They are Always with Us: A Message From the Other Side

They are Always with Us: A Message From the Other Side

Dusty, a beautiful gray sheepdog who had passed from this life three days earlier, entered the room and began speaking. He felt centered and wise; his voice was strong. “Oh, I know she loves me,” he said. “She is a most beautiful creature. Please tell her not to cry, that I am fine. I am free. There is no explaining this. The earth life is wonderful, a joy, a bounteous gift, but this life is boundless. I am with her still. I am always with her. I am a soft breath at her neck; I am a warmth that travels up her legs and settles in her belly. I am always here.”

“Dusty,” I said, “She wants to know if you were happy.”

“Gloriously so. Always. My life was a joy. Maria is a joy. She is my friend, my heart song forever.”

“Everyone misses you,” I said. I was speaking of Maria; her parents, who often visited; the two other dogs; and the two cats.

“I know,” he said. “Please tell them to be happy. I miss their touch, but I do not miss them because, you see, I am with them.”

Dusty and Maria had been together since he was a pup, and he had passed at the age of 19, an extraordinarily long life for a 70-pound dog. They had been the dearest of friends, and while Maria was grateful for every day they had spent together, for his long and healthy life (he had died peacefully in his sleep), there was nevertheless a hole in her heart.

When Maria had called me several days earlier for an appointment, She had been tender with grief. She missed Dusty so deeply, the pain was like a bruise on her heart. I told her that she could speak with him whenever she liked, that he would always hear her. I suggested she ask him to come to her in a dream. She said that she would try, and I told her that I would ask as well.

“Dusty,” I said, “Maria would like you to visit her in a dream. Could you do that for her?”

“Of course,” he said. “I will bound into her mind and heart, full of electric energy. I will recharge her heart. She will feel new.”

“She feels sad,” I said. “She loves you and misses you so much. You were together a really long time.”

“Extraordinary, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said, “for such a large dog. I was quite amazed.”

“I had a very good life. And I am having a good life now as well. It is all one. Here. There.”

After a short pause, Dusty continued, “She is an artist; did you know that?”

I told him that I hadn’t, but that I believe all humans are artists.

He said, “She has an exquisite sense of color. You can see it in her flower garden. She is quite amazing, really.”

As I wrote these words, something told me that Maria did not have a flower garden. I was afraid for a moment that I had heard wrong but reminded myself that information that makes me uneasy always ends up being important.

Dusty said, “I will tell the other creatures to be good to her, I mean especially good to her in this difficult time. They are all healers, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “I believe this is so.”

He went on, “They will all help to mend her broken heart. Tell her to let the love pour in through the cracked places.”

I told him that I would.

“Tell her I am always with her and that I will see her again.”

“Are you coming back?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Not now. I will see her here. But not for awhile, of course. She has a long and beautiful life ahead of her. Please tell her that she is loved forever by me.”


Maria has a non-traditional work schedule, which has her going to bed early in the evening and heading off to work well before dawn, so she was already asleep when I worked with Dusty. When we spoke the next day, she said that she had slept soundly for the first time since his passing, that she had a strong sense of his presence in her sleep, and that she had awakened feeling rested, strong, and at peace. (“I will bound into her mind and heart, full of electric energy. I will recharge her heart. She will feel new.”)

When I shared with Maria that Dusty had said “It is all one. Here. There.” She tearfully said that she believed that as well. She said that he had always had that peaceful grace about him, that he had helped to teach her.

When I mentioned the flower garden, she became quiet for a moment. I said, “You don’t have a flower garden, do you?”

“No,” she said. She paused and then began to cry. “I don’t have one yet, but I’ve been planning one.”

Until next month,

Be well,


*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in September 2006.

© 2006 by Pamela Sourelis