Author: Pam

Unblocking the Flow: The Practice of Reiki

Unblocking the Flow: The Practice of Reiki


I’m rereading an amazing book that I first read when it came out in1990, Free Play, Improvisation in Life and Art, by Stephen Nachmanovitch. A testament to its awesomeness is that it’s still in print.

The author is a violinist, composer, poet, teacher, and computer artist, with a Ph.D. in the History of Consciousness. At the time of publication, he was performing improvisational violin concerts internationally, creating multi-media works (dance, theater, poetry, photography, painting, and film), and had taught, written, and lectured widely in a number of fields.

While the author is discussing the intensely spiritual act of creativity as it applies to not only the arts, but to the way we choose to live, when I first read this book, I was reading it through the eyes of a writer. This was before I was called to work with the animals, before I consciously entered the world of healing.

Reiki practice can be difficult to explain to people who have not experienced its quiet power. Hawayo Takata, who studied Reiki with its creator, Mikao Usui, and brought it to the United States just after the Second World War, urged people not to try to explain Reiki but to instead place hands on the curious and let them experience it for themselves.

Still, there are times when a brief explanation is necessary, as a prelude to placing hands or as an answer to a question posed via email or social media.


So, What is Reiki?

Here in the States, I’ve often heard people describe “doing Reiki” as channeling energy which, to be honest, can be a bit off-putting. Who wants some unidentifiable something channeled into them?

But Reiki is not a thing; it is a practice, one that involves gentle touch. This practice promotes calm and balance, which strengthens the body’s natural healing mechanisms and creates an environment for healing and personal growth.

When I place my hands on a being—human animal or non-human animal—I am holding space for that being to gently release stress and pain, and to rebalance.

It’s exciting to read Nachmanovitch this time through the eyes of not only a writer but a healer. In his chapter, “The Stream,” he talks about the ever-flowing source of all creativity: “this seemingly endless stream of music, dance, imagery, acting, or speech that comes out of us whenever we let it . . . We can choose to tap into it or not tap into it; we can find ourselves unwillingly opened up to it or unwillingly cut off from it. But it’s always there.” (p. 32)



Let me share a few more of his words:

Spiritual traditions the world over are full of references to this mysterious juice: ch’i in China and ki in Japan . . . kundalini and prana in India; mana in Polynesia . . . The common theme is that the person is a vessel or conduit through which a transpersonal force flows. That force can be enhanced through practice and discipline of various sorts; it can become blocked or bottled up through neglect, poor practice, or fear; it can be used for good or evil; it flows through us, yet we do not own it; it appears as a principal factor in the arts, in healing, in religion. (pp. 32-33)

The ki he refers to above is the second half of the word Reiki. The person who is a vessel through which this force flows is you! He’s not referring to a professional practitioner here; he’s referring to all of us—every last one of us. We all have this transpersonal flow (meaning bigger than just one person, beyond the limits of the personal).

The job of the professional Reiki practitioner is not to channel anything into you or chase anything out of you or to manipulate your energy field . . . or perform any other invasive maneuver. The job of the Reiki practitioner is to hold space for you so that you can release pain, release fear, unblock the flow.

And while a quality Reiki practitioner can assist you with unblocking and strengthening the flow of this amazing life force, you can learn to do it yourself as well. A core principle of Reiki practice is self-healing. How brilliant that we can learn to place hands each day, to take time to nurture ourselves, calm our fears, relieve our stress, unblock the flow, and become the fully creative beings our Creator meant for us to be.



Walking with Ziggy

Walking with Ziggy




I took my Ziggy to the property on Sunday, a 22-acre piece of land in rural Harvard, Illinois, that our mom left to my sister and me when she passed three years ago. It’s beautiful land, woods and virgin prairie; sacred land where family members died in a horrible fire and where indigenous people lived and died a century before.

This was only the second time I’d brought Ziggy here. He came to live with me four months ago, two days before Christmas. It was too cold for this Jack Russell from Kentucky to be spending more than short spurts of time outside, and anyway the snow-covered, quarter-mile driveway would have been impassable. We had to wait for the snow to melt, for the air to warm, for Ziggy’s fear of cars and open spaces and new experiences to subside—not disappear altogether, they may never do that—just subside enough for the trip to be fun, to not make him tremble with anxiety.

