I'd signed up for the Animal Blessing at the Franciscan Center. Who would have thought I'd end up in a wet t-shirt contest! The day started off normal enough. It was late October, and the day was very hot, a sticky combo of Arizona autumn and Global Warming.
Being the animal lover that I am, I was looking forward to conversing with my furry friends. I jumped in my truck with a feeling of anticipation and a bunch of my Pet Psych flyers. I'd finally figured it out. Never go anywhere, if you happen to be an animal communicator with an accent, without a short version of your life to hand out. It gets hard trying to explain yourself again and again, when you're not quite sure who you are anyway.
The coinciding Adoptathon for animals was in full swing as I arrived. Dogs were yapping. “Take me home, I can love you, yes I will. Please, please. I can wag better than any dog. I can protect you. I can help you in ways you can't imagine, ways that I can't imagine. I could be the best friend you ever had.
Cats yowling and meowing, “What is all that noise around here? Oh my God! I have never seen so many dogs in my life. What is going on here? Am I having a really bad catnap? Someone please get me out of here.
I had just begun to feel a little overwhelmed at the thought of purchasing a home large enough to accommodate as many of them as possible, when they'd called for the volunteers for the Blessing. Ah, that's right. I'd remembered. That's what I'd signed up for.
Moving with a sea of dogs that seemed to walk their owners, I'd come across the big white Blessing Tent. With a paper name tag placed over a dirty paw shaped mark on my front, I'd waited to be shown my duties.
The Guardians of my furry friends had begun to create a long, long line. The dogs really hadn't really cared to sit in the heat. However, this was one very different sort of a day, so maybe some had thought; "there must be a treat when you got to the front of the line." A horsy looking woman, with an almost perceivable halo round her head, came up to me. “Your job is to hold the holy water for the blessing. Can you do that?” “Sure.” I answered as I saw a very large, heavy looking bowl sitting on the table.
The bells had rung, or it may have been my ears. The priests had arrived, donned in brown, looking like versions of St Francis himself. I had begun to have a strange feeling of deja vu. "When was I ever a priest in a brown robe?" I pondered.
I had picked up the bowl carefully. I didn't know for sure, but I imagined holy water in the desert was at a premium. The bowl was huge and full, but I had been determined not to drop it in front of all those people. I may be a much lapsed Catholic, but I'm not sacrilegious.
The Blessings began. Dog after dog, bird after rabbit, came to the makeshift altar. They came to please their masters. A ritual of water, pray and some sniffing and growling. Not every animal cared for the robed strangers, attempting to draw symbols with water on their head. I heard comments by the more suspicious ones. “What do you think you're doing? I'll nip you if you're not careful. Haven't you heard of Stranger Danger? I don't trust men in robes!” Most of the animals however, took it all in a day's fun. And felt oddly more content after the Blessing. “Maybe the masters won't worry about us so much any more. And maybe we won't worry about our masters. That would be good, Scotty dog hoped. "Maybe Top Dog God and their God is the same God," spoke an old, yet alert looking German Shepard.
I had been distracted from the weight of the bowl of holy water, by many interesting comments such as these, and the enthusiasm of the priests, as they flung water over anything live that came close to them.
As the ceremony concluded, I'd finally put the ‘blessed' bowl on the altar. To my red faced horror, I saw that the front of my t-shirt had been soaked with water. I had been blessed in a very different way, and had looked inappropriately ‘perky.' The dogs acted as if everything was perfectly fine, thank goodness. And people seemed to follow suit.
Laughter is my favorite way to avoid uncomfortable moments, so I chortled a big "Thank you" to the priests, and a quiet, "Thanks, to the God of Interesting Days."
“It's either me or the cat,” Rena spat out as she explained her problem in her new relationship to me. This cat hisses, snarls and swats her, anytime she visits her new love. He has done it to all his girlfriends, making it impossible for sleepovers, (bummer!). Anyway, I visit Billy and the couple at his home.
Billy is under the bed, one of his favorite places. I sit on top of it and we start chatting. He begins to tell me Jack (the boyfriend) is the only human that has ever cared for him. He was mistreated as a kitten, kicked and often not feed. His first owners took his front claws off and he felt real scared. He couldn't take care of himself, and they certainly didn't take care of him.
