After listening to Carol Gurney's meditation on quieting the mind, I closed my eyes, wondering what would come to mind next. I haven't done any animal communication since the last challenge, so I wasn't sure what to expect. So I said, as if to an old friend whom I hadn't seen for far too long, "Hello universe, it's been a while!" And the universe answered, "We've been here with you this whole time." I replied, "Yes, but I've been away from animal communication…" and as I began saying this, the scene in my mind began shaking and rumbling. It felt like a earthquake, but without any impending disastrous results. The universe said, "We have lots to tell you." And in an instant, I understood the meaning of the "earthquake," which turned out to be more of an avalanche. I had put things on hold for so long, there was a lot stored up, waiting for me to hear and experience, just like the snow builds up on a mountain until the mountain can no longer hold it all and it releases the avalanche! "I guess that's not the healthiest way to do it," I commented. To which the universe replied, "But it is a way. And it's one of nature's ways, so you're in good company. We'll catch you up gently. And in reality, you weren't away from it all for all those months, just focused on different things. Perhaps communication was a little down lower in your consciousness, but nevertheless, it was there." The exchange felt grounding, supportive, non-judgmental. I appreciated it. And it really did kind of feel like it was only the "next day" after my last conversation in February. Like I was truly picking up where I left off, not that I was starting over. As heavy as an avalanche.I had been feeling for a while like I was going to connect with my dog, Gingersnap. I focused on her to see how it felt and she was there, sweet expression, gentle as always, her nose blacker and more pronounced than usual. I asked, "Do you want to talk?" She answered, "I want to sit with you." But the meaning I understood was not just sitting with me in silence, but sitting with me in a supportive way as we talked. And the topic that was looming, I felt, was how to support her in her older years, which she was now in. This topic is extremely sensitive to me, almost unbearable. I said, "Is there no other topic we can talk about?" She answered, "This is a topic about life, nothing more." I ranted, "But why is life designed this way, with suffering near the end and so much pain when you lose someone in your life? Clearly, it could have been designed differently. This is torture!" She explained, "It feels that way to the great many, but it wasn't designed that way. Humans are the only ones who play out this story in this way." I countered, "I've heard of plenty of animals who are distraught by the loss of a person or animal or mate. What about them?" "They too are caught up in the immersiveness of this life to some degree. However, the more connected one is to the fullness of the universe, the more understanding one has. You understand death is not the end, that we are all eternal souls. And that helps you somewhat. But you don't feel wholly connected to the universe, plugged in to this innate understanding that we are all here, together, in every moment — yet forever — despite the lives and scenes that we immerse ourselves in. The playground of life."If you picture a playground where you are playing with your friends. At some point, some of your friends will be drawn to other parts of the playground, momentarily. It may only be a few feet away and you can still call to them, interact with them, though they aren't right in front of you, in your immediate space. And that situation is what most people call death. Except they only notice the part about the person no longer being right in front of them, in their immediate space. If they felt more connected, with a bigger view, they would see nothing much has changed. We are all still on the playground together, just feet away from each other, simply focusing on different things moment by moment. When you live in that world, where is the sadness and loss?" "I see that and I wish I did live in that world," I said. "But this existence I am in — that humans are in — feels too immersive and makes it almost impossible to keep the higher perspective all the time, or even part of the time. And not just keep the perspective, but to melt away all the scenery and be in the 'playground' as you described." "Yes, life was designed convincingly, huh?" she posed. "Being able to peel back the illusion at will is a skill. Most never master it. But even more never know of it! You know of it and you are on your way to mastering it, if not in this 'life,' then in another." Just a few feet away.I wanted to know more about right now. "Okay, so here we are together on this playground. You are currently right in front of me, in my immediate space and I don't want that to change. What can I do to support you, to take suffering out of the equation? " She replied, "You already support me wonderfully. You all do! Just watch, listen, talk with me, ask me. I may not always be able to do the things we once did or that I once enjoyed. But there will be new things I prefer that I can enjoy as much. Find those with me. There is a lot left to explore," she said positively. At this point, Gingersnap physically came down the stairs to where I was sitting in the living room. She often waits upstairs outside my daughter's room until my daughter wakes up and then she moves to the living room to hang out with me. Most days, she'll walk by me on the couch, stop to say hello, tail wagging, then continue on to the bed she has a few feet from me. Today, she stopped to say hello, sat down, and stayed. She looked into my eyes several times as I scratched her head and back. She is now sleeping next to me. And no, it was not lost to me that the routine I described also describes what she was telling me about the playground. Sometimes she is right in front of me and sometimes, just a few feet away, but always here.
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