A balancing act, this. A tightrope walk.

My Elika, the mini American Eskimo who was my dearest friend, my spirit sister, my co-teacher and co-healer, the beautiful being who was, who is, the beat of my heart, loved this place so completely that she asked to be buried here. And she is. Right over there, under those trees, the headstone gifted by a student: “Elika, Forever in My Heart.”

In her last months, when she was being bludgeoned by bladder cancer, this place pulsed life into her.

My little Ziggy has suffered at the hands of humans. He told me that he’d had a family, that one day they put him out by the side of the road. The shelter I removed him from had gotten him from another shelter in Kentucky, who had rescued him from a hoarder. What kind of nightmare must that have been? How long was he alone without his family, how long living in a tangle of canine bodies?

This was our second visit to the property. The first had been the week before. Ziggy knew right away that the property is special. He had been tentative about walking into the cottage. OK, more than tentative; he had cowered at the door. It took much coaxing to get him to come inside, and then he had turned around, pushed open the screen door, and let himself back out.

But he wasn’t afraid of anything else—not of the crackle of the bird seed bags, not of the sight of me lifting the feeders off the poles and placing them on the ground (he is most often afraid of things moving above his head), not of the whoosh of seed filling the feeders. When we walked in the woods, he stuck close to me, not dropping back or running up ahead, but he wasn’t overwhelmed by the newness of this place, by the deviation from our safe routine.

This time, this second time, he was even more relaxed, maybe even happy to be here. He jumped out of the car and began exploring. He walked into the cottage a bit less tentatively and even followed me into the storage area where the bird seed lives in a metal trash can that made that hollow metal-trash-can noise when I pulled off the lid.

He watched me fill the feeders with curiosity, and then, in the woods, dropped back to explore, to sniff a large tree trunk that had fallen across the path—normal doggie things, you are probably thinking, but for this formerly trembling, terrified little one, this sweet exploration was a precious gift.

We came out of the woods at the head of the driveway and kept walking—all the way down. Halfway back up, I sat down. Ziggy sat, too, and let me take his picture, which he ordinarily doesn’t like. “What is that thing in your hand?” he seems to ask. “I don’t like it.”

We talked a bit about this and that. I told him how much Elika loved this place.

Relaxed, grateful that Ziggy was, too, I dozed in the sun, allowing daydreams.

It was spring, and there was Elika digging a hole along the wall of the cottage. There was no point asking her to stop. She was oblivious to anything else around her when she dug, her face a mixture of intense concentration and joy.

Years before, when she was just a pup, we had gone to the beach near our apartment in Chicago. It was spring; dogs were allowed on the beach in the off-season. Elika started digging a hole in the sand. I had never seen her do this before. She dug and dug and dug and dug, devoted to her task. Digging not just down, but sideways, deepening and then lengthening the hole, swiping sideways with her front paws, left then right, left then right.

A man walked by with his little boy, five, maybe six. The little boy walked over to Elika. He stood next to her, watching her, then dropped on all fours and started digging next to her, mimicking her strokes, deepening, then lengthening the hole. Kindred spirits flinging sand.

My precious girl, the beat of my heart, gone two years but not entirely gone. Sitting halfway up the driveway on that spring afternoon, my heart ached with love and loss. I smiled at the precious black and white dog curled at my feet. “Come on, little one,” I said. “Let’s go.”



Pam Sourelis is a writer, animal communicator, and Reiki practitioner.

You can learn more about her work with animals at

Dog Love is Love

Dog Love is Love

Dog Love is Love



A couple of days ago, I read an article by a man who had recently lost his dog. He and his wife had made the difficult decision to euthanize their beloved friend.

The author was struggling to explain why the loss was so painful for him and his wife. He didn’t describe the dog or the things they loved to do together or any little quirk in the dog’s personality or anything the dog may have taught him.

Instead, he gave reasons gleaned from studies:

  • Dogs and humans have a bond stronger than any other human/animal bond because dogs have been living with humans for over 10,000 years.


  • “Dogs provide us with such unconditional, uncritical positive feedback.” The reason? “They have been selectively bred through generations to pay attention to people.”


  • Losing a dog can seriously disrupt a human’s daily routine, which can revolve around the needs of their “pets,” especially at the end of the animal’s life.


