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, Lîza. 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. "Lîza, 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."
‘Oh no!’
‘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.
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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.