Jack found him in a park, and took him in. Billy told me he's “not a scaredy cat” and I told him he can't be an angry cat either. He also told me he is desperate to be an outdoor cat. He is fascinated with birds. He wants Jack to let him go out whenever he wants and he will really try not to be so mean. He doesn't like people much, but he will try not to feel so threatened anymore with those close to Jack.
Billy has only purred a handful of times in his 4 years of life. It's a rare day he can feel that relaxed; that safe. He told me the energy in his body from purring is very strong and you have to be really relaxed to enjoy it. Billy wished “these two could listen to me like you can.” Of course I reassured him of having a home with Jack the rest of his life and that it was safe to purr. Most importantly Jack opened his backdoor to give Billy his first taste of the outdoors since being abandoned 3 years ago.
I always cell sing for at least 10 to 15 minutes after my conversation with any animal. They respond to my frequency sounds in many different ways. Billy ran to his other hideout, under the couch. I followed him and ‘sang like a bird' (his favorite fascination)!
I am happy to report great changes after my visit to Billy. Immediately he discovered the backyard for the first time. It is his new favorite place. Rena reports a much friendlier Billy who actually hangs out with her now. And believe it or not, he has started purring. Now Billy is never going to be a big ball of fluffy love, but he can be a happy cat.
I meet Lenny for the first time and I‘m nearly bowled over by his intensity. He is so solid physically and so enthusiastic I can hardly get through the door. Lenny can't quite get a handle on things. I can't get a handle on Lenny.
Anyway, I finally get to my seat in the living room (shared with you know who). We begin to chat about bits and pieces, just sort of getting used to each other when he starts wheezing and coughing like an old man.
Sara said it was asthma, an aftereffect of an illness he contracted not long after her son Mark died 2 years before. I waited till he settled down and asked him, ‘Why are you so stressed out? What's got you worried Lenny? I'd really like to help.
“I'm worried about everything. Is there going to be another change? I don't understand what's going on. I'm just anxious, even when I'm happy. He said.
“Well let's get to the bottom of this shall we, I invited. I bet you miss Mark something awful. It must have been terrible; Sara tells me you two were very close.
“I think I was closer to him than anyone. We were always together. We sometimes still are, you know he comes around here occasionally, he confided.
“It's so great when I see him. But you know the strangest thing about this all. Sara can't see him. It's so frustrating. I nearly go crazy trying to tell her. She just looks so sad sometimes I can hardly stand it. I wish she could hear me. I send pictures to her head and she ignores them. It's just so hard being a dog and trying to get understood. I could almost lick your face off, I'm just so happy you are here. You can tell her that Mark is still with her. Maybe she will stop blaming herself, Lenny says; as he attempts to do what he said he would, exfoliate my face with his tongue.
Deep grief can hit you like a freight train and derail your life, way off the tracks.
I tell Sara what Lenny was saying, just as I promised. Ever so delicately, I talk with her about her son, as Lenny adds his insights about his Master. It is a sacred conversation. I hope it helps confirm in this lovely lady, that we are never separate from the ones we love.
I was invited to Arlene and BJ's home to meet Katon and Rolley, two dogs with much frolicking enthusiasm. Katon is the new member of a family and everyone is concerned about his horrible ‘dog screaming', whenever he goes for a walk
“People rush out of their houses thinking someone is murdering a baby. It's awful and really embarrassing. Says Arlene, as her sweet face looks a little stricken. Why does he do that?
“Maybe we better start at the beginning. I say as the two dogs, Katon and Rolley start showing off for, me as males sometimes do. Tell me how Katon came into your lives?
“He was found, running with some stray dogs. He was in the pound, his days were numbered, says Arlene.
“We really didn't plan on getting another dog, resisted it for years, but Katon just spoke to us. BJ added.
Rolley pipes in “I knew Katon was coming here before any of you. I tried to tell you, you know. I direct the question to Katon. ”What was your life like before, Katon? He looks at me seriously as he jumps on the couch and begins.
“I remember getting dumped in the desert by someone. I came across a pack of dogs and keep following them till they eventually accepted me, somewhat grudgingly I think. “I lived in the desert and on the street with these dogs. It was real tough.
“They taught me how to find food and water. They taught me to stick with the pack. Most importantly I learned that the only way to protect myself from their meanness was by making the most blood curdling sounds known to dogs possible, whenever they picked on me. What else could I do? I was the smallest dog and the youngest I think.
