the PDF of her book - National Aphasia Association

Tales from the Other Side of Language 85
her whole body wiggles, her eyes shining. She is like a little kid saying, “Hey
Mom, I had a great time!”
One day I leave my lunch on the kitchen counter and go out of the
room. She seizes the moment and steals my lunch of triple crème cheese
and French bread. I come back to crumbs on the floor and a dog licking up
the last. She hunches her body down and looks up at me through her hair,
trembling. She wonders what I will do to her. Despite losing my fine lunch,
I’m euphoric she’s willing to make mischief. I nuzzle her, and she presses
her body against me. She pulls her head back, looking eye to eye with me as
if to say, “I didn’t expect this!”
Finally, she acts like an ordinary dog with me. But she is anything but
ordinary.
I’ve been studying a Seik/Tibetan healing meditation practice, and
Sahaya comes with me, sleeping by me for the whole day. She seems content
to soak in the healing aura of the room every time we go. For me the practice
soothes my verbal mind with its directed meditative wordlessness. After few
months she leaves my side, carefully walks around people lying on mats as
client or sitting as healer. In the practice the healer lays hands lightly on the
client to sense them in meditation. Sahaya is deliberate not to step on anyone,
then chooses someone and lays her body against them. She continues to do
this. They tell me she is a comfort and help. Watching her, I am impressed
by her sensitivity to the humans around her and her intentionality in making
choices. The meditation healing practice is wordless, sensory, without
preconceptions. She can do that, perhaps more easily than I. Her presence
in my life is taking me deeper into the sensory world around me, another
non-verbal relationship, this time an animal showing empathy, sensitivity,
discernment, and intentionality.
She goes with me to my office, content to sit by my rocking chair at
first, but soon, wagging her whole body, she becomes the greeter at my door
to each patient. One day in a session with a troubled patient, she gets up,
sits facing me, and puts a paw on my arm. She wants something. “What?”