Leiah Bowden

Rohnert Park, CA, USA

I've always been an intuitive, and have felt clear connections to the natural world. I began receiving transmissions from the divine in the 1970's and in the ensuing years have learned to perceive guidance and communication from animals, trees, rocks, water, and myriad emanations of light throughout the omniverse.

Days after my only child went off to a New York State college less than two hours away from where we lived, I did what I had heard other mothers did when the nest emptied out: I sat on his bed and cried. My one precious little bird had flown. How ridiculous, I thought as I sobbed. “He isn’t dead,” I told myself. “He’s only in Delhi.”

And I knew immediately that what I needed was to be around horses. I had always loved horses but never knew any well. I had ridden a horse at least once a year throughout my childhood on trail rides at Bennett’s in Lake Luzerne, took riding lessons as my required phys ed course at Skidmore College, and went riding a couple of times in New York City’s Central Park when I lived there in the late 60s.
Days later I was feeding and hugging the horses in a friend’s small herd at 7AM and 7PM every day, and feeling emotionally whole again.

I loved the horses, their smell, their bulk, the way they would rest their heads on my shoulder or the top of my own head. One day, the title of a book on audio tape caught my eye in the feed room. I regret immensely not having written down the title and author of the book, and cannot remember either, but the title included the words “Animals” and “Communicate.” I recalled the story the animal communicator had told at a 1989 Tucson conference on interspecies communication about how she’d been able to help an elephant in a zoo. The staff had called her in because the elephant was behaving uncharacteristically aggressively. The elephant told her that it had a pain in its foot, and sure enough, there was a sizeable foreign object imbedded there. I wondered if I might be able to help animals in some way, as well. With the owner’s permission, I borrowed the set of tapes. As a lifelong meditator, I easily understood the principles and the method of intuitive communication the book outlined.

The day after I finished listening to the book on tape, I led Springer, a young bay pregnant with her first foal, from the corral to the barn with happy anticipation. She was always docile and friendly. I looked forward to hearing what she might have to say and perhaps being able to facilitate any unacknowledged needs’ being met.

I attached her bridle to the cross-ties in the grooming area so I could use both my hands while she stood patiently, loosely and safely tethered. I picked up the brush with my right hand and laid my left hand on her shoulder. I circled her rib cage slowly and gently, massaging as I went, moving back to her flank. I said silently, “Your baby is growing beautifully, Springer, getting nice and big. Soon you’re going to have a lovely baby.”

And I heard in my mind, in a low, nervous voice, “I don’t want this baby.”

I had not been prepared for this. What I felt and heard from Springer took me aback with the force of its emotional charge. Fortunately, my experience as a mother, teacher, and as a counselor to at-risk teenagers grounded me so I could remain calm. I continued grooming her, and said back, silently again, “Oh, Springer, I’m so sorry to hear that. Why don’t you want your baby?” This was amazing. It felt and sounded exactly like a real conversation. It was a real conversation.

“Because,” she said immediately, sadly, as if repeating a mantra, “it’s not good to have babies.”

I did an inward double-take. Had I really heard what I just thought I’d heard?

“Why do you say that?”

“Allie told me.” Allie, a lovely Palomino in her ninth pregnancy, and Springer were constant companions.

This first communication experiment delivered more of a punch that I had anticipated. It was clear immediately that just as I needed to be open and willing to consider uncomfortable challenges when speaking with others of my own species, communicating with other species required the same.

“Oh, Springer, sweetheart, I am so sorry to hear that.” And, indeed, I was sad to know that nervousness and confusion riddled her awareness. She had taken on the belief of her trusted friend, who had convinced her of an impending disaster. “That may have been Allie’s experience, but maybe it will not be yours. I hope you can just love this beautiful baby inside you and enjoy him or her. You’ll see. There is such love with a baby.”

I was eager to hear what Allie had to say.

I finished grooming and massaging Springer, led her back to the corral, and drew Allie out and into the ties. I began the same, caressing her neck, her shoulders, her bulging abdomen.

“Hello,” I said, beginning the process that was still less than an hour old for me.

“Hello,” I heard back as a lackluster response.

Believing that she might not want to hear how lovely and big her baby was getting, if my understanding of Springer’s communication was correct, I forewent small talk.
“Allie, did you tell Springer that having babies isn’t good?”

“Yes,” I heard, with a bitter clarity that stopped my hand. Picture a slightly depressed teenager, head down, brows knitted, looking up just long enough to give an answer she never thought anyone would want to hear.

“Why?” I leaned my forehead against her shoulder, stroking her.

“Because they leave you.” For a brood mare, heartbreak soured every pregnancy. And this would also be true for the one inside her now. There was nothing I could say, just as there would be nothing I could say to a human mother whose babies are taken, time after time.

“Oh, Allie. I am so sorry.”

I knew I had to report to the person who had lent me the book, Allie’s owner. When I told her, she listened and to her credit, made no attempt to diminish or dismiss the tragedy she didn’t know she had been facilitating year after year. I didn’t ask, nor do I know, what happened to the foals born that year. Soon after my conversations with Springer and Allie, the barn’s landlord sold the property, and I no longer had access to Allie and Springer.

This first foray into animal communication was a blind plunge into heartbreak. Suddenly, I understood that this path would demand my full attention at every step. Far from mere translation, this would be a journey of advocacy and if possible, healing at the soul level for both the animals I would meet and for myself. It wasn’t until years later, looking back on these two seminal conversations, that it hit me that they mirrored what had driven me to stand with these two other mothers: our children had left us.

Even so, and perhaps now more motivated by the tragedy of my first encounters to listen carefully to the animals I would be privileged to open to, I knew I had made the right decision to enrich my suddenly empty heart.

Since that day, it has been my honor to help people understand their animals' journeys, and to help those animals by serving as a bridge.

(c) Leiah Bowden 2018. All rights reserved.