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At dusk one day, I heard an unusual animal sound and went outside to investigate. I quickly realized this was the voice of a young cat (or “catlet”); the voice was loud, strident, the animal in distress. The sound sourced from the big banyan tree on my neighbor’s property — the catlet was up in the tree and unable to get down.

My own cat, Bonnie, responded to the situation as well, following me around as I began to investigate.

My neighbors weren’t home (they don’t live there full time), so I went next door to see if I could help. I used my cat voice to make contact and the catlet responded, calling even more frantically. By following the sound I knew where in the tree the animal was, far out of my reach but not so high that access by a long extension ladder was impossible. Foliage obscured the view and we couldn’t make eye contact. We conversed for a few minutes, my intention (and hope) to coax the catlet down. But my attempt was unproductive and finally I walked back home.

Bonnie patrolled while I was next door and met me in the driveway near the gate.

Dusk turned to dark, and the catlet continued to call. I tried once more to coax the animal down, making my way with a flashlight. But to no avail. I was perturbed by the situation and knew I’d have to wait till morning to help further if the catlet couldn’t get down during the night. I slept but my sleep wasn’t restful and I awoke early, just before dawn.

In the middle of the night, Bonnie plucked at the screen door of the bedroom, her way of asking to come in. Very unusual: she rarely wants to come in at night. I heard her in my sleep and, knowing she would persist, got up to open the door. She came into bed with me and curled up, remaining there till I got up in the morning.

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I heard the catlet calling as I drank my morning tea. But the sound was softer, more sporadic — a sign that fatigue, shock, exposure were taking a toll.

I went next door again and called, but there was no response. I was surprised. I walked around, tried again. And again. Still nothing. Did the catlet come down while I was dressing? Had it given up? Wild animals can quickly die from shock. Reluctantly I headed back home.

Yet as soon as I got home, the catlet started calling again. So I went back next door. This time the source of the voice wasn’t where it had been before; in fact it seemed to be moving around, harder to pinpoint…lower down, perhaps emanating from a hidden nook at the base of one of the multiple banyan trunks. It was…right there…but where?

Suddenly, I saw what I’d been hearing; in fact I nearly stepped on it. The “catlet” turned out to be a tiny, rain-soaked, bedraggled orange-striped kitten whose eyes were barely open. It had fallen out of the tree — both a blessing and a curse. I scooped it up, hugged it to my heart, and walked to my other neighbor, our veterinarian. She took the little guy (yes, a male) into her care as she headed to her clinic. The rescue was a success, but would the kitten survive?

And how in the world did he get in that tree? He was far too small and young to climb it. I could only conclude he’d been dinner for an owl, yet miraculously escaped that fate.

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The day the kitten incident began, I was reading in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche — a marvelous find at the library’s recent annual book-sale fundraiser. I’ve been making my way slowly through these rich teachings. That very afternoon I’d been reading about tonglen, the powerful practice for cultivating compassion. Sogyal Rinpoche’s words touched me; they seemed to be exactly what I needed to hear. And then, as if by universal orchestration, the kitten episode. What could be more perfectly designed to evoke compassion — to open my heart — than the distress of a suffering animal?

The kitten and I each got something we needed. Tough and strong-willed, he survived and is being fostered till he finds a home.  Under natural conditions, many feral kittens don’t make it, and ironically this one’s ordeal may have saved him. Even a kitten can have a destiny.

I’ll use my own story as a case in point. By the late 1990s, I had trained sufficiently as an energyworker through teachers, reading, and direct experience to open a hands-on healing practice in my home for human clients. I set up the spare bedroom as a treatment room, advertised a little and let word of mouth percolate through the community, and began attracting clients at just the right pace. I kept a detailed confidential log for each client, for reference only. There was a beautiful reciprocity to the work: I both helped and was helped by each client, learning a lot in the process. Little did I know then that this experience was laying the foundation for a related but separate practice as a land and Earth worker.

