized pill in a teaspoon of water just isn’t possible, so I had 2 full syringes and another to refill the small ones so poor Ella and I went through hell every morning and evening trying to get the drugs into her. I was sick with fear every single time I did it, although the day I did it the first time I felt so empowered I thought I could jump over the world. It still kept me awake at night and I’d be trembling with butterflies every morning, like getting up for an early flight, moving around in a daze with a tremor of nervous anticipation. Ella survived the intervention – even having to go to the vets for an injection for the last 2 days to finish the antibiotics as I was going away and couldn’t expect Gary to waltz in and take over without my help. Ella was so patient bless her but she’s never been as chummy since, always a bit wary. She seemed to recover but I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened again and the soft eggs continued. I decided we couldn’t go through this again and I found an avian vet in Falkirk with a view to getting an implant to stop her laying. It took a couple of weeks to kick in but since then she’s filled out tremendously and her feathers have grown in glossier and fuller, and now she’s as big as the others.

One minute Pink was plotting to scale the fence, absolutely determined to get at the bird seed, and she’d escaped twice, the next she was quiet and blown up – all fluffed up with her eyes shut. She had always been the greediest, the most enthusiastic feeder, full, fat fluffy bottomed with a dark glossy coat. My heart sank – forums are full of the sick chicken look but it was all too familiar. However Wambers had been off for a couple of days a few months previously and then recovered without intervention so rather than assume it would all end in death I fed Pink treats and watched her carefully. She still engaged, but spent more and more time just standing, fluffed up, unmoving. She was disinterested in food and gradually lost condition. Suddenly Gary witnessed a violent attack between Niala and Pink, and then Wambers attacked Niala and they had a full on fight. We’d seen a bit of bickering but nothing concrete, but in retrospect I had found her off on her own a few times, hiding in bushes and behind the hurdles – she’d even laid an egg there. Fortunately, maybe because they’ve be de-beaked, no blood was drawn but he was really shocked and it became obvious that poor Pink was being bullied by all of them, with Niala as ring leader. Eventually I took her back to the avian vet having decided if it wasn’t something obvious we’d have her put down. I took Gary so I wouldn’t make an emotional decision, but vets as always are so practical and calm we saw no reason not to try the treatment. He told us some stuff that it could have been – nothing obvious again, but I didn’t catch it, he didn’t seem to identify anything specifically but noticed her stools were full of undigested corn. He told us to separate her so we could monitor what she was eating and pooping, I had been avoiding isolating her I case the bullying got worse but he said she needed time on her own and if she was bottom of the pecking order it wouldn’t matter. Thus followed a week of medication and to my disgust, being covered in fleas. I’m still not sure what they were, think Richard (the vet) said they were mites but they didn’t really look like any of the pictures on Google images. Like a pale grey/brown flea, only smaller. The vet said that happened when they were under the weather, nothing to worry about but that’s all very well when they aren’t crawling in your hair. They didn’t seem to bite but the vom factor when you think something is crawling in your hair is not to be sniffed at.

After a week then began the re-integration. We put Red in with Pink and kept Niala and Wambers separate. That went fine, so I put Wambers in with them the next day, leaving Niala. They were fine, no obvious scuffles, but Niala was dejected and confused and it was heart-breaking. I can’t describe how difficult I found it all. I was desperately trying to protect Pink and was upset at Niala as being the obvious bully, but she’s just a big, boisterous baby, like a clumsy, less popular child who longs to be in the limelight and tries to be funny by pushing people around. Her behaviour had become more frantic and manic the last few weeks, being really bolshy with all of them and I felt that even Ella was avoiding her, but seeing her alone calling constantly, broke my heart. I put Niala back with them but it became obvious she was still picking on Pink. Although they seemed to be managing, I couldn’t know what was happening when I wasn’t watching and I realised we needed a permanent solution. I kept finding poor Pink on the roof of the coop, the wood store and on the gate and I knew she wouldn’t be safe – if she could get out she would be away from food and water and it wasn’t fair for her to be on the run constantly.

Endless Googling told me there was only one thing I could do and I decided to separate Niala for a couple of days, however hard I found it. It was shocking and frightening even to me at how upset this made me, a deep, buried anxiety rumbling away in my stomach, solar plexus – like when you’ve had horrible news, death or a breakup and it sits deep inside you radiating a heavy sad knowing of grief. I know it’s ridiculous and I’ve since learned that it’s because I’m so (animal) sensitive, but knowing that it’s totally disproportional to the anxiety the situation warrants, doesn’t make it go away. I felt so helpless, logically I knew I was doing everything I could, but I couldn’t shake the sheer desperation, the deep all-encompassing sorrow I felt tinging my whole life. The closest I can describe is when my beloved Twiggy went missing and I was sure she was dead, but the not knowing was an all-consuming grief, a feeling that I could never be happy again but there was nothing I could do about it. But aware that this was my own private drama, I hardened myself, a few days of misery for Niala vs a lifetime of bullying for Pink was what I held my mind.

Then I saw a YouTube clip of a lady who had used the Emotion Code on her chickens. It’s a form of energy healing. Like a woman possessed I found out more about it and started it immediately. I felt like a fraud at first, couldn’t get the hang of it, but funny how necessity forces an issue. Days later and I’m really confident with self-testing. I can connect to the chickens immediately, I go through them each in turn. I don’t even need to be with them, I can do it in the house, but I like to sit outside close to them. I did lots with Niala, imprisoned in chicken jail as a bully-bird for three days I sat with her, whilst she pecked gently at my legs. She stayed really close, either oblivious or enjoying it, who knows. I released about 3-5 emotions in Niala nearly every day, occasionally inherited emotions, but mostly hers, and if I’m guided to ask more (mostly I’m not which is just as well as there are only so many questions to ask about a chicken emotion!) it’s usually in the first year of her life. They are all emotions like sorrow, fear, anxiety – there’s no anger or bitterness or hatred or resentment, it’s all abandonment and betrayal, all consistent with the horrible life they must’ve had as battery hens. Ella has had less, but she usually throws up one or two every couple of days. Wambers probably only one or two, Pink has probably had about four since I started. The first time I did it on Ella she was dust bathing, and she just seemed to go into a little daze. There may be no connection at all, and they don’t seem to notice. I’m not touching them when I do it, but they are happy to stay close whilst I do my voodoo on them (they aren’t cuddly chooks, but they usually follow me around. Ella less so since she’s had the benefit of medication so doesn’t trust me singling her out, and Pink is also less chummy after her week of medicating).

Today, after probably a couple of weeks of doing this most days, sometimes twice a day, I’m still releasing emotions from Niala and Ella. Today Niala had three, abandonment, forlorn and anxiety, Ella had betrayal and dread. I always ask to proxy for them and it’s always a yes, and the connection is immediate and strong when I connect to each one after the other.

I’m happy to say that already my girls are all getting along. At first Pink was still terrified of Niala, pinking and peeping and running away as soon as Niala approached, but it soon became clear that Niala wasn’t provoking her, it was just residual fear.

Yesterday they ate together at the feeder and I cried.

(My three fat ladies now, top image is Pink when we first got her. From left to right, Ella, Niala, Pink).