My immediate, and fairly long-lasting, response was annoyance. Why is it so difficult for some people to recognize love? You feel like absolute hell, like your heart has been ripped out, because your heart has been ripped out. You’ve lost someone you love.

I was further annoyed because, despite the article’s implication, this grief is not confined to the loss of a canine love.

Have you ever been around a woman who has lost her horse? When my Nikos died, my grief was so intense that I wanted to float out of my body to be with him. Now, 16 years later, I still cry when I say, or write, his name.


Two of My Animal Loves

My Nikos gave me “unconditional, uncritical positive feedback.” He also let me know when I screwed up. He was very clear about it. He could be very stern. He was am amazing, gentle, powerful teacher.

My Elika, the beautiful American Eskimo mini who came crashing into my life—my spirit sister, my teacher, the beat of my heart—loved me with such intensity that it sometimes took my breath away. When she died, the void was vast, stretched to the other side of the universe.

I left her bowls on the mat outside the kitchen for over a year, until I moved to another apartment, not because my routine had been shattered, but because my heart had been.


No Rituals

In his pain, the author of the piece wrote that American culture has no rituals for mourning the passing of our dogs, no roadmap for navigating the grief. This truth, a truth that left him resorting to research to ease his pain, eventually banished my annoyance and allowed me to feel compassion for this man.

I thought of Jerry, the elder owner of the barn I was leasing for my horses some years ago, who had come out onto the porch to tell me that his dog had died. I knew how much he loved that dog. When he told me, he started to cry. I quickly moved in to hug him.

He said, shaking his head,” I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just a dog.”

When my Elika died, I received nearly a hundred kind, supportive, loving messages from my Facebook friends. One incredibly kind woman, Elika’s dog walker, called me every night for a month to see how I was. As soon as she would ask, I would start crying and then tell stories about Elika and then cry. She would listen. And then she would call again the next night.

When my Nikos died, a friend suggested and then helped me plan a memorial service. We held it in the barn, about 30 of us and Elika, the horses right outside. It was a beautiful service, filled with love and remembrance. Afterwards, we went into the house and shared a gorgeous pot luck supper. The house was filled with love and laughter; my heart was filled with hope.


We Can Help

We—I and all of you animal lovers reading this—are the lucky ones. We know that love is love. We make the time to grieve the loss of a beloved, no matter the package she or he lived in: dog, cat, horse, rabbit, bird, pig, ferret . . .

So here are the asks:

  • Are you brave enough to tell the people in your world that love is love, to share stories of your relationship with your beloved animal companions without feeling silly or apologetic?
  • Are you strong enough to hug a person who has recently lost a beloved animal? To give a condolence card? To listen over a cup of coffee?
  • Are you generous enough to help a friend plan a memorial service—nothing fancy, just a gathering of friends and stories and food?


When my Nikos died, I took a week off from the fiction workshop I was teaching on Saturday mornings. When I returned the following week, I was uncharacteristically fragile. One of my students, a young woman who had recently lost her husband, and whose stories had exhibited a marked lack of understanding of the human/animal connection, looked at me with sudden recognition. “It’s like losing a person,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”





A Gift of Reiki for Peacemakers

A Gift of Reiki for Peacemakers

Greetings, everyone.
Peace is a state of being that cannot exist without each of us contributing to its creation. And so from now until the end of September (2017) I would like to share a distance Reiki session with each and every one of you who is taking an action–any action, no matter how small–to create peace.
To request a session, contact me HERE. If you like, you can share the action for peace that you have taken, but you do not have to. I will contact you to schedule your session. There is no charge.
On the day of your Reiki session, you do not have to go anywhere. At the scheduled time, you will just lie down in a comfortable, quiet place, a place free from interruption. The session will last from 20-30 minutes.
In a Reiki session, nothing is put into you or taken out of you or manipulated in any way. You will be completely safe. You will feel the stress lift from your body, from your heart. You will feel balance. You will feel peace.
When you feel balance and peace, you can help to create balance and peace.
If you have questions or would like to share your actions for peace, I invite you to use the comment section of this post.
Thank you for being a peacemaker.
You can learn more about Reiki HERE.
A Lust for Life

A Lust for Life


I’ve been working with this gorgeous guy, Enzo, every month for about three years now. When I met him (from a distance), he was in a great deal of distress: his coat was dull and falling out in patches, he had lost a great deal of weight, he coughed up phlegm, and often had trouble breathing. His vet could not determine what was wrong with him.