In early 2001, my client load began to fall off. From my perspective, nothing had changed in my practice yet fewer and fewer clients were showing up. I pondered this. Was it just a fallow time so I could recharge? Or was change in the offing? And if so, for what purpose?

In late spring 2001, I started noticing a subtle shift in orientation, a movement toward something as yet amorphous. This was confirmed and clarified for me while attending a talk given by my Jin Shin Tara teacher, Stephania Mines. In discussing trauma and shock, the central focus of the Tara approach, she mentioned the amygdala, the part of the human brain that holds memories with strong emotional content. She said the amygdala rapidly and continuously scans the brain for trauma sites and can become fixated, stuck in a trauma-and-shock loop that’s difficult to break out of. The end result: we keep revisiting the same experiences through amygdala looping, reinforcing them and the patterns they create, effectively re-traumatizing and re-shocking ourselves over and over. Abruptly, unexpectedly, a new set of questions arose within me, questions fundamental to planetary healing: What is the amygdala of the Earth? As it scans the planet, is this Earth “organ” stuck in a perpetual loop that reinforces patterns of planetary violence? And, if so…how do we break this cycle?!

So began an investigation not only of the amygdala of the Earth but of other Earth “organs.” I realized there wouldn’t be a one-to-one correspondence between human and Earth parts — the Earth is simply too complex and Earth processes too nonlinear. Nevertheless the investigation proved provocative and moved me into proto-Earth work. The events of 9/11/2001, which I’ve written about elsewhere on this website (see The Shards and other EW Journal posts), solidified the change, and I’ve heeded the call to Earth work ever since. What I learned as a hands-on healer still applies; I work with energy in much the same way, though the “body” is different. I also use the same treatment room for most of my sessions (in a meditative state, collaborating with an interdimensional team), and I keep a detailed log which I revisit from time to time and from which I draw for this and other communiqués.

During 2011, the call has taken a different form — creating this website. But I sense a burst of new meditative/experiential work in the pipeline for me later in 2012 into 2013. That will surely produce a flurry of new posts here as well!

Truth is, we humans have many lineages, many layers of lineage — those of our blood in this and other lifetimes; those of spiritual teachers or other kindred souls unrelated by blood; those of tribal or cultural progenitors. Celtic shaman RJ Stewart writes of the “prime parents who live within the land for seven generations…[and may] lead the way to the Original Man and Woman…[who] are not of this world…” (Power Within the Land).

We have ancestors we don’t ordinarily think of as ancestors (if we think of them at all!) because that layer of lineage is far more elemental — literally: the first atom of the element carbon is the ancestor of all carbon-based life.

And…ultimately…all that exists, arising from the same primordial soup some untold billions of years ago, shares a much debated common ancestor, often called God but known by other language; I prefer to call this ancestor, simply, The Unknowable.**

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Having many layers of lineage means having many layers of inheritance. Clearly, there is more to the story than genetics.

For discussion’s sake, let’s look at humans. Classically, our genetic inheritance has been viewed as (physical) body based, transpersonal only in the sense that genetic material is transmitted biologically from one generation to another. Certain patterns or tendencies play out in families over multiple generations, with the occasional genetic aberration or surprise (for example, unknown paternity, or expression of recessive traits so old as to be “lost” or “hidden”). Nevertheless, how traits are passed along follows a tried-and-true set of rules. Or does it? More recently, research suggests genes can be switched on and off, raising questions about the nature of triggers and implying a more complicated story.

The story gets even more complicated when we take into account that we are more than our physical bodies. We are awareness — energy! Unbounded by those 3rd-dimensional concepts time and space, energy is transpersonal in the fullest sense of the word. Less dense than matter, energy also is more mutable. Even so, deeply entrained energy patterns can be difficult, even impossible, to clear and may be passed down the line in startling ways with startling outcomes, as the following two experience-based stories illustrate.

