UU Animal Ministry Spirit of Life Column, December 2010

Dear Friends,

I just finished the first of three months sabbatical that I’m taking this church year. I took a month to read and reflect on a writing project that I will be doing with the next two months of sabbatical in spring. I went to a retreat center in the Tuscany region of Italy where I was shepherded around by a good friend there.  It was, indeed, a privilege to take a trip like this. I did rest, read, and wrote some about how we construct notions of the self in relation to the rest of nature and other than human animals. I took long walks in the beautiful countryside, visited cathedrals and castles, and bakeries, and of course, I went to Assisi.

            One of the things that I noticed wherever I went was the presence of cats. There were cats that live with people, cats that seem to live outside but are cared for by people, and cats that are clearly feral. With the exception of one feral cat, the cats looked healthy. None of them were fixed. It seems that this isn’t a sensibility where I stayed. While I loved seeing the kitties, I wondered at the huge cultural shift that would need to happen for spay and neutering to become the norm.

                                            Kitty at a castle

                                            Street kitties

                                            Gustavo, my friend, Gianluigi's cat

Tuscany is truly a beautiful place. The countryside is quiet and pastoral. I went on hikes, and as I mentioned, visited churches. I would pause and breathe in the clean, fresh-from-rain air. It didn’t take long before I noticed what sounded like cars backfiring in the distance, and it didn’t take long before I realized that I was hearing gunshots. My friend confirmed for me that it was hunting season.

On one outing, we visited a lovely progressive Catholic community whose mission emphasizes peace and contemplation of nature. The view from the property of the church was stunning. It was one of the few sunny days of my 11-day stay. I stood at a low wooden fence overlooking the countryside.

                                            View from a church of peace 

As I breathed a prayer of peace for the world and all beings, my reverie was shattered by the sound of a gun. A few moments later I was startled to see a hunter emerge from the woods, his dog followed quickly behind him. How could they be so close to this place? I started talking loudly and gesturing wildly, hoping to distract the hunter or scare the birds that were his prey. I wasn’t close enough to have an effect – he didn’t even notice me as he retreated back into the woods. No more shots. A little while later I saw the hunter reemerge with dog and gun in tow. For reasons I don’t really understand I lifted my camera and shot. Just at that moment, with the camera still up to my eye, I heard the gun shot. I lowered my camera in time to see the hunter with his gun lowered, a bird flying and the dog running. Reeling back, I grasped the fence so that I wouldn’t fall backwards. My body felt numb and I was light-headed. It was as if a shock went through my body. I wanted to cry and I couldn’t speak for a time.

My friends walked me away silently.

When I downloaded my pictures from the day I realized that my body felt what my eye didn’t register.

                                           The hunter and the prey

I had caught the hunter shooting the bird. 

I left that place, and am left with, the juxtaposition of the beauty of the place and the ugliness of the act. I am left with images of unspeakable beauty and heartbreaking tragedy.

May all beings be happy, may all beings be free from suffering.

Blessings to you dear ones…

beth

 

The Return of Hope...

"Hope is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—"  Emily Dickinson

 They're back. Hope with feathers. It took about four or five days, but slowly the birds returned. Each day I walked outside and called for them. "Birds." One morning, after I called to them,  three finches flitted down from the bushes onto the short retaining wall in the yard. They pecked at the food I'd laid out for them, but they were skittish. The least movement and they were gone.

The next day, I woke up early, sat up to look in the yard and saw that the doves had returned. And I mean they showed up. I counted 15 doves, and the finches came too, and the phoebe who'd made herself scarce as well, and the hummingbirds too. They all came back. Yesterday there were at least 20 doves in the yard - I couldn't get an accurate count...the finches share well with the doves - they're busy everyday now. All of the birds startle easily now, but they don't fly from the tree where they perch waiting for me to finish putting out their seed. They stand like sentries, all alert and anxious. As soon as I walk into the house they flutter down to the feeders and wall, gobbling up the tasty morsels.

Birds, all birds, have long had the power to shape my experience. Small birds touch me with their sweet little bodies, so fragile-seeming, but they dance with purpose. Their chatter sings in my heart.

I have a special place in my heart for doves. The coo of a dove can stop me in my tracks. I could hear a dove over a brass band. They center me and gently stir my soul like some ancient memory...

Dove is a sacred bird in many traditions. They are sacred to the Goddess Athena, representing the renewal of life. They are messengers of hope and the promise peace. Dove is the spirit of  Life that flutters into our lives assuring us of the presence of Love amidst sorrow and loss, providing stillness and serenity, awakening in us embracing Love.

When 20 plus doves show up in my yard after a surprising absence, I can only respond with deep gratitude and love...

Thanksgiving blessings...

A Sorrowful Silence

They're gone. The birds that grace my yard and my life with their sweet bodies and excited chatter are gone.

I returned home after two weeks in Italy to find that my birds -  yes, my birds - had stopped coming to feed. I spoke with my house sitter, Val, the night I got home. In her update about how the kitties fared in my absence, she told me that the feeders were little used. She hadn't had to refill them at all. This is unusual as I am constantly replenishing the food for my hungry finches, towhees and doves.

