Divining with Animal Guides: Answers from the World at Hand

by Hearth Moon Rising

Overview

A chance encounter with a shy or beautiful animal is an auspicious sign, but a sign of what? Divining with Animal Guides explores animal divination from a process perspective rather than providing generic lists of meanings. Nine animals are given in-depth treatment, many more are mentioned in passing, and all are presented with the aim of developing tools for personal insight. You will be encouraged to examine symbolic and metaphoric encounters as well as physical ones, making the material useful in both urban and wilderness settings.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781785355981
Publisher:	Hunt, John Publishing
Publication date:	02/23/2018
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	352
File size:	9 MB

About the Author

Hearth Moon Rising lives in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, where she practices a nature-based craft. Hearth’s first book, Invoking Animal Magic, was hailed for its innovative approach to connecting with animal spirits. She is an ordained priestess in two traditions, and has taught magic for over twenty-five years.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The World at Hand

Cat Tales

I saw some lions and grew afraid, I lifted my head to the moon in prayer, to the lamp of the gods, went my supplications ...

— The Epic of Gilgamesh

The scream came the instant I closed the circle. It was a loud piercing scream that seemed to come from all directions. ""A banshee!"" I thought. ""I've heard a banshee."" I had never heard a banshee before; I wasn't sure what a banshee was. That was the only word I had for a sound that fed terror into every muscle. The cry summoned a desire to run — run far away fast in any direction, just run and run and run.

The blood-curdling scream rose again.

"Perhaps it's not a banshee," was my second thought. It could be an outer space alien screeching as it prowled the earth. It could be a space alien abductor. Or it could be some kind of monster ...

Whatever it was, I was not moving. "You have cast a circle of protection," I admonished myself. "If you are serious about your magic, you must stay within it." I took a breath and stayed planted where I was.

I was actually in a fairly ordinary place: a campground at a state park along the California coast. I was only a six-mile hike from the car and I hadn't bothered with a flashlight, since the terrain was level and easy. I was feeling good as I arrived at the campsite and dumped my backpack on the ground. I was a little thirsty, but I decided to skip the drink at the faucet and jump into my ritual, not bothering to scout the place since there could be no other campers. No cars had been parked at the trailhead, and it was the middle of the week in the off-season.

Casting a circle of protection when I camped alone was standard procedure. I turned to the direction of the east, my hands raised, and prayed to the guardians of that direction, to the element of air and to the winged ones. In this direction I asked for grace.

I walked a few feet away and raised my hands in the direction of the south, where the dragons and the fiery ones dwell. I prayed for power.

In the west I raised my hands to the creatures of the watery depths, the mermaids, and I prayed for peace.

Walking to the north to complete the circle, I invoked the guardians of the earth and the unicorn. I asked for wisdom. This was when I heard the scream.

The worst thing about that scream was that it wouldn't stop to let my ears recover. A second scream came upon the tail of the first, and after the second scream came a third.

Then a fourth scream came, far away. It reverberated across the landscape and died into a faint echo. The screamer nearby responded and then another cry came from the distance.

"It's an animal," I realized. My calves relaxed and the tension poured out of my body. It was just an animal. A very large animal by the noise it was making, undoubtedly with teeth and claws, but only an animal. A known entity, more or less, with four legs and a home on earth. I took a deep breath and commenced my ceremony.

The next morning when I awoke, still inside the circle of protection, there were no animals of any size around me — only sunshine, forest, birds and campground clearing. I walked over to the faucet for that long savored drink and found big ol' cat paws in the fresh mud. I had been listening to the song of a mountain lion last night. The pipe was dripping and the lion had been lapping up the trickle like a domestic kitty drinking from a bathroom faucet.

I have since heard recordings of catamounts caterwauling and they sound similar to what I heard in that darkness, but to get the full effect those shrieks have to be right up close, not echoing over a distance. Perhaps it sounds odd that I could be alone at night in the wilderness and not attribute a wild cry to a wild animal, but being spooked by a cougar is an otherworldly experience.

I did not remain in the circle during those terrible moments to test my faith. I'm not sure I believe in faith, or at any rate I do not believe that faith is a quality that humans are obligated to pursue and cultivate. Faith is not a virtue but a gift, and if we humans are to have faith it is incumbent on the gods to earn our trust. I stayed in the circle because it made no sense to build a sphere of safety and then run off panicked through the countryside. To do so would have invalidated my magic. To do so would have invalidated all I had studied, all I had achieved, all that lay ahead of me. What had been put to the test was not my faith but my commitment.

The ancient Egyptians had a saying that went something like, Sekhmet yesterday; Bast today. It means that Sekhmet, the wild lion goddess, gives way to Bast, the domestic cat goddess. Fierceness alternating with gentleness. Hardship alternating with reward. So it was fitting that my encounter with the feline kingdom a few weeks later would be sweet and playful.