(1) The energy of emotions: A mother held sorrow in her lungs, which were weakened by the extreme cold of her environment, poor nutrition, and life situation. That sorrow never healed and was passed down to a grandson, who didn’t know what to do with it and (as men often do) turned sorrow into anger, which he held in his liver. Both energies (sorrow and anger) were then passed to one of his daughters, who held them in her body until they were finally recognized and cleared in midlife. The energies were not held inert, however, acting on the daughter as if they were her own. In her book Hands of Life, energy healer Julie Motz writes about “ghost organs” — that is, how we carry organ-specific knowledge of our parents’ bodies inside us and how that plays out in terms of our own illness and healing. It’s not a big leap to extend that dynamic beyond parent-child to others within a given family line.

(2) The energy of attachments: An energetic entity or force — an attachment — entered a family line centuries ago, its source and purpose unknown. It may have become trapped in the energy inheritance of the lineage, unable to free itself; it may have become lost or confused, unaware of its true circumstances; or it may have been the product of the black arts — not all beings are benign. Whatever its origins, as the attachment was passed down the line, it wreaked havoc, causing patterns of physical and mental illness, suicide, and other trauma in successive generations. It was encountered unexpectedly during a healing session and cleared despite its vehement resistance. Not all attachments can be cleared without additional harm, including death, to their human host.

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Finally, some of us carry as lineages the energy patterns that link us to violence — all forms of abuse, repression, psychic attack, genocide, enslavement, torture, totalitarianism, war. We carry these patterns as individuals and families; as communities and regions and nation-states; as ethnic and political and religious groups. Whatever the debate about nature or nurture or a combination of the two, violence does tend to pass down the line, however that line is characterized, and it is difficult to create a shift when tens of thousands of people are involved — difficult but not impossible, as we’ve seen recently beginning with the 2011 “Arab Spring.” But within the much smaller unit of the family, violence stops when someone finally says Enough! No more! This lineage ends here. Some lineages are inevitable by virtue of blood or custom, others invaluable as vessels of cultural or artistic identity, but some reach their signature moment when they reach the end of the line.

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*For more on my connection to Isaac Luria and on ancestors in general, including the Earth’s Deep Ancestors, see The Shards.

**For a stunning visual interpretation of the complexity of lineage, see the recent movie The Tree of Life. Despite its flaws, the movie is worth watching especially for its first half.

A decade after the terrorist attacks on 9/11/2001, we still bear the weight of loss on multiple levels. People remain traumatized, whether aware of it or not. Trauma is, ironically, a “gift that keeps on giving” — new traumas recapitulate old ones. Yet, though it may be unpopular to say so, terrible events do bear gifts, shuffling our priorities and perspectives, and teaching us to be compassionate towards not only those who share our suffering but also those who perpetrated it.

I’ve written briefly before about 9/11 — about clearing and soul release work I was called to do at the World Trade Center (WTC) site in 2006 several months before the 5th anniversary of 9/11 and several days after it. In this post, I add to that a personal coda. The WTC site serves as an exemplar because I’ve worked there energetically, but what underlies this exemplar applies to all places impacted by any form of conflict or violence.**

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The WTC site is, quite simply, a graveyard. Conceived and built for commerce, it became hallowed ground through violent death. There are not only physical remains impossible to identify or recover, but energetic “remains” — souls who have not yet transitioned, the chaotic energies of all thought-forms and feeling-forms from that day. Like the toxic dust that has sickened so many, old energies hang around and wreak havoc. And they’ll continue to do so long after the rubble has been hauled away, long after a memorial, museum, and new complex of commercial structures have been designed, built, and fully inhabited.

While it’s true that energyworkers like me have done healing work there over the past decade, and while it’s true that some souls can be assisted and certain energies cleared, and while it’s true that the cool, cleansing water of the exquisite memorial — symbolic counterweight to the heat of the attacks — can help heal place as well as people, I believe the WTC space will never be fully harmonized. I believe the energetic imprints from an event of that magnitude will never fully dissipate. I believe this to my core. Put simply, some places — like some people — can never be made whole.

So what does this mean for site renewal?