As Katon tells the unadorned story of his past, tears fill everyone's eyes except Rolley's. Rolley had heard the story from Katon months ago, and seemed more interested in the life he shares with him now.
“You know I'm rather good at Dog Screaming. Katon states proudly.
“I know you are, but it's hard for everyone to listen to it. You don't need to do it anymore. OK? I'd shown him how to control the urge (by doing it myself), and transferring a visual thought on a wave of feeling. I explained my scream suppressing technique, as best as I could, to Arlene and BJ. Katon may need reminding on how to do it for a few days or more.
Katon made sure I listened to his requests for a special game to be played with him. Rolley made sure I told the girls what a good judge of character he is.
“I am NEVER wrong, really. Ask BJ she'll tell you. He confidently expresses.
BJ confirms Rolley's statement with not so startled. “He's right you know. He's always right.
I sang a song to the whole family, one of bonding and new beginnings. The dogs jumped for joy at the sounds, and then eventually settled into their spot on the floor. Arlene and BJ settled immediately and felt the joy in their souls.
Their family was complete and all was well in Katon's world.
I was feeling tense that day as I walked to the shoreline. My drum under my arm was feeling as heavy as my heart. It is rather a compulsive habit of mine, carrying a musical instrument whenever I travel more than 20 miles from home. What would happen if I wanted to just burst into song somewhere and I didn't have some beat to go with it?
I arrived at the perfect place, a nice smooth rock 10 feet from the water. Despite my miserable mood, my spirit opened up to the moment. It was a gorgeous day, and I was on vacation. And Hey! There's plenty of other fish in the sea. No more blue ringed octopus for me.
Anyway, I drummed, I sang, then sang some more. My hurt turned to strength, and then disappeared into oneness. Oneness changed to emptiness and then it hurt some more. Sounds like spiritual fun, but I felt purposeless and not very attractive. Alright you guessed it, my boyfriend dumped me.
As waves of rather pathetic self pity washed over me, I began to observe a huge mass of seaweed moving down the coast towards me. I continued to sing, with my eyes mesmerized by this large moving mass in the water. It took 20 minutes or so for me to recognize that this was not algae on the water, but hundreds of seabirds.
My excitement grew as I realized they were coming straight toward me. I couldn't stop drumming; I wasn't going to stop singing. Somehow the seabirds were hearing my call.
A Majestic Procession began as I looked on in amazement. The synchronized flock began to shape in a huge spiral formation. As the seabirds completed the spiral right in front of me they took one deep dive and then flew off in a circular whirl of beating wings.
I scrambled for my camera with one hand drumming, and sing sounds of joy, I snap a couple of shots. At least there is a little proof of them hearing my call. Applause breaks out behind me, I look. There are at least 50 people in the park looking at me.
“How did you do that? “Who are you? “Are you going to be here tomorrow? They ask. “I really don't know.” I answer to everything. I am going to be OK though, that's for sure. Just then, a guy walks out of the crowd and starts talking about drums with me. His eyes are piercing, his nose is sort of beaky and his feathered haircut is a little out of date. Well, actually, this is a true story so I must be honest. His nose was perfectly human.
Melissa is a pretty 8 year old girl. She has always spoken her mind, ever since she learned speak. She has a friend who has been with her since birth. His name is Samuel. He knows all her secrets, and loves her in a way that no one else does. He wants her to be happy more than anything in the world. Samuel would do anything for Melissa. I don't know where you would find a better friend.
“Well, he's not perfect. Samuel does have real bad breath. He always wakes me up at the crack of dawn. Sometimes he stares at me weird especially when I forget to play with him.” states Melissa.
Samuel gives us both a very weird look, and comments, “There is nothing wrong with my breath.” You ought to smell your breath in the morning.”
Ah, OK. “Now let's have a look at you Samuel. I hear you are sick?” “It's my leg, I can't walk very well. I'm real tired too. I still get up when the birds do, but I can't play much,” laments Samuel.
“Are you in pain?” I worriedly ask.
“Not much,” he answers as he wags his tail. “I'll tell you if am, don't you worry. I don't like pain.
“I don't either” I reply.
Melissa had a very tough time last year. She was diagnosed with cancer. The sarcoma was in her right leg. She spent many months under medical treatment and chemotherapy and is now free of disease and healthy.