Val was concerned enough that she made a special trip to Wild Birds Unlimited to ask what might have caused the birds to abandon a sure source of food. The folks at the store suggested that perhaps a hawk had shown up in the neighborhood, and indeed, they were right. Remember the little bird I wrote about who flew away frantically when a hawk swooped into the yard? Before I left on my trip that hawk paid several visits.

Just two days before I flew off myself, the large, beautiful, white and brown hawk had appeared on the fence near a tree where the birds sat around. I was struck by the hawk's size, the smoothness of his feathers, the sharp beak - he was majestic. I admired him. And I worried about him. I knew that his very presence frightened the little birds.

It was late in the evening when I got the news of my birds, but I received other sad news as well. A neighbor's cat, Cosmo, an interesting and smart kitty whose territory included the entire block, has been missing for over a week. I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of Cosmo.

I woke up alert at 5:30 am and laid in bed while the sky lightened and realized that I was waiting. I was waiting for the chirps and chattering that accompanied dawn in my backyard. I had come to count on those birds - they are part of the very fabric of me.

I was stunned by the stillness in my yard. My heart started to ache and I could feel the loss as an emptiness in the pit of my stomach - that lurching feeling of dread and disbelief. Could they really be gone? What if they don't come back? I really can't imagine that. I knew the birds were important to me, but even I was taken off guard by the depth of the experience.

 As is my custom I walked outside to call the birds. Usually I call out, "good morning birds!" This first morning of absence I simply called out, "birds..." Nothing. No little bodies preparing to descend on the freshly spread seed.

A sorrowful silence.

 My friend and colleague, Rev. Stefanie Etzbach-Dale, used that phrase to describe this silence. Silence is never empty. Silence is full of whatever we are feeling and experiencing in the moment. I have known contented silence when sitting quietly with a loved one. I have known blissful silence when  feeling myself connected to all that is. I have known apprehensive silence while awaiting medical test results.

This was a sorrowful silence. A silence full of the lack of presence. A silence full of longing.

I peered into my neighbor's yard. She'd started to feed the birds as well, but her full feeder told me they hadn't migrated next door.

The next day, sitting at my table looking into the yard, I saw the shadow of a large bird pass over. It was an ominous sight. The sorrowful silence deepened and settled into my bones.

in nature..

I often hear people say that they need to get "out into nature." I know what they usually mean is that they need to get out into the wilderness, and that is something I love to do too. But I don't say that I need to get "out into nature," because I am nature. I don't see nature as something outside of me that I need to get into. When referring to nature I say "the rest of nature." We find this put poetically by Susan Griffin in her book Women and Nature. "We know ourselves to be made from this earth. We know this earth is made from our bodies. For we see ourselves. And we are nature. We are nature seeing nature. We are nature with a concept of nature. Nature weeping. Nature speaking to nature of nature." (page 226)

I find myself nurtured in my immediate environment wherever I am. Whether it is going for a walk in my neighborhood, on the grounds of my church, and right at home.  I'm fortunate to have a beautiful backyard. There are bushes and grass and roses and bird of paradise and trees - all of which I can see from the living room, dining room, and bedroom. I have three bird feeders and also spread seed on a retaining wall, meaning, of course, that my yard is also teeming with birds. Finches, doves, towhees, a phoebe, the occasional oriole when the season is right. And all of this helps me  feel the connectedness that remains an abstraction when I forget what I really am...

I love this world. In all of it's beauty and tragedy it plays out in front of me day after day even in my little backyard. This morning as I was waking up I heard the rustle of wings, a thud, and my cats jumped up to look out the window. Michael, who was reading in the living room,  had seen a hawk swoop through the patio and a startled little finch fly into the window. We found the bird stunned, huddled  on ground in a pile of ants. I gently picked her up,  placing her in a safe place to rest and recover. A little while later I went out to check on her, and found her sitting with her eyes closed, her head nestle against her body. I'd brought soft cloths to set her on to keep her warm. As I picked her up she fluttered away up to the patio cover. Although relieved that she had recovered, I felt bad. She was resting, and in my need to take care of her, I had disrupted her rest. Now, she seemed fine, but interactions like this challenge my notions of what it means to be in relationship with species. But I need to keep learning that my relationship with other animals isn't just about me, and how they make me feel, and what I need from them.

my journey to living in love...

I thought I'd start this blog by sharing part of my journey. This is an excerpt of my Spirit of Life newsletter column for UU Animal Ministry...

 It is a privilege and my deepest joy to work with other Unitarian Universalists on behalf of animals—those beings whose voices are not like our own need us to use our voices to speak for them so that their unique and wonderful voices might finally be heard. Those beings whose bodies are abused and broken need us to use our bodies – our hands, our feet, our heads, our hearts - on their behalf, for indeed, bodies count.

My journey to animal rights and advocacy was a journey of the heart—a journey toward living in love. 