It means there will be problems. Businesses will fail despite positive projections and solid financing. People will fall ill in unexpected ways. Computer systems will behave idiosyncratically. Lights will come on, go off, at odd hours. Phones will ring in the middle of the night. Anyone sleeping there will have strange and haunting dreams. People who are sensitive will see, hear, smell things that others don’t. If you doubt what I posit, just wait and watch…

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In what I think of as “my world” — a parallel universe that dwells solely in my mind — the entire WTC site is a memorial dedicated in perpetuity to peace and tolerance, to the One World we envision, have not yet seen, and may never see. To not build commercially on one of the most financially valuable pieces of real estate on the planet is, to me, a true measure of and testament to all we hold dear.

I understand why the freedom tower, and I acknowledge and honor those who made that choice. Yet for me, empty airspace, like the new moon, entertains limitless possibilities. I would rather not fill it with what I know, what is familiar or customary, but leave it open — so that

…when Peace here does house / He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo, / He comes to brood and sit.
— Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1844-89

**I gratefully acknowledge “Battle Energy Release Process,” from the Universal Light Series published by the Perelandra Center for Nature Research; this short piece has been pivotal to my land and planetary work.

It felt to me as if there were a strong “external pull” on the northern end. But what force or intelligence would or could exert this? And why? What intention? Agenda? Is this a “natural phenomenon”? A “celestial influence”? All I could do was hypothesize.

I wondered, too, if the axis would return to its prior alignment — my initial assumption — or be set to a new one.

Later in the day I saw the northern end of the axis straightening. Those “working on it” were having an effect.

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I tuned in again on the morning of August 8, discovering right away that realignment was complete. The axis had returned to its prior alignment, yet, I was told, the situation is “not exactly the same.” After some Q&A with the Team to clarify, I learned that the vibrational  frequency of the axis is different. In the context of Earth evolution and the seating of the New Earth templates, this makes sense.

I also asked the obvious salient question: How might this change affect life on Earth? Inquiring minds always want to know. Thus far, however, no answer.

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Considering the escalating chaos of global financial markets, not to mention political and humanitarian crises, the timing and outcome of axis realignment strike me as curious. You might think the realigned, “upgraded” axis would bring about greater stability — and it may, eventually, depending on a complex of variables, not the least of which is how humans chose to behave. But for the moment, the converse is true. For the moment, we have paradox.

This brought to mind another, even more stunning paradox: Late in the day on 9/11/2001, sitting in my living room as dusk turned to dark and tuning in to what had been the Twin Towers in New York City, I saw dozens of souls awash in violet light drifting peacefully upward. The juxtaposition of the horror of the day with this orderly transition…astonishing! How was this possible?

The answer — the truth — is simple: What happens in one dimension may be discrepant with what happens in another, especially if one of those dimensions is the 3rd (our physical, material realm). But discrepancy can shift in a heartbeat. And it does when/if the timing is right.

I was shown an image of the axis as if encased in a sheath of highly refined foamy white light — preparation for the next stage of the work. I noted a bend, perhaps 30 degrees, at the top of the axis and an almost 90-degree bend at the bottom. Whether these are literal bends or visual representations of something I might not otherwise understand or be able to perceive I don’t know. There may be other misalignments imperceptible to me.

Then I linked with the banyan portal, as per earlier instructions (see prior post), and with the Earth team from the previous session or possibly another related Earth team. I have no way of knowing who all the members of any given team are and have learned not to concern myself with that. I might want to know, but I’m not told unless I need to know.

This second stage is one of stabilization and backup to avoid triggering what humans call natural catastrophes in the physical realm while the “spine” is being adjusted. The Earth is receiving special stabilizing support analogous to what a human undergoing brain surgery receives when the head is fixed in an immobilizing device to prevent micromovement. As with brain surgery, realigning the Earth’s axis is exceedingly delicate work. Simultaneously, a “temporary axis” is being put in place as backup to ensure that Earth systems and processes continue unperturbed during realignment; the temporary can absorb any overload the actual axis cannot handle while under treatment.

There was additional imagery, but it was indistinct and shifted too quickly to grasp.

