euphemisms. These kids were too bright and too curious to keep at bay. “Umm,” I said, and shot the teacher a helpless look. “You know Thanksgiving is in one week, right?”
“Right,” the kids said.
“What are you going to eat?”
“Turkey!” the kids sang.
“Well,” I said, “that’s a turkey.”
In unison, twenty five-year-olds said, “Ewwww.”
A week later I received calls from twenty furious parents. Twenty five-year-olds had refused to eat the turkey on their plates at Thanksgiving. All I’d told them was the truth, and the kids had made their own decisions.
With grace and that absence of judgment unique to nonhuman species, the animals in my barnyard ushered me through my first few months of working with kids. A child’s history of acting out or their special needs did not make any difference to the animals. The animals accepted hugs and tummy rubs and treats from all. I was not always as graceful as the animals were. I clung to my “script,” afraid to drift too far into improvisation. I fumbled and learned and tried again, and slowly I found my footing and became a little less nervous and riddled with doubt.
The animals’ stories were at the core of the healing I witnessed in the children. The animals had been to hell and back, and so had most of these kids. With each new group, I watched the kids closely from the moment they walked in through the gate. Their behavior told me everything about their histories. If they couldn’t make eye contact, I knew they’d been made to feel ashamed. If they bad-mouthed or bullied other kids, they’d likely been bullied at home. I picked out the animal’s story that best fit each particular group. That way I could talk to the kids about the issues they faced without putting them on the spot. Then I learned more about the kids by watching how they responded to the story. In these animals’ histories the kids recognized themselves and could relate to the animals as peers, confidants, witnesses, and models of the healing that was possible. And week after week, group after group, the courage and growth I saw in these children took my breath away.
The difference the animals and I were making was profound, andit propelled me onward in my work. Word was starting to spread, and new agencies were knocking on my door, asking to bring their kids. The kids never did laugh at me; they never did seem bored; and it never took longer than twenty minutes to win over the most resistant of teenagers. The animals spun that kind of magic over all the groups that visited.
All I had dreamed of seemed to be coming true; I was healing animals and then working with those animals to heal kids. I was aligned with my purpose—doing what I had come into this life to do—and everything just seemed to be falling into place. The only thing that was missing was Scott’s presence at my side. We lived together in relative peace, but I was alone with the Gentle Barn. Scott had no desire to hear about what was going on in the barnyard—not with the animals, not with the kids.
My true partner in this endeavor, from the very beginning—even before I knew what I was up to—was my sweet Mary, the goat. In early spring, however, I noticed that she was beginning to slow down. On one particular morning, as I filled the goats’ hay bins, Mary did not get up. She just stayed where she was on the straw in the barn and watched me from there.
“Aren’t you hungry, sweetheart?” I asked her. I went over and sat by her side and stroked her head. Then I went inside and called Dr. Geissen.
“Give it a couple of hours,” he said. “Maybe she’s just having an off day.”
In the afternoon, Mary was still in the same spot, only now she was lying on her side. Looking at her, I felt a sudden surge of panic.
Something is very wrong. I need to get help
. And beneath the panic I felt fear.
I can’t do this without her
.
I called the vet again; this time, he said he was dealing with
“Right,” the kids said.
“What are you going to eat?”
“Turkey!” the kids sang.
“Well,” I said, “that’s a turkey.”
In unison, twenty five-year-olds said, “Ewwww.”
A week later I received calls from twenty furious parents. Twenty five-year-olds had refused to eat the turkey on their plates at Thanksgiving. All I’d told them was the truth, and the kids had made their own decisions.
With grace and that absence of judgment unique to nonhuman species, the animals in my barnyard ushered me through my first few months of working with kids. A child’s history of acting out or their special needs did not make any difference to the animals. The animals accepted hugs and tummy rubs and treats from all. I was not always as graceful as the animals were. I clung to my “script,” afraid to drift too far into improvisation. I fumbled and learned and tried again, and slowly I found my footing and became a little less nervous and riddled with doubt.
The animals’ stories were at the core of the healing I witnessed in the children. The animals had been to hell and back, and so had most of these kids. With each new group, I watched the kids closely from the moment they walked in through the gate. Their behavior told me everything about their histories. If they couldn’t make eye contact, I knew they’d been made to feel ashamed. If they bad-mouthed or bullied other kids, they’d likely been bullied at home. I picked out the animal’s story that best fit each particular group. That way I could talk to the kids about the issues they faced without putting them on the spot. Then I learned more about the kids by watching how they responded to the story. In these animals’ histories the kids recognized themselves and could relate to the animals as peers, confidants, witnesses, and models of the healing that was possible. And week after week, group after group, the courage and growth I saw in these children took my breath away.
The difference the animals and I were making was profound, andit propelled me onward in my work. Word was starting to spread, and new agencies were knocking on my door, asking to bring their kids. The kids never did laugh at me; they never did seem bored; and it never took longer than twenty minutes to win over the most resistant of teenagers. The animals spun that kind of magic over all the groups that visited.
All I had dreamed of seemed to be coming true; I was healing animals and then working with those animals to heal kids. I was aligned with my purpose—doing what I had come into this life to do—and everything just seemed to be falling into place. The only thing that was missing was Scott’s presence at my side. We lived together in relative peace, but I was alone with the Gentle Barn. Scott had no desire to hear about what was going on in the barnyard—not with the animals, not with the kids.
My true partner in this endeavor, from the very beginning—even before I knew what I was up to—was my sweet Mary, the goat. In early spring, however, I noticed that she was beginning to slow down. On one particular morning, as I filled the goats’ hay bins, Mary did not get up. She just stayed where she was on the straw in the barn and watched me from there.
“Aren’t you hungry, sweetheart?” I asked her. I went over and sat by her side and stroked her head. Then I went inside and called Dr. Geissen.
“Give it a couple of hours,” he said. “Maybe she’s just having an off day.”
In the afternoon, Mary was still in the same spot, only now she was lying on her side. Looking at her, I felt a sudden surge of panic.
Something is very wrong. I need to get help
. And beneath the panic I felt fear.
I can’t do this without her
.
I called the vet again; this time, he said he was dealing with
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