A Focusing Life

It looks like Taz the Tasmanian Devil, which is appropriate, because it is furious, so angry that it is mostly incoherent. I can pick out the swear words – the rest is lost in spitting and gibberish that might be words if played at a slower speed. It jumps up and down, sweating, waving its arms, and pointing at the object of its rage. It lives just below my sternum.

I slow down and settle in front of it. Another part pops out. It doesn’t want me to listen to Taz; it says, “Don’t get so upset.” I spend some time with this part and learn that it feels threatened by displays of irritation, not to mention rage. It wants protection. I offer clouds of cotton batting; it accepts, and I gently wrap the part in deep layers of fluff. It gratefully curls up. My attention returns to Taz.

Its speech begins to slow. Now I can pick out a bit more of the content. It is making threats against a person who questioned my professional advice. For Taz, this person apparently stands just behind my right shoulder. “How dare you!” it yells. “Exactly who the [bleep] do you think you are?” it screams. Gradually, runs out of gas, finally standing quietly and gazing at me.

I wonder if it needs something from me. I give that wondering a slight mental push toward Taz: “Hm?” Its gaze drops a bit as it cocks its head, considering, its brow furrowed.

It looks up at me. Yes. It does want something from me … but doesn’t know what.

Thoughtfully, it sinks down and sits, chin in hand. After a bit, it dismisses me with a wave: this is a new idea, this needing something from Lerissa. It wants some time to ponder. Thanks, and come back later. Or it will get in touch with me.

I let it know I’m grateful and move my awareness out, checking. What else is here?

It felt so good to return to volunteering at the greyhound rescue center last week. Blue, a big brindle boy who was returned to the center a week after being adopted several months ago, especially captured my heart. No one knows exactly what happened to Blue except that he bit one of his new people. But he returned a different dog: snappish and unpredictable, he often refuses invitations to come out of his crate. Once affectionate and playful, he is now angry and mistrustful. I had offered him my fist to sniff. He did, and then something changed in his eyes. I knew he was feeling crowded and scared and was thinking about biting. I withdrew my hand and met the eyes of the staffer standing behind him. She had seen the change, too, and nodded: This was what she was telling me about.

We moved the dogs into the outdoor enclosures for exercise, toilet time and a cooling dip in the wading pools. I hung out with Blue’s group, ignoring him and petting the dogs that invited me to. Suddenly, he was there, nosing for petting. I scratched his ears for a few moments and then turned to another dog. Blue came back, and I repeated the pattern: scritch, scritch, new dog. Again: scritch, scritch, new dog. Then Blue firmly pushed through the crowd of dogs, butted his forehead head against my legs and stayed there. I looked up at the staffer, eyes wide, and we grinned at each other.

I am wiping away tears.

“It’s so easy to make heart connections with animals,” I say. “You can see what they need in their eyes. Blue was afraid and in pain. He needed space and time. He saw my heart, and trusted me because of that.”

As I say this, my awareness moves back into my solar plexus, and there stands Taz, nodding. That’s what he wants – heart connections. He wants others to see my heart, and he is devastated when that doesn’t happen.

And then I’m aware of another part moving gently onto the scene. I sense its presence, and then I sense what it has to say: It is possible to have heart connections with people in the same way you have heart connections with animals, it murmurs. It’s more complicated sometimes. But it’s possible.

Now I am crying hard, touched to the core. Taz is nodding. The new part continues: This is what it takes to make a heart connection with someone who doesn’t do that easily.

And now I see the face of the mistrustful client right there, over Taz’ left shoulder.

You must connect with your own Self first. Then you can see the other’s pain and fear. And then you can connect with their heart.

My listener suggests I breathe into that message. I do, and stay there with it until it gradually fades and settles into a feeling of peace and spaciousness throughout my middle.

I have opened a door, expecting to see a room, and instead have stepped out into a vast landscape of rolling hills.

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