I assume — and it is only an assumption — that the next stage will be the “spinal adjustments” themselves.

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About a week later, I checked in and learned preparation is complete. Axis realignment will begin late this afternoon Hawai’i time and finish in three days. I will check in again then.

Entering a large sacred area, the remains of an old stone platform, I stopped at a guardian stone and touched in.

“They are waiting for you,” I was told.

I headed for the banyan without delay.

Stepping through a curtain of adventitious roots, I dropped down into a small earthen bowl below the tree and offered greetings. I was directed to sit at the base of the tree and did so, as I have many times before, feeling instantly shielded by the root-curtain, hidden in the bowl, engulfed by another world.

The stillness there is indescribable.

I was given new instructions: to help realign the axis, or “spine,” of the Earth, which is off-kilter. Even a small misalignment can have drastic consequences, as any chaos theorist knows. The axis alignment also relates to the seating of the New Earth templates.

I’m to carry out this assignment at home, as I do with clearings, consciously linking with the banyan portal as I begin the work. I’m to carry out the work soon but, as usual, no specific timetable was given. I was reminded of my own experience last spring when two vertebrae in my neck went out and I needed the services of a chiropractor to put things right. This, then, is chiropractic for the planet…and why not?

I sat for a few moments, absorbing what I’d been told.

Then I heard a woman singing, the sound emanating from the direction of the dirt access road, which is close by. Though I couldn’t hear the words clearly, I realized, from their cadence and tone, this wasn’t singing, it was chanting. Hawaiian chanting. A male voice broke in briefly, as if in response to the woman’s call. Was this a traditional protocol asking permission to enter? I had never encountered chanters here before but wasn’t surprised; I know well that others recognize and honor, in their own ways, the sacred nature of this site.

Clearly it was time to leave — my instructions were complete, and others were entering the area to do ritual work. So I stood and made my way across the old stone platform, heading towards the road.

I looked down the road, then all around, scanning for the chanters.

There was no one.

I listened again.

There was no sound.

I looked and listened some more.

Still no one, nothing.

I continued my walk, heading down the long rampway to the stony beach at Kapanai’a Bay, marveling at the bleed-through between the worlds.

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Two days later I became drowsy while reading in the afternoon. It was a heavy feeling, as if I’d been drugged — a feeling I’ve experienced before when the Unseen Ones deem it time, when scheduling is up to Them and not me. I went into the session room, lay down on the bed, and, already in a deep state in which speech was nearly impossible, moved into the heart of the work. I remember consciously linking with the banyan portal, as instructed, but nothing more. I know — I trust — that everything proceeded as it should. The work completed the following day. Whether more will be required I don’t yet know.

I was struck by a passage I read that same afternoon, whether before or after the session I cannot recall — a powerful synchronicity — from Jerome Bernstein’s groundbreaking book Living in the Borderland. Bernstein is talking about his experiences with ceremony at the Indian Pueblos in the American Southwest (p. 13; emphasis below mine):

“As I watch the barefoot dancers — men, women, and children — dance from sunrise to sunset, hour after hour after hour in the hot, shadeless plaza, I am moved by their gift to us. When I see one of the center men hold erect a huge ten- to 15-foot wooden pole and circumambulate the line of dancers, waving the pole back and forth, emulating a corn plant sprinkling its pollen in blessing over the dancers and observers, I am thankful to him. I realize that these dancers and the headman with the pole are also emulating the earth rotating on its axis, maintaining the balance in nature necessary for the continuance of life…”

I’ve learned about stones living on Hawai’i Island, where the land is young enough and, in many places, undeveloped enough, that stones abound. The Hawaiians of old built with stone, and the stony remains of sacred sites and villages long abandoned dot the woods, fields, and shorelines. In recent times, Kilauea volcano, on the southeast of the Island and continuously active since 1983, keeps giving birth to new land and thus, as the lava ages and degrades, many more stones. Old-time Hawaiians say that individual stones can give birth to stone babies, something I have never witnessed, cannot explain, yet do not doubt. Some also say that stones are energetic archives, holding stories and history, and people who know how to listen can access those.