His human felt that Enzo was not ready to pass and asked me if I could help.

After a few sessions, Enzo started eating better and gaining weight, and his coat got full and glossy. He always had an easier time breathing for a few weeks after a session (conducted from a distance), so we decided on a monthly schedule.

Enzo’s human was eventually able to take Enzo to a university veterinary hospital. The vet determined that Enzo’s breath thing tube was unnaturally narrow, that it was “like breathing through a straw.” The vet recommended that Enzo be put down.

Enzo said no.

That was about two years ago.

His human is not a selfish woman; she loves Enzo but would not ask him to endure pain for her sake. He still has days where breathing is difficult, but for the most part he has a good quality of life, a life that he is clearly enjoying.

Before our most recent session, Enzo’s human told me that Enzo hadn’t been playing much, that he seemed tired and sad. Our sessions are most often Reiki sessions, but on this day (again from a distance), he presented his hips to me during the session. I could tell he was experiencing stiffness in his hind end, so I did a brief Neuromuscular Retraining session with him. His body felt very different to me after the session.

Two days later, Enzo’s human called and said, “I don’t know what you did, but Enzo has been running around and playing like a kitten.”

To which I can only respond, Yay, Enzo! What a huge, loving, playful heart you have. What an inspiration you are to us all: Those of us living with adversity, those of us witnessing the journey of others living with adversity.


 I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.


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Peaceful Passage

Peaceful Passage


The woman lay in her hospital bed, each breath a painful burden. Seven or eight members of her large family were in the room, their faces stricken. When I had left them two days ago, they had been upbeat, smiling.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The son-in-law said, “They are deciding if they should let her go. The doctors have said there is nothing more they can do.”

I asked the woman’s daughter, the person who had arranged for me to come, if she still wanted me there; I offered to leave. But she insisted I sit by her mother, place my Reiki hands on her.

Two days earlier, the Reiki session had brought the woman peace. Her tense face had softened; she had briefly smiled. She had reached out and placed her tiny hand over mine. Because the room felt so heavy, I had started joking with the woman, and when I laughed, she had opened her eyes very wide, had looked into my eyes for many minutes. The daughter was delighted. She said her mother had not kept her eyes open for more than a minute since she had fallen into this near comatose state.

The doctors could not find anything wrong with the woman, who was a doctor herself, a surgeon at the hospital she was now a patient in. She had received her first chemo treatment for lymphoma some time before and, according to her daughter, was handling it well.

Then, suddenly, she had stopped eating; her muscles began to waste; she struggled to breathe, to speak. The doctors had run test after test.

On this day, my second visit, I placed my hands on her body. It was so frail, so hot. Today, she did not reach for my hand; her eyes did not meet mine.

As I began the Reiki session, a tall man in a protective gown said to the family, “Now is the time for telling stories.” They politely responded, but I could tell they weren’t really listening. He left, saying he was there if they needed him. I learned that he was one of the hospital chaplains.

I continued to quietly sit next to the woman’s bed, my hands gently resting on her body—her head, her neck, her chest, her abdomen. My role was to be a quiet, stable presence, both for the woman and for her family.

I wondered about the storytelling.

Remembering my parting words two days earlier, one of the woman’s sisters said, “We should be smiling.” But she wasn’t smiling. Her face was etched in grief.

After awhile, my hands still gently on her, I heard the woman say—not with spoken words, but clearly—“Let me go. I have a lot of work to do.” When I repeated this to her daughter, she loudly asked her mother if she wanted to leave. The mother opened her eyes and spoke, but her words were garbled, unclear.

A second daughter began to weep, quietly at first, but then more and more loudly. “I call you every morning,” she cried. “Every morning. Who will I call now? Who will I call? No one else understands my pain.”  Family members tried to comfort her, but her keening grew more and more intense, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

Sensing that this was upsetting her mother, I went over to the young woman and placed my hands on her: one on her upper chest, one on her back. Her cries became quieter, less intense. Within a minute, she was calm.

Now the family members began to form a circle around the bed, each leaning down to kiss the woman’s forehead. The second daughter, the one who had been crying, kissed her mother and then began to lament her mother’s passing.