I was hiking back to the car an hour after sunrise, having spent another night solo backpacking. Rising above a crest I found below me a mountain lion playing in the open field: pouncing, flipping around, chasing herself, leaping in the air. I had never heard that the mean cats played, but there was no other explanation for what I witnessed over the next five minutes. Eventually I moved toward the cat, since she was directly in my path, and as soon as she became aware of my presence she turned and skedaddled. Evidently mountain lions were also scaredycats.

My next wildcat encounter would not be as amusing.

It didn't start out as a cougar hunt; it never does. I decided I would do a vision quest. I would go out on my own, build a fire, and instead of sleeping I would stay up all night and have visions.

I chose the dark moon for my journey. I walked a few miles along a deserted beach, with cliffs along the edge that had small caves and alcoves. When I reached a sheltered place I pulled firewood out of my backpack, gathered kindling along the beach, built a small fire, and in the approaching twilight commenced scrying into the flames. I didn't have any visions.

I sat there a long time, getting up only to add more fuel. It began spitting rain and I became chilled even with the fire. I felt silly, shivering all by myself in a deserted place with a car less than five miles away and a warm bed within a few hours' drive. "This is boring," I said to myself. I gathered my belongings and scattered the fire. As I stamped out the last embers, I had a vision.

A fat Chinese Buddha appeared, so rotund that I could not discern the outline of his body within my psychic frame of reference. I intuitively understood that he appeared to me thus to show that he was bigger than I could envision. The limits of his influence were beyond the scope of my understanding.

The Buddha raised his hand in a gesture of protection and the apparition dissolved. I commenced my journey home.

As I trekked northward, the cliffs at my right and the ocean to my left, I discovered it was not raining at all; the fine droplets were from an unusually rough tide. How had I blotted out the sound of that surf? I realized that I was now in danger of being cut off from dry land; cliffs to one side of me with water butting up against them. Though it was very dark, I put my flashlight in my backpack because I needed both hands to scramble over the slippery rocks. I felt angry with myself for having bumbled into such a dangerous situation.

Finally the cliffs ended and the beach opened up. I had made it. I unloaded my backpack and retrieved my flashlight.

I was now only two miles from the car, two rather slow miles over sand or a short brisk walk via a trail close by. The logical option was to take the trail, but I felt an unexplained reluctance. It was one of those feelings that don't make sense at the time, but you understand later. I was sopping wet from struggling with the surf, and I was rattled, so despite my misgivings, the trail won out.

I practically ran along the narrow path, so I was very close before I saw her. She was huge, the largest carnivorous beast I had confronted in the wild. She appeared confused. She moved a few steps from the beam of my flashlight and stood there, staring at me.

"You're supposed to run away," I said helpfully. The conventional wisdom was that cougars would not attack humans unless cornered, though they might possibly eat children. Many well-publicized deaths from unprovoked mountain lions have occurred since, but this was the prevailing belief at the time. I was not reassured by this while standing face-to-face with my cougar, however, because I am not a large woman. I thought to myself, "I hope this cougar understands that I'm a grown-up and not a child."

"Listen, you're blocking the path," I reasoned. "Turn and follow this other path, or run back the way you came. I have to go in this direction because my car is there."

The mountain lion took a few steps forward, slightly left of my shoulder.

"Okay, I give you the path," I said quickly. "I'll go another way." I took a small step backward and shone my flashlight directly in the animal's eyes. I took another slow step backward, and another, and another. I began shining the flashlight away, then back in her eyes, then away, then back, rationalizing this would interfere with her ability to focus. She remained still.

As I finally turned away, I let out the loudest, most terrifying scream I could muster, just to give her second thoughts about following me. "Take that, you big scream machine," I thought.

My relationship with wilderness changed that night. After my third cougar encounter I still went out by myself, sometimes after dark, but I interacted with my environment in a different way. Hearing an unfamiliar sound I would investigate not only out of curiosity, but also out of concern for safety. I remained vigilant; I became cautious. Magical protection was no longer an abstract concept. Once there was a girl who roamed the wilderness alone at night, aware that there were mountain lions in the woods and completely unafraid. I am no longer that girl.

A few weeks later I encountered another wildcat at night, this one standing in front of my tent. Even at a distance I could tell this was no cougar. "Much too small — maybe a young bobcat," I mused. Still I felt a twist of fear in my heart as she rushed toward me —

And then I realized this was only a domestic yellow cat, gone feral. She had been waiting for me, to say hello. The kitty rubbed against me and purred as I petted her. I praised her fervently. She accepted my tribute with warmth, then turned and bounded back into the brush.

Sekhmet yesterday; Bast today.

