 Dr. Rima Morrell has at least two guiding passions in life. One is as an anthropologist of the sacred, specializing in Polynesia. The other is being the co-founder and director of The Living Ark, an animal charity that aims to educate others about the spiritual value of every creature. She also gives personal soul purpose and animal communication readings. She has written The Hawaiian Oracle and The Sacred Power of Huna.
Visit www.livingark.com to find out more about Rima's animal rescue work, and www.hunalight.com for information on having a personal soul reading, and on courses in Hawaiian shamanism.
Dear Friends,
An interest in ecology – or re-greening the earth – has become trendy under David Cameron's Tories. But there is another, more important way to re-green the earth – practising compassion. That is the way we grow back, like a young plant, towards the light.
I sometimes think of human life as a ladder of 'lessons in compassion'. Lessons can be big or small. Their size depends on us. And what shows where we're 'at' better than the way we treat our fellow creatures? We receive great 'brownie points' in the world of light for being kind to our 'aumakua', or animal family, especially as it's recognized there that animals are hugely violated in our present post-industrial age. So be prepared to stand up against received wisdom and follow the road of lights.
I learned a huge amount from a twelve pound lamb called Ambrose. Ambrose, native to a grassy ridge between the green hills and the blue islands. Ambrose wasn't what's called a thriving lamb. He didn't spring into the air, or run, or eat grass standing up with his relations. His bright white wool was sparse, not closely knit like the others. His black eyes, set in the black blaze running up from his chin, lacked glint. Yet paradoxically, so warped is our society, Ambrose's delicacy gave him a chance of life. Like all his young male relations, there in the place by the sea on Skye, he would have been slaughtered at summer's end. His weakness meant our charity could rescue him from the farmer. All lambs are very sensitive. Sick lambs need warmed milk every few hours, medicine and constant observation. But most of all they need love. Love with a healthy dollop of respect for their particular character. Determination, thy name is Ambrose. Even when his legs were swollen and he could hardly stand, he would stagger after the younger and healthier Lamu, and they would butt black-and-white heads. He suckled his bottle without great vigour, yet his stools were small hard pellets, from the grass he'd been eating sitting down, long head constantly nibbling. Inside, he'd sit with his nappy on, facing the wall by the door. There, on the edge of an island.
Then one evening, when I was alone and putting Ambrose's nappy on, it came to me, very gently, that it would be the last time. Yet I didn't become sad, for an umbrella of grace spread over us and settled gently. Ambrose settled too, on the carpet by the window heater in the living room, and I lay down next to him, for I knew he no longer wanted to be alone. He sat for hours, white legs stretched out in front, black eyes staring into mine, shining with all the mighty light of his soul. We were one, and it was so beautiful it was almost unbearable. I sang to him, spoke to him and told him whatever his soul decided was fine, gave him liquids and was quiet. Ambrose turned on his right side and rested his bony head on mine, and pressed his right eye into my left. Every moment belonged to God. The wind blew as dawn approached. It grew cold. Our sanctuary cat sat sentinel. Ambrose kicked his hooves, moving the energy throughout his body, still holding my eyes. Then he turned on his left side and propelled himself anti-clockwise towards the west, the isles of the blessed. His eye half closed, his mouth opened, his young white teeth showed, and he died. My grief swept in with the storm and the streaks of light over my island. Yet even within it, I feel very blessed. For I have known God, held God, died with God. And if only the rest of us could travel to the far islands as fearlessly as Ambrose. The little lamb who knew how to die.
Today, only stumps of a tea rose bush mark the grave facing west towards the islands (the roses were eaten by another lamb). So we each renew ourselves. Re-new what we once knew. It's not weird not to kill and eat animals. It's weird to do so. You cannot kill with compassion, so practise compassion and do not kill. Have a meal without meat. Save a life. And another. And another. You will be refraining from eating a creature that had a mother who loved him, a baby reaching out for nurturing just like your child. You will be refraining from eating a body grown by a soul, whether of skin and feet or wool and hooves. And Ambrose is so very glad not to have been killed without compassion, again. The opening to God's love when he was dying means his soul will nevermore need to create a cruel death.
Such riches to learn from a child- lamb, whose eyes once blazed with the love of God. We are all God. In the learning we grow green, and climb the ladder to the sun. Then, goldening, we slip off and swim out into the soul-sea of stars. I'll meet you there.
In love and recognition of every 'aumakua', eternal creature, who has suddenly left earth for the starlands – and in love and recognition for humanity, and our commitment to turning around our destruction of our green earth and her creatures.
Rima
Text & photographs © Cygnus Books 21-Dec-2006
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