There was such grief in the room. But I felt somehow removed from it, holding a place of balance and of peace. It was then that the woman’s husband asked me to leave. He said, “What can you do for her now? I am sure you have brought her some peace. Thank you.”

The first daughter, who did not want me to leave but who respected the wishes of her father, walked me out to lounge area and asked me to sit with her for awhile, which I did. I asked her if instead of crying, the family might share beautiful stories of her mother’s life, as the chaplain had suggested, if they might play music for her, sing to her.


Each of us has a limited time on this earth. Some of us will go quickly, of course, in an accident or quietly in our sleep. But imagine lying in a hospital bed in a small, cramped room with nothing of beauty in it but the faces of your family.

Would you want the room filled with the unsettling sounds of grief or with the peaceful sound of beloved stories, the reminders of your joyful time together on this earth? Would you want to be ushered out with tears or with song?


I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.

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Loving Care

Loving Care



Tuesday morning, my canine companion, Elika, and I drove to the barn as we do every morning to feed our horses, Tara and her brother Fuersti.


Ordinarily, they are waiting for me in the arena in the morning. (They can walk freely in and out of it.) If they are outside instead, they see me drive onto the property, and they meet me inside.


But Tuesday morning, I didn’t see them when I drove up, and I didn’t see them in the arena. A quick scan of the back paddock didn’t reveal them either. And they weren’t in the shed out back.


I went back inside to get their breakfast ready and called to Fuersti. He answered with his deep call and poked his head into the arena, then left again.


Oh, no, I thought. What has his sister gotten herself into? By nature, Fuersti is the curious one, the mischief maker, but if Tara wasn’t coming in for breakfast, something was up. “Tara,” I yelled. My usually quiet mare called back.


I followed Fuersti outside and took a quick peek around the corner of the barn, into a very small area cordoned off with ropes to keep the two of them from walking over there and annoying the dogs that live in the adjoining back yard.


And there stood Tara, all 1200 pounds of her, over 16 hands high. The ropes were still securely in place, and hung low enough to keep the two of them out but not low enough to allow a foot to get caught in them.


“Tara,” I said in disbelief. “How the heck did you get in there?”  She had to have crouched down very low and practically crawled on her belly.


I had seen her do this some years before at another barn, when she’d run down a barn aisle, dropped almost to her knees, and shimmied under a three-foot space left by a lowered garage-like door at the front of the barn.


She must have pulled the same gymnastics with the ropes. Unfortunately, for reasons I don’t pretend to understand, she couldn’t reverse the procedure, and so she found herself trapped.


I went back inside the barn and came out the door leading to the area she was confined in, an area maybe 10 feet wide and 15 feet long, put a halter and lead on her and was preparing to turn her around when the dogs came out of the house and charged the fence. Tara’s head shot up and her body tensed.  “Tara,” I said. “If you spook and hurt me, I’m going to leave you out here.” She snorted, lowered her head, and walked quietly into the barn. I gave her her breakfast right there in the barn aisle because Fuersti had already eaten and I didn’t want to have to fuss at him to let her eat in peace.


Fuersti stood watching her, his head hung over the arena gate, his eyes soft, clearly relieved.


When Tara had finished her breakfast, I put her in the arena with her brother so that I could do my chores outside without their help.


Ordinarily, when the two of them have been separated, even if for just a few minutes, they go through their ritual of nickering and blowing in each other’s noses as if they haven’t seen each other in weeks and have huge amounts of information to share.


But on this beautiful summer morning, Fuersti greeted his sister with a quiet tenderness. He began to gently groom her neck and withers, his body language and soft energy saying, “You are safe now; you are well; I will watch out for you.”


I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. I’d never seen them groom each other in the morning; they most often perform this ritual after dinner, and only for a few minutes. But on this morning, they continued to groom each other for a very long time, Tara seeming to melt into the presence of her brother in a way I could not remember seeing before. And the exquisite tenderness Fuersti used in touching his sister made the ritual feel holy.


You are safe now; you are well; I will watch out for you.


I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.


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Catch it Early

Catch it Early


So often, people ask me for help when their animals are having serious movement problems and are in quite a bit of pain.  Of  course, I am more than happy to help, but I can’t help wishing I’d had the chance to work with the animals sooner, when the inefficient movement pattern was just beginning, before it had grown into a debilitating problem.