I’ve always been an “animal lover.” I grew up with an amazing German Shepherd named Duke who was my protector, my babysitter, and my friend. My parents got six month old Duke from a shelter when I was two years old. Mama used to put me on the front porch with Duke and a sign pinned to me that read, “Do not touch child. Dog will bite.” Once, I wandered off the porch, Mama called for Duke, knowing that wherever I was, so he would be. When he was thirteen years old, Duke became ill, and thinking they were protecting me, my parents had Duke put to sleep while I was at school. I experienced my first broken heart.

I didn’t realize then that I would later continually live with a heart broken wide open with love for all animals— those near and known, those faraway and unknown. We had other German Shepherds and I loved them all—each one was unique and smart and loyal and loving. Oddly, I didn’t make any connection between our dear canine companions and the animals that we ate each evening with our mid-western meat-and-potato meals. That would take long time.

Various feline companions influenced my journey of the heart as I grew up, moved out, and had cats—as if they could be had. As any cat lover knows, we are theirs as much as they are ours. Cat professor Tex was an important teacher—my relationship with this eighteen pound orange tabby, who was my companion from 1982-1994, furthered the process of opening my heart to awareness of the power of human/animal relationships. Tex accompanied me through a divorce and a cross-country move, and I just knew that loving him was the purest thing I’d ever done. I was stunned at how much I loved him. I don’t know how it happened really, or just when it happened. At some point, I realized that he was a part of me is some very fundamental way. It was then that I opened to earth-centered spirituality and began to feel a part of everything, “not separate at all,” as Shug in The Color Purple said. When Tex died at the age of 15, after two years of daily insulin shots, I got a tattoo over my heart—a broken heart with paw prints in it. I had no idea at the time that it would become literal again and again.

I still hadn’t made the connection between my companion animals and “other” animals – those raised for food.

Enter Lil, also known as Little One. It was while living with my feline companion, Lil, from October 1995- December 11, 2004, that I was transformed from “animal lover” to animal advocate, defender, and protector. I got Lil when she was six weeks old. Shortly after that I was diagnosed with cancer and my other kitty, Rocket Man, died from kidney disease.  Lil was my constant companion and my best friend. For six months, during those long dark chemo nights, Lil would drop her small pink ball on my chest, playing fetch with me until she could tell I was tired. Then she’d move my left arm up so that she could nestle there and sleep too. And so it went, as I healed from chemo, Lil healed me. We played hide-n-seek, she often initiating the game. We sat companionably for hours watching television or reading (well, she watched TV, I was the one who read). We rejoiced in each other’s company—each of us often preferring each other to anyone else.  Our ability to communicate with one another, to enter into each other’s experience, to see and be seen by each other, opened to me the possibilities of trans-species relationships.  Lil healed the remnant of the split that existed between me and other animals.

I had considered vegetarianism and moral consumption for many years before I committed myself to these practices. I had heard about factory farms and animal testing. Each time I was reminded of these conditions, I had a nagging sense of discomfort, though the discomfort would eventually fade. At the time, it was part of my earth-centered practice to celebrate the seasons and work with them in spiritual ritual. Every year, as winter ended, I thought about the promise of spring, the new beginning and hope that it symbolizes. I thought about what new things—what ideas or concepts—I would like see in my life with the coming of spring. Each spring I created a collage with images and words that symbolized what I was intending to bring into my life. In the spring of 1998, I was looking for pictures and words for my annual collage. I wanted to bring health, beauty, and harmony into my life, and perhaps greater clarity to my educational goals. I went through several magazines without finding any inspirational images. Synchronistically, I believe, I picked up Animal Times – PETA’s magazine. I chose pictures of farm animals and animals used for testing. I sat with the articles and the pictures. I chose words like cruelty free, beauty, and love.

This was my turning point. I had not intended to focus on animal issues. I had barely allowed the mistreatment of animals into my consciousness.

I felt the love that I had for my Lil. I saw how responsive she was, how she had her own purposes and desires, how she seemed to want to be with me, and enjoyed my company as I enjoyed hers, and how she was frightened when I put in her carrier to go to the vet. Certainly, what I’d learned about the intelligence of pigs being greater than that of dogs, and what I read about the fear that cows demonstrate when they are near the slaughterhouse and about the social structure that chickens have—certainly, I said to myself, the beings that are used for food and as test subjects must have as much value as Lil. Surely, I concluded, they are deserving of my love and protection.

And so they are.

And something remarkable happened. Unbelievable as it was to me, I found that I loved Lil more. The love that I felt for her was overwhelming at times. And the more I loved the more love I had until I realized that my heart was simply overflowing with love for all beings, and that I was held in love by them.

Lil died suddenly and too soon at age nine from a rare liver disease.  Never more than six and a half pounds, this little orange tabby taught me more about living-in-love then I would have ever thought possible. And so it is for Tex, and in Lil’s memory, that devote my life to all animals.

I look forward to getting to know your stories of love and transformation.

All love, all peace to all beings,

beth