Just around the time Melissa was cured, Samuel began to get sick. He began to limp and lost his appetite for corn chips snacks, (a definite sign.) The vet gave the bad news; Samuel had cancer in his right leg. Now it's time for Samuel's story.
“Tell me about your life Samuel?” I ask.
“Well, firstly, I love this family, and they love me a lot. I was meant to be here, in this family.” He stated very convincingly.
What, did you choose this family, Samuel?” And as I pondered the mystical consequences of that statement he replied.
"No, 'silly' they choose me!"
“Did you get the cancer to somehow help Melissa?” I asked quietly. “I don't know why I got cancer, but I know I tried to take her pain away. I am an old dog and I've had a dog's life here, it's been great, I've loved my life.” Now the tail really gets wagging.
"Just tell them its part of The Plan, its part of the Big Plan," Samuel says with a knowing look in his eyes.
Picture it. A father takes his cute three year old daughter for her first swimming lesson. She is excited. She wants to be a good swimmer like her dad. Little Lоza has often wondered what fish feel like in their world. In 'almost' Outback Australia there are no swimming pools. Actually, there is a big shortage of pools nationwide.
The ocean baths are the place for a serious swimmer. Rumor has it; huge waves regularly pummel people on the rocks. There is no such thing as a quiet few laps, especially for the small, weak or unlucky.
So Lоza and her dad walk down to the creek not too far from home. She begins to get a sinking feeling in her stomach when he shows her the 'flotation device'. It is a large, old, empty paint tin, with Grandpa's belt geometrically wrapped around it, and then of course around her.
Now Lоza's father doesn't stand for much fuss and argument. And Lоza already knew she was an adventuress, even at three. So despite a strange foreboding about the whole event, she jumped, before he threw her in.
Do I need to tell you about the physics of paint tins? Anyway, it was the usual, sink or swim. She was just furiously getting a handle on not opening her mouth and screaming and drowning when she saw it.
The beady eyes blinked at her. It was curled up on the lily pad. Its tongue stuck out as it said. "Stay out of my pool! What are you doing? I have babies here. Stop scaring me! Go away!"
It was a black snake, lying on the leaves looking at me as if I were a big frog.
Those small legs of Lоza kicked like a power boat, her arms struck out for China. Her scream was watery. “Snake, Snake.”
Dad comes to the rescue. No, He doesn't grab her out of the creek. Nor does he hit the snake on the head with a stick. He says in calm and matter of fact voice, "It's not a poisonous snake, Lоza. It can't hurt you. It's only a snake. You're swimming really well now, keep it up. Kick those legs; keep your head up and your mouth shut. Go girl, that's it! What a good swimmer you are!"
There was nowhere else to go but up. She swam thru her fear, and shared the creek very nervously that afternoon with that scared little snake. Her eyes were never off it, the whole time. The old paint tin held that little bit of air like the last breath of an opera singer, and struggled with its imaginary buoyancy.
And in the strangest way, I think that little black water snake taught Lоza to swim.
I was called out one evening to help a couples bird with his chronic feather pulling. Little Bit is a large African Grey parrot with intelligent beady eyes and a particularly sweet nature. He lives with John and Mary, his human companions and Winston and Sara his dog friends. His feathers, or lack of then, made him look like something the cat dragged in. I was very concerned; there were obviously no cats here. Little Bit was pulling himself to pieces, feather by feather.
Little Bit is a great communicator. Earlier that day, as I meditated on the situation, he telepathically told me why he pulled his feathers.
‘I want a little green bird in my life. A female bird, that loves to sing. That’s all I want. Please tell them. It will fix everything, he pleaded.
So as I sat down with Mary, one of the first things out of my mouth was, ‘Mary, I don’t usually come in and suggest people to get another animal, but Little Bit is very clear on what is going to fix him. He wants a small female bird friend.’
I walked over to Little Bit. ‘What else do you need? Now is your time my friend, tell me.’
‘When I pull my feathers, my skin gets really itchy, it drives me crazy. I need clay real bad. I’m craving the trace minerals. There are colored salts and minerals, white, red and brown.’
As Little Bit speaks I get a picture in my head, a memory of the Macaws licking clay on the banks of a large river in the Amazon Jungle. I must tell you of that time as it was a defining moment for me.