Stones often are lonely now because few humans today understand them to be alive and pay them little or no attention or, worse, attend to them for reasons that bring disrespect and harm. In some locales, the grief of stones is palpable. Yet acknowledging their presence with the touch of a hand, a kind word or two, a song or a chant, goes a long way toward mitigating that grief. Small, water-worn stones (‘ili ‘ili, pictured) used to dance and sing with hula dancers, and many are happy to be gathered, with the proper protocols, to dance and sing in this manner again.

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I have a stone friend — a particular stone I’ve developed a relationship with since coming to live in Kohala in 1998 — at an old sacred site a short walk from my house. I always say hello when at the site, as I would with any friend, and touch in gently with my hands; the stone responds with one or several colors (how I perceive the response), which gives me a sense of the prevailing energies. On occasion we’ve done Earth Work together as well.

One morning recently, I went out walking early and stopped to greet my stone friend as usual. The stone felt depleted when I touched in. I’ve experienced this before in stones on land where human taking is out of balance with giving back, but it seemed far-fetched that could be the case here. I sensed grayness in my friend — not the color gray, more like a lack of color, of vitality, altogether. It occurred to me then that my friend was sick. That a stone could ail was a revelation. I imagine there’s medicine for stones but, knowing nothing about that and caught off guard, I told my friend that surely the Earth, with all her power, would revitalize him.

Or maybe not…

Because, in that moment, I understood that even stones have a lifetime, and my friend may be approaching the end of his. This made me unutterably sad. I said I’d touch in again soon to check on his status. I know I’ll feel a difference if his life-force is well and truly spent.

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Six weeks later…

I felt the need for a walk this morning and visited my stone friend. As soon as I put my hands on him, I knew he was…dead. His life-force gone. He felt dense, heavy, inanimate — words used to characterize stones by people who haven’t had the pleasure of stone friends.

But the spirit of the stone was available and immediately made contact. It was much like talking with the spirit of any of the departed, any whose natural life span as we understand it has come to a close. In truth it wasn’t that different from our prior communications when his spirit and body were a coherent whole.

The stone-spirit told me he was simply no longer in his stone-body, was content being without a body, and might eventually animate another stone-body — “…much like what you humans call reincarnation.” It was clear that our relationship had subtly transformed — and that we still have a relationship. Isn’t this all we can hope for with any of our relationships: that when they grow and change, as they inevitably do, we do so right along with them?

I left feeling no loss, no sadness, whatsoever.

When David and I came to Hawai’i from Oregon in March 1995 for a 1-year university sabbatical, we left behind our 15-year-old black cat, Pearl. Friends were staying at our home while we were away, and we knew Pearl was in good hands.

About three weeks after we’d traveled, I had a powerful dream, one I will never forget. It began in a dream house in early morning; I was in my nightgown, just getting up. Several young girls, also in their nightgowns, were already up and moving around the house like fillies. A gentle breeze was blowing through gauzy curtains and the light was ethereal.

Then the dream shifted suddenly, as dreams will do. And (still in the house) an unusual being was standing in front of me. She was a perfect combination of a human woman my size and a cat — the body of a woman covered with the silky, shiny fur of a cat, a black cat. Like Pearl. We didn’t say anything, at least not in words. Then we hugged one another, and the hug was so potent, so emotionally charged, it was overwhelming, almost unbearable. As we let go our embrace I took a small step back and looked at her face — and saw a single tear rolling ever so slowly down her black furry cheek. I thought in that moment: I didn’t know that cats could cry.

Within days, the friends caretaking our home phoned. With heavy hearts, they told us Pearl was gone, presumably dead. She had asked to go out one evening and shortly thereafter a big fracas broke out in the backyard, at the edge of the woods. Our friends ran outside but didn’t see anyone or anything; they called Pearl but she never responded. They put off phoning us, looking for her daily in the woods behind the house, calling and calling to no avail. She was truly gone. Because of the sounds they’d heard, they felt a wild animal had taken her.