Though the ancient Egyptians plumbed the very depths of feline mysteries, modern research on the cat has been remarkably slow in coming. The first scientific exploration of domestic and wild cat behavior was a German treatise by Paul Leyhausen published in 1956. The dearth of information before hidden camera technology is somewhat understandable, as the solitary forest cats are elusive and well camouflaged, while cats such as the Canada Lynx and the Snow Leopard inhabit remote inhospitable geography. Still, the domestic cat is reasonably accessible. Research on the domestic cat has until recently focused on health issues, but in the past twenty years there has been progress in other areas. Behavior studies of both feral and house cats have proven so fascinating, for scientists and for cat owners, that researchers are wondering why the study of cat behavior has remained so long the purview of writers and eccentrics.

Part of the reluctance has to do with the well accepted notion that cats are individualists. There is no such thing as an ordinary cat, said a fortune cookie I once received, also a quote attributed to the French author Colette. Scientists like to do things in a standardized way, with all variables accounted for, so how could a methodology be developed for a population so predictably unpredictable? Moreover, how could general conclusions be drawn and how could they be replicated in other studies?

Researchers began, logically enough, by seeing if they could objectively verify what "everybody knows" about cats. Are cats individualists in personality and temperament? (Yes, very much.) Do cats bond better with people when handled as kittens? (Again, yes.) Are cats good at catching mice? (Come on.) Are Siamese Cats loud and chatty? (Now you're being ridiculous.) Often this kind of research is boring and seems pointless, but occasionally there are surprises. Have you heard that the house cat is maddeningly "independent"? It turns out that our puny domestic cat is more like the big bad lion than other cats in one critical area: she is a highly social animal.

Felines in a multi-cat household have no choice but to learn to get along, but studies of feral domestic cats reveal that mother cats choose to raise kittens cooperatively, even nursing kittens who are not their own. This is not because they are like certain species of birds, fooled because they cannot recognize their offspring. Mother cats know their kittens and kittens know their mother. If availability of food permits, daughters and sisters remain with the cat family as adults. Sons will wander off and join another group, but in a large cat family with stable food resources there will be multiple unrelated male members of the group interacting in a hierarchy that has complex rules. The social order within feral domestic cat colonies does not appear to be mere accommodation around a food source. A study from Saudi Arabia compared wild domestic cats with their Felis silvestris libyca cousins, the species from whom all modern cats were domesticated. Both species congregated around the food source, but the Felis silvestris libyca developed an accommodation strategy while the domestic cats formed a bona fide social group.

Feral cats live in groups only when there is a rich, reliable source of food nearby, such as a fishing dock or garbage dump. When food sources become unreliable or dispersed, meaning cats must rely entirely on hunting small animals, the domestic cat reverts to a more solitary existence. The remarkable adaptivity of the domestic cat may partly explain her "individuality": she adjusts her lifestyle to fit the situation. The range of survival strategies employed by feral domestic cats has caused biologists to reevaluate the role of environment in determining animal behavior. What has been assumed to be evolutionary adaptation through DNA may be precipitated more by spontaneous adjustments to circumstance than has been supposed. Place feral kittens from the same litter in wildly differing habitats and their behaviors will be quite different.

Throughout this discussion I've been using the odd term "feral domestic cat," which sounds like a contradiction. I employ this oxymoron because it's the simplest, least confusing way to refer to this species when it returns to the wild. There are indoor domestic house cats, outdoor domestic cats who may never go inside but still rely on humans for food and medical care, feral domestic cats who are basically on their own even though they may take advantage of garbage piles and the occasional handout, and small wildcats who may also eat refuse or the rodents congregating around human habitations. These wildcats are in some cases the stock from which the domestic cat was derived, and their behavior patterns may be influenced by human settlements just like their feral domestic cousins. Hybridization between the two groups further complicates the picture. It's fair to ask whether "wild" small cats are really wild, and certainly many cat owners wonder if their "domestic" cat really is domesticated.

The oldest evidence of a symbiosis between cats and humans comes from Cyprus, from a grave with human and cat remains dating back to 7000 BCE. What makes this skeleton tantalizing is that were no cats naturally living on Cyprus at this time, so this cat (or an ancestor) would have been captured or even bred somewhere else, suggesting a significant human-cat relationship. The Cyprus cat is of the subspecies Felis sylvestris lybica, the African Wildcat, the subspecies from which the domestic cat, Felis catus, was derived. The African Wildcat is a desert cat native to North Africa and the Middle East.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Divining with Animal Guides"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Hearth Moon Rising.
Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The World at Hand,
Chapter 2: Into the Swamp,
Chapter 3: By the Numbers,
Chapter 4: In Formation,
Chapter 5: Under the Rock,
Chapter 6: Seeing the Puzzle,
Chapter 7: What's with that Noise?,
Chapter 8: Into the Mist,
Chapter 9: Avian Wisdom,
Final Words,
Appendix I: Deities and Heroes,
Appendix II: Ancient People and Places,
Appendix III: Mathematical Terms,
Notes,
Bibliography,
Filmography,
Index,
From the Author,