Читать книгу Heart to Heart - Pea Horsley - Страница 27

The first time I saw Amelia Kinkade she was gliding past me in a long, sparkling, deep purple cloak and high heels. She was as American as a lady from Los Angeles could be; she had that look: slim, toned, tanned and highly polished, with cascading curly blonde hair. She was beautiful.

At that time Amelia was a professional animal communicator with over a decade’s experience. She was teaching all over the world and had her first book in the shops, Straight from the Horse’s Mouth. It was the best book on animal communication I’d ever read – and I’d read a few. The stories were incredible, hilarious and deeply moving. After I’d read it and discovered Amelia was coming to teach in England, I had another intuitive feeling – I knew I wanted to meet her. That is how in the summer of 2005 I came to be sitting in the dining room of ‘Brightlife’, a beautiful Georgian mansion dedicated to enlightenment and rejuvenation, on the TT motorcycle-racing Isle of Man.

On a Friday evening, two dozen or so people were sitting inside a function room with a wall of windows overlooking a field full of munching sheep. Amelia introduced the theory behind animal communication and its connection with science and quantum physics. She began by telling us that everything is energy. Human beings are energy, plants are energy and animals are energy. All this energy is connected on the most gargantuan spider’s web, a 3D picture which spreads out in every direction throughout the universe. Amelia called this ‘the Zero Point Energy Field’. She went on to elaborate that quantum physicists now tell us that every living being and physical object has a resonant holographic image logged on to the spider’s web (Zero Point Energy Field). This image is called a quantum hologram. This theory means you have a hologram, I have a hologram and so do our animals. All of us are connected, because our holograms are attached on the web, despite the fact that you are sitting there and I am sitting here.

As Amelia spoke about the harmony of science and psychic connection, it dawned on me that she was in a completely different league from the other teachers I’d met. Her understanding of animal communication was immense. When I witnessed her own ability to talk to animals and her deep heartfelt love of them, it gave me cause to feel inspired. I could see just how far you could take this ability and I knew I had a lot of work ahead of me. Amelia was setting the standard for animal communicators everywhere. She was then, and would remain, a huge source of inspiration to me, as well as hundreds of other devoted animal lovers across the globe, a role model for professional animal communicators and an ambassador for animals.

After the in-depth and brain-expanding explanation of animal communication, we were invited to try our first communication with a little white and tan terrier. His guardian had brought him in for us to communicate with and he stayed for the next 40 minutes. This was the first workshop I’d attended where a ‘real live animal’ came to help us practice – an animal guest-teacher.

The first question Amelia wanted us to ask him was: ‘What’s his favourite food?’ She told us to imagine sending an empty food bowl to him using a picture in our mind’s eye and asking him to fill it with his favourite food then return it to us.

By this time I had already attended four animal communication workshops, I knew how to make a connection with an animal and how to ask questions. This should have been puppy-play for me. However, all I felt was blank. It was as if an empty void had washed over me. I couldn’t connect. I couldn’t receive the answers. But the most disastrous feeling of all was the nothingness. I desperately tried to feel an emotional connection with the cute little dog who had taken a liking to my trousers and had begun licking them in earnest. Despite his joyful distraction, I felt numb. My heart felt closed.

After a couple of minutes’ silence, Amelia asked, ‘What did you get?’

‘Nothing,’ I replied.

She continued around the room hearing what everyone else had either seen or heard.

The second question was: ‘What about his favourite activity?’

‘What have you got?’ she cajoled.

‘Nothing,’ I said despondently.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No, nothing.’ I found myself shrinking into my chair as everyone’s eyes fell upon me.

‘Can you see what his bed is like?’ Amelia encouraged.

‘No,’ I replied uncomfortably. I felt worse and worse. With each question I felt another nail being driven into my complete lack of ability. I had lost it. The special connection had gone.

Amelia looked at me, confused, ‘Did you receive anything?’ It was as though she could tell something wasn’t quite right and that this was new for me.

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

I wanted to run – run away from the knowledge that I couldn’t communicate with animals anymore. The wonderful ability I had discovered just six months earlier had vanished for good.

Back at my guesthouse, I fell into a deep dark despair. I went to bed feeling as though I couldn’t speak about this to any of the other students and ended up tossing and turning all night.

The next day I tried to start afresh and entered the workshop room with positive thoughts. But when we began to practice our communication skills again, I struggled whilst most of the people around me seemed to find it effortless. They appeared to communicate with dogs and cats as if they’d been doing it all their life. But for me, it was another disappointing day.

Over supper that evening I had the good fortune to sit next to a talented animal communicator called Yvette Knight. She had been having amazingly accurate communications all day.

‘How are you doing?’ she asked me.

‘Not good,’ I admitted.

‘Oh, really? Why’s that?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

‘I just can’t feel anything – anything at all.’

I went on to tell her of an animal communication workshop earlier in the year, where I’d chosen to believe someone else rather than trust my own inner voice. Understandably, this had the result of completely undermining my confidence in my ability as an effective animal communicator.

‘I feel as though my heart has shut down,’ I told her.

Now Yvette is a belly dancer of gladiator proportions, with long blonde hair and the wit to disarm even the smartest of opponents. Shy and retiring, she is not. So she was very empathetic and for a while simply listened, which was just what I needed – then she came out with a few hand-picked expletives and I felt a bit better for sharing my feelings.