Sharing the Planet

“What is man without the beasts?  If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beasts also happens to man.”

                                –Chief Seattle

 I may not recall every walk I’ve taken, or every moment experienced with kith and kin, but those which have included encounters with animals, I don’t forget.

Native Tongue

 In my New Mexico days, I spent many hours with a city friend attending concerts, dances and films - all a blur now.  But I do recall the time we went camping in Arizona and hiked to a stream.  Sitting at its edge at dusk, he made a very strange sound.  An echo returned and soon he and a bull frog were serenading each other.  By nightfall, we were surrounded by an orchestra, hundreds of fearless, moonlit frogs.

Before that, my friend was just a good dancer.  Henceforth, he was the Big Frog God!

I began to practice until I could imitate crow calls.  I spoke with them in the Jemez Mountains.  Caw! and a crow would answer; three caws earned an echo.  After an interval of silence, we would move on to more complicated riffs, my linguistics exam.  I couldn’t translate, but I understood: no crow goddess, just an apprentice. 

Totems

It was suggested that my husband and I should have a medicine man bless our new home, to clear out old energy for a fresh start.  We found a Navajo “road man” who agreed to do this for us. 

On the appointed day, he walked through the house, spreading cornmeal in the four directions.  He stopped in my writing studio’s doorway, stared inside but would not cross the threshold. 

 “Are there human bones in there?” 

 “No! Of course not!”

 He looked at me long and hard, then decided to believe me.  Stunned, I peered into the room myself, wondering what had he seen that would make him ask such a thing? 

Vertebrae and pelvic bones on the shelves overhead, collected during my walks in the wilderness.  The proverbial cattle skull and deer antlers - after all, this was a desert home!  Hanging in the window: dried fugu fish, sent by a Japanese friend.  On the walls were delicate drawings of abandoned bones by a local artist.  In a corner was propped a ceremonial walking staff, mounted with bear skull and feathers.

Ok, so I had strange taste in art.  I suppose, to one who did not know me, the room might raise questions.  Or to one whose relationship with wildlife was defined by tribal and religious meaning - not eclectic, aesthetic appreciation.

The medicine man said any animals crossing the threshold of our home heretofore had been random.  Now that we blessed and claimed the space, any who entered our habitat did so intentionally.  We shrugged.  We hadn’t noticed any animals crossing our threshold.

Next morning a boisterous blue jay took up residence on the deck railing.  A Native American animal totem book from our library said blue jay medicine was about “embracing life to the fullest, wherever you land”.  That evening thirteen baby spiders were hatched in the sink.  “Creativity, infinite possibilities!”  Soon we were visited by raccoons, lizards - even a cougar dashed past the window.   

My brother escaped Dallas to visit our retreat.  A hummingbird adopted him, whirring around his ears as he stood outside with his morning coffee.  

 

I smiled and handed him the totem book. 

         

Good Medicine

Years later, bow hunting for deer, my husband had, instead, brought home a bear, killed in self defense.  He was conflicted about killing it, and vowed to never hunt again.  Within weeks, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  He associated the sudden onset of his illness with the bear’s death.  Nothing I said relieved him of that burden.  We needed a healing ceremony.  

I was careful not to mention the bear to the medicine man, recalling his previous skepticism.  

 

Beginning the ceremony, he opened his medicine bag and pulled from it feathers, smudge stick, mysterious herbs, tobacco, several carved animal fetishes.  He set them out in a procession, heading toward the fire circle.

Not just any animals.  Bears.  Small quartz bears, medium ones carved of obsidian, large turquoise bears.  I held my breath. 

“Bears are for healing and protection,” he explained. 

The healing ceremony did not save my husband’s life.  But it did more than the chemo and radiation: it brought him right out of his dark depression and graced him with spiritual strength.  He shouldered his year of dying with love and courage.

Monster in the Woods

In the mountain woods I allowed my dog to run free.  He was very good about checking in periodically, taking seriously his role as my then sole companion. 

One night I let him out, but he did not come back.  Terribly worried, I put on my boots to go search for him.  Suddenly he burst through the door, frantic and hyperventilating, his eyes bulging, saliva dangling from his jowls. 

Concerned, I examined him.  No cuts, no bruises.  He circled, pressing his flanks against me. He guarded the back door, watching me intently.  Restless, he again circled me.  For hours he breathed heavily, then cried in his sleep.

Something chased him home that night.  Bear?  Cougar?  Human?  Whatever frightened him made him fear for my safety!  He was trying to protect me from the monster he had met in the woods.       

I never again let him roam alone.

Intruders      

My first visit to Scotland was with a Strathclyde policeman.  From the Glasgow airport we headed to a rustic Highland retreat. 

One of our first nights in Ardnamurchan, we   decided  to photograph a 13^th century    loch-side castle, using a high-powered torchlight for a ghostly effect.  After the tide went out, we set the camera on a tripod on the causeway.  My job was clearly defined as “Shine the light on the castle.  Don’t move.”  Despite the wind, I was to hold it there for several minutes, for a slow exposure. 

Suddenly the dour Scotsman said, in a low, serious voice, “Shine it over to the left...NOW” 

This made no sense to me, it would ruin the shot.  However, he was the cop.  I did as told. 

There, a few feet away in the full beam, a huge stag skidded to a startled halt!  Just as quickly, he turned and ran back to shore, his hooves slapping the mud, then crashed up the mountain brambles.

Strathclyde had heard the curious animal approach, investigating the strange light on his turf.  My anorak hood had kept me from hearing the soft plopping on the wet sand.

We quickly re-staged the shot, then turned off the light.

Coos

From my mountain home in New Mexico, a walk might easily include the spotting of a bear or cougar, not to mention a rattlesnake or two.  

In Scotland we have our wildlife, too. Everywhere are rabbits, to my dog’s consternation and delight.  At night they line up on the curb and stare at our houses, silent and still.  Foxes and water voles visit our gardens.  There are badger holes everywhere.

For a while, a few cows (or, as they are called here, "cooos") grazed in a field that separates the farm houses from our river path.  One dawn when I was walking my dog in a thick fog along the old railway path behind the houses, suddenly out of the grey soup loomed a huge cow directly in our path.   As she was well out of her walled-off area and away from her peers, it felt surrealistic to come upon her in the mist, but it was the cow who looked at us with a mildly startled "What are you doing here?" expression.  We slowly passed, giving her the right of way.

* * *

         

And so it continues.  How many walks have I taken with my dog along the River Carron?  And met and spoken to other dog walkers and friends?  Thousands.  All just a blur.

Those I specifically recall are the ones in which we came upon a field of rabbits like wee standing stones – or startled a fox back into the brush – or stopped to talk to the crows.

One thing I have discovered: New Mexican crows and Scottish crows speak the same language.

                                                 

    –Michelle MillerAllen (c) 2014

Castle Tioram by Bob McCallum (c) 2004); all other photos by MillerAllen (c) 2014