Not 10 minutes before I witnessed the colorful sight of a hundred or so Macaws having their mid morning clay snacks, I accidentally and dangerously changed the course of my life. Picture it: a jungle path in the Amazon. I didn’t need a machete, but I did need to watch my footing. The roots of the huge trees had woven their belonging across the trail. My eyes turned up to the canopy looking for monkeys as I stumbled and fell on to my destiny - The Blow Dart Tree. I don’t know the official name for it; there are probably a million species of plants in the Peruvian jungle. All I know is that they are the sharpest looking black thorn darts I have ever seen and twenty six of them were in my right hand. Rosa, the guide, who had been so informative, teaching us about the plants and animals here, began to talk about this deadly yet useful tree.
‘Oh Mon Dias, the Blow Dart Tree! The Indians use these thorns for blow darts. They milk Curare from the poison frog and place a drop of fluid on the end. One dart will kill a large monkey in less than a minute. These thorns are poison too, Lоza. Quick, lets get to the river, there‘s more light there. We have to get them out NOW, Rapido Rapido!’
In less than a minute, several lives pass before me. How many of the regular poison darts can kill a monkey? I think, Is this the end? Oh no, don’t freak out, stay calm. I say to myself. I dredge around in my shadow- self looking for any and all bad habits to give up to God, in exchange for not dying on the spot. Several came to mind immediately while I was already wondering in a guilty sort of way, why did this happen to me?
We reach the clearing at the river just as the first birds reached the clay lick. Using a needle first and then a pocket knife, Rosa dug out every dart she could as she explained to the rest of the group theories on why the Macaws come to this place at a certain time every day.
I can’t tell you how painful it is as she cut out the darts, but I can say I felt a strong compulsion not to scream too loud in case the birds might fly away. I watched those birds as my hand began to swell and color with poison. I stared at them till Rosa had cleaned out every dart she could.
My thoughts swung like a monkey in my mind from the wonder of the birds, to the unreal and scary situation I had put myself in. I know without a doubt that those beautiful birds had kept me calm enough at a time when I truly needed it. It had slowed the poison circulation and had allowed me to get back to the hut before going unconscious for about six hours.
No, I did not experience a shaman’s trip. I went deep into nothingness. I traveled back to the beginning of creation and merged into the blackness and stayed there for a long time.
I woke up from this Absolute Void as the Howler Monkeys nearby, screeched my name. Hans and Peter my Dutch buddies were shaking my shoulders violently and Rosa was praying to the jungle god to bring me back home to my body.
That night I enjoyed a great meal and a couple of Peruvian beers. I figured I’d better enjoy every moment I had as I knew I was not ‘out of the jungle yet’.
The next morning I awoke (with relief). I was still alive and the canoe was coming to get me out of here. I looked at my hands. Both were covered with red, yellow and green spots. My right hand still had some broken pieces in it, and looked and felt like it needed urgent medical care.
My mantra that morning as we putted down the river was, "I’m not going to die in the jungle." As I caught the jungle bus, then airplane to Cusco it became "I’m not going to die in Peru."
Now you think that was scary? What do you think surgery and three days in a Peruvian Hospital is like? That was much scarier. I had great trouble explaining what plant had poisoned me. "La Planta Blow Dart," I said. Unfortunately, we were at an elevation of 12,000 feet so no one had heard of blow darts here.
I had left my suitcase at the hotel, and the Andes Ambulance took me to an old hospital partly encased in Incan walls. All I thought to carry, like any good traveler, was my pouch holding my money, my passport, and thankfully, a small Quecchua phrasebook. Quecchua is the language of the Inca’s. It is still spoken throughout Peru.
I was hooked up to an I.V. of drugs with dangerously long Spanish names. I waited until it was time for the extraction of the broken darts. No one spoke English. My Spanish was basic, so I began to talk to the nurses and doctor in Queecchua.
‘Nama wasaan maki maki: I am in pain hand, hand. I cried. Allichu ama chyta ruwaychu: Please don’t do that! ‘ Chaki washan: I am thirsty. It sounded a lot like Japanese. It was a dark comedy of which I couldn’t escape. I had a very kind nurse at night and a mean Nurse Hattchett type by day.
I woke up in the middle of surgery, and swore my head off.(in English ) until they knocked me out good and proper for half the night. I knew I had to get out of there, ‘Rapido’. My lungs were not affected by the poison. I figured by this time I had nothing to lose so I basically shouted up a storm. My voice could be heard in the graves of the Incan Kings buried down the road.