The news was a blow. She had lived a long, healthy, good life; and that a wild animal got her (a barn owl, I’ve always thought) was, to me, not an unfitting end for one who’d lived free, and true to her nature. Still, the loss went deep: I cried for days.  She had been a dear, dear companion.

When I’d hugged Pearl in the wee hours before we left to catch our plane to Hawai’i, I’d had a feeling I would never see her again. I was right — and wrong. For I did see her again — in my dream. She had come to say good-bye.

Hole in the Ground

When our cat Bonnie was young, from time to time she’d take off into the gulch near our house in Hawai’i and be gone for days, even weeks (see Feline IMing). She always returned — skinnier, hungry, but otherwise healthy. Except one time…

She’d been gone nearly a month when I had another dream I won’t ever forget. She’d come to the house, our house in waking reality, where she greeted me affectionately. I petted her for several minutes as she rubbed against my legs and purred.

Then she indicated somehow that I should follow her. She took me to a grassy area with a small knoll where there was a hole in the ground rather like the entrance to a tunnel, an underground burrow. She went through the hole and disappeared. I just stood there, knowing I couldn’t follow. The hole was too small for me to get through.

When I woke up I instantly recalled the dream and burst into tears. I was sure Bonnie had died and had come to show me so we didn’t keep waiting for her return. I knew the dream could have been interpreted differently — she might have gone through a wrinkle in space-time, a thought that had crossed my mind more than once before — yet I was certain the dream was meant as a death notice. Bonnie is a small cat with great intelligence, a big personality, and energy to match — one whose presence and absence are felt intensely.

David and I began to grieve the loss of our animal companion. Bonnie’s half-sister felt the loss too — she kept asking us about Bonnie’s whereabouts. Time passed, and the dream’s apparent message seemed more and more assured. And then, seven weeks later, as we pulled into our driveway late one afternoon, returning from the beach…there she was! She was a wreck: her body painfully thin, her fur ragged, her demeanor making clear she’d been through an ordeal, a mysterious trauma we could never know the shape of. It took her weeks to recover.

Bonnie had indeed gone down a hole in the ground to a place we could not access and an unknown situation we could not protect her from. She had shown me that. Yet despite my strong belief that she had died, she’d survived…albeit barely. Or perhaps — who knows? — she had died and come back: a sacrifice refused. It happens that way sometimes, our teacher Rachel said. It certainly happens that way in stories, and who’s to say some of those stories aren’t true?

We got used to this pattern, more or less. We never knew where Bonnie went — it seemed unlikely she was spending time at another human household, which some cats are known to do — or what the impetus for her disappearances was. I sometimes had the sense she stepped through a wrinkle in time-space, though I cannot tell you why. Finally we just put it all down to her bold, high-spirited nature; even at age 15, she still occasionally slips off into the gulch for a short stay.

Over time, a communications process developed that helped me during her absences — a kind of feline instant messaging. I’d connect with her energetically through intention, and she’d immediately send a picture — one of a small set of pictures, or icons, I learned how to read. For example, if she was on her way home, I’d see her trotting along briskly; I couldn’t quantify “how long” it would take her but knew she’d be back “soon” (24-48 hours). But if her wild side hadn’t yet been sated, I’d see her sitting still, the Kohala wind ruffling her long, silky fur. Then I knew it would be “a while” (at least several days, possibly longer). Sometimes I’d get alternate pictures of her trotting, then sitting: she was headed back, but not straight back. Every now and then, there’d be a one-off, a picture with an unpatterned message, not drawn from the established icon set, and I’d interpret those as best I could. There were times, too, when in addition to whatever picture I got I had to ask, “Are you okay?” Her answer then came in words, not pictures — another layer of IMing.

Bonnie was gone for 6-7 weeks twice, and that was so long ago I don’t recall specifics about her IMing. But I recall the outcomes clearly. The first time she came home fine. The second time I’d had a powerful dream and was sure she’d died — and she nearly had — but that’s another story…