These humans aren’t intentionally ignoring movement issues, of course. They just don’t recognize them. Or if they notice a little hitch in a dog’s gait or stiffness in a horse’s neck, they may not realize the cause of the problem or the fact that it won’t necessarily resolve itself. 

So, what should you watch for? Here are a few suggestions.



Does your dog tend to sit on one seat bone, instead of sitting evenly on both?

Does your elder dog have difficulty standing up? An animal should be able to move smoothly from one position to another.

Does your dog have a limp, even a minor one?

When you stand behind your dog, do you notice that one side of his ribcage is more prominent than the other?

Still behind your dog, does her head seem centered on her body, or is it off-center or tilted to one side?

Does your dog swing his hips freely when he walks, or do his hips seem stiff?



Does your horse swing her hips and barrel freely when she walks?

Does he step under well, or is his gait short?

Is her trot smooth or a bit choppy?

Can he move his neck freely and easily?

Is one side of her ribcage more prominent than the other?

Does he have more trouble traveling in one direction than the other?

If you start training your eye so that you catch movement issues early on, you will be able to prevent more serious movement issues later. I can help your animal, but you can help as well.


In my next few posts, I will be sharing some ideas of how to encourage your animal to move freely, with comfort and grace.


Have you noticed any of these movement issues in your animals? Have you noticed others that you have questions about?


I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.

 If you have received this post via email, just click on the title to respond.



After 9/11

After 9/11

Part of any Level I Reiki class is a discussion of the five Reiki precepts:

Just for today, I will not anger.


Just for today, I will not worry.


Just for today, I will be thankful for my many blessings.


Just for today, I will do my work honestly.


Just for today, I will be kind to my neighbor and to every living thing.



A few weeks after the tragedy in New York, I was teaching a Reiki I class. The students and I had completed our discussion of the first four precepts, sharing thoughts and stories about the ways in which anger and worry and dishonesty can poison your life and the lives of those around you.


Because this was a Reiki for Animal Lovers class, when we began our discussion of the last precept, students were eager to talk about their passion for the well-being and kind treatment of animals, both domestic and wild.


We then eased into a discussion about the challenge of treating difficult people with kindness, even those who have hurt us, those who have caused us great suffering. On an abstract level, everyone seemed to accept this precept. I reminded them that putting it into practice, however, might not always be easy.


When I suggested that the precept meant they would be able to show kindness to the bombers of the Twin Towers, to Bin Laden himself, one student physically recoiled. “That is taking it too far,” she said.


But it is not taking it too far. It is going exactly where the precept demands we go.


As Martin Luther King, Jr., said,


“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”



Can you hold kindness and compassion in your heart for Dzhokhar Tsarnaev—even though he has committed an atrocious crime against the people of Boston, of our country, of our world?


Can you begin by replacing anger with love; replacing worry with creativity; expressing gratitude; approaching your work with passion?



 I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.

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Recently we asked Pam to help us with one of the girls. That’s what we call our two 10 year old litter mates, Rosie and Mahalia.

We often affectionately scratch the girls’ backs, which they love. Suddenly one day we went to give Rosie a scratch on her rump and she yelped in excruciating pain, cowered and began shivering. We had never seen Rosie behave this way or experience pain this intense. The curly, happy, alert tail we knew and loved was no longer wagging nor standing at attention.

Immediately we went to the vet covering the clinic that day and were prescribed medication which we were concerned about administering, especially when the vet was unsure of what ailed Rosie.

We decided that we had to get in touch with Pam to see if she could do anything to help.  Pam responded almost immediately to my email and asked for a photo of Rosie.  Pam had no prior knowledge of what was causing Rosie so much pain but she was able to tell us that Rosie had nerve pain in one of her hind legs and lower back.

Rosie had 3 Neuromuscular Retraining sessions at a distance with Pam and after the first one, the happy tail hesitantly returned.  Within days of her second session a week later we were trying to stop Rosie from doing the “helicopter” in our backyard and from wrestling with her sister.  One month later and we have our Rosie back.  We are so grateful!

Thank you Pam for sharing your gift to help our precious Rosie.

  – Aisha Noble, Chicago