Two hours later, I was out of there and ready to continue my vacation. I had spent a fortune getting here, and I had dreamt of coming to this country for a long time. I was going to enjoy this holiday, if it was the last thing I did. But my extraordinary journey to Machhu Picchu, Lake Titicaca, and the Inca Valley will be expressed in another story at another time.
I arrived back in The States a month later with red spotty hands, a damaged liver and a gratefulness for my life I’d forgotten I could feel. My health has returned even better, after many months of herbs, health food and no beer. I have lost my Australian palate for alcohol, I just don’t like it. If that isn’t some sort of miracle I don’t know what is!
Thanks for reminding me Little Bit. This is the first time I have written this experience down. I certainly had no plans to relive all that in my mind. It feels good to let that memory out. Who knows what sort of weird phobia I could have developed over it? Fear of trees perhaps or fear of adventure? How awful!
Okay, so now back to Little Bit and his story. He shares his home Winston and Sara, two special Highland terriers. They both love Little Bit. He can wander high and low and he is always safe with them. However, Winston particularly loves to hunt.
‘Squirrels, mice, birds, anything that moves in the desert... He tells me.
‘I’m pretty good, and I have to taste my kill.
‘That’s probably why I throw up from time to time, he says.
Mary mentions Winston has a bad time in the car. "He barks like crazy. It’s like he is having an anxiety attack. He really is difficult. Please ask him what’s going on."
Winston answers, "I need to be told every thing. Absolutely everything! I do not like not knowing what’s going on. I’ll try anything. I love adventures, I may be a dog, but I like to be treated as an equal being. Love goes along way. I love my life here, but Animals have Rights that most humans have never considered."
John enters in the midst of our conversation. I catch him up on everything and we discuss what type of bird Little Bit would like as his new feathered friend. Little Bit has convinced everyone, that was going to help him stop plucking his feathers.
I get a picture once again in my head. I see a beautiful little female bird.
‘It’s small and it’s green. Not pale green, but bright green. I say.
‘Oh my God! Splutters John. "When I broke up a relationship, nine years ago, we split up everything. We had 2 birds. I took Little Bit and she got Baby Bird. Baby Bird was small and bright green."
"Was that when he started pulling his feathers out John?" I asked.
"Yes it was," he replied. We all looked at Little Bit in astonishment. He had lost his love nine years ago and had never forgotten.
I serenaded Little Bit with some Cell Singing. I am strangely humbled as I stand before this sentient being. I feel like I’m in some sort of Galactic Talent Show. Giving it my all, I share my sounds and I am mesmerized by his presence. Music is one great way to reach any species. Winston and Sara hear it as a lullaby, and fall into a deep healing sleep.
As I am standing up to leave, I put my handbag over my shoulder.
"Bye now," Little Bit says to me .
"Bye now Little Bit," I reply.
Nine days later I am quite surprised when I get a call from Mary. She sounded very upset. "Lоza, I got a little green bird for Little Bit. He’s so happy. Winston is calm in the car now, it’s great, but as soon as he saw the new bird he went crazy. He wants to kill her. He’s so strong I could hardly control him. What will I do?" She asks.
"Did you tell Winston you were getting a bird friend for Little Bit?" I ask.
No, it didn’t occur to me.
"You know he needs to know everything that’s going on, absolutely everything."
‘He’s furious. I can feel it. The first thing you have to do is go outside and apologize to him for not sharing such an important decision with him,’ I advise.
"Have a talk and explain why there is a new green bird. Separate them, and I’ll be over tomorrow." I add.
I cross my fingers and send a telepathic explanation to Winston and a "Hang in there", to the new bird.
It didn’t take long the next day to settle everything down. I talked to everyone, explained it all very, very clearly. I got a promise from John to take Winston hunting, (a hike in the desert, looking for any creature that moved.) Apparently it had got his juices flowing thinking about Baby Bird in a murderous way for the last 24 hours. I got a promise from Winston that he would leave the bird alone. Which to this very day he has!
For sometime after this experience, I pondered the nature of memory. The old imprints of pain or fear often etch deep at the edge of our awareness, haunting the joy out of our life.
Whether it’s feathers you’re pulling out, or Blow Darts, you'd better find out what makes you happy.