Shadowland with Animals
When Love Bites is a soul initiation where animal instinct meets emotional rupture. Through sacred encounters and symbolic reflection, this story reveals how control masquerading as care can be shattered by wildness—and how healing often begins with the bite we never saw coming.
Shadowland with Animals: When Love Bites
When Love Bites: Introduction
When Love Bites: Introduction
When Love Bites: Introduction
When Love Bites is the story of a cat attack that became a spiritual initiation—shattering my illusions of control and devotion. What began as pain became ritual, as Remi’s wildness revealed the soul lesson I had refused to learn: true love sometimes demands release.
When Love Bites: Part 2
When Love Bites: Introduction
When Love Bites: Introduction
A tarot reading became the mirror I didn’t know I needed—revealing the bite not as violence, but as ritual. In this soul-mapping journey, each card echoed a truth too deep for words, guiding me through grief, karma, and the wild contract between healer and predator.
When Love Bites: Part 3
When Love Bites: Introduction
When Love Bites: Part 3
The bite wasn’t the end—it was a threshold. In this chapter, I listen to my soul and to his. Remi’s stare, silence, & protection speak a deeper truth: survival is sacred, healing begins with reverence. This is the story of possession, protection, and the soul behind the bite.
When Love Bites: Part 4
When Love Bites: Part 4
When Love Bites: Part 3
The bite wasn’t just rupture—it was ritual. In this chapter, Remi’s wildness becomes a teacher, guiding me through karmic repair, soul contracts, and the sacred labor of staying. This is the story of devotion, descent, and the beast that speaks and refuses to perform.
When Love Bites: Part 5
When Love Bites: Part 4
When Love Bites: Part 5
Remi didn’t speak—but something shifted. In this chapter, silence becomes sanctuary, and stillness becomes consent. The wild no longer needs to roar; it simply stays. Through sparrows and squirrels, we enter a new rhythm—one of sovereignty and quiet trust.
Shadowland with Animals: When Love Bites Introduction
When Love Bites: The Cat That Attacked Me Into Releasing Control
Opening Reflection — Pain as Initiation
Pain has always been my teacher.
Not the kind that whispers, but the kind that roars. The kind that breaks skin, breaks patterns, breaks illusions. Before 2023, my lessons came through illness—my body collapsing under the weight of what I refused to release. GI flares. Chronic pain. Sucrose intolerance. Each symptom was a sacred messenger: slow down, listen, surrender.
But this time, the message didn’t come from within.
It came from outside. From fur and fang. From a creature I loved. From Remi.
This wasn’t just a cat attack. It was a spiritual initiation. A bite that tore through my wrist and into the deepest part of me—the part that clings, the part that controls, the part that believes love means holding on.
Animals have always been my light. But this time, one became my shadow.
And in doing so, he showed me the truth: that control, even when rooted in love, can become a cage. And that the wild will always find a way to break free. The bite wasn’t random—it was ritual. A soul-level summons to release what I had refused to surrender.
The Attack — When Instinct Overrides Intention
I had known for some time that Remi needed to be the only cat.
He tolerated Ophie, my special-needs senior, because she barely moved. Her presence was soft, predictable, non-threatening. But when I brought home Emily, everything shifted.
Emily was a ghost at first—afraid of her own shadow, barely visible.
It took months for her to trust me. But when she did, she bloomed. She became radiant. Playful. Alive. Her energy filled the room like sunlight. And that was too much for Remi.
He was overstimulated. Jealous. Triggered.
Her joy was too loud. Her movement too fast. After Ophie passed, I separated them, hoping one would be adopted soon. But months passed. No applications. No shift.
Eventually, I decided I wanted to try and adopt them both.
I thought I could make it work. I thought love would be enough. I thought my will could override instinct.
It was a Sunday morning. I had just fed them and let Remi out.
Within minutes, he went after Emily. I turned the corner and saw him latch onto her, pulling her close—his body wrapped around hers, like a predator claiming its prey. He’s 21 pounds. She’s six. I intervened.
I got Emily free. And then Remi redirected onto me.
He latched onto my wrist and shredded me alive.
This wasn’t a warning bite. This was a death bite. He sank in and didn’t let go. The pain was ancient. Primal. Sacred. It felt like being torn open by something older than language. When he finally released me, I made sure Emily was safe and looked down at my arm.
I was shredded. Inside and out.
And in that moment, I knew: this was not just a physical rupture. It was a spiritual reckoning.
The Aftermath — Grief, Guilt, and the Mirror
The physical pain was sharp and relentless. But the emotional and spiritual pain was deeper.
I was heartbroken. In shock. I couldn’t believe he did that. I thought he might kill her. I knew he could. I prayed he wouldn’t.
And beneath the fear was something heavier: guilt.
Remi had been telling me for months.
Not through aggression, but through withdrawal. Through flattened ears. Through quiet protests. He was overstimulated. Unhappy. Done. And I didn’t listen.
I loved Emily. She was the most magical little cat I’d met in years.
She had come so far—nose bops, head bumps, sleeping on the bed, playing with joy. I wanted to keep her. But I didn’t want to abandon Remi. He was here first. He was sensitive, sweet, complex. I owed him something.
But in trying to hold onto both, I forced Remi into a situation he couldn’t survive.
And he broke. And I broke with him.
The guilt was a mirror.
It showed me my own refusal to release. My own fear of letting go. My own belief that love meant sacrifice, even when the sacrifice was someone else’s peace.
And in that mirror, I saw the shadow side of devotion—the part that clings instead of trusts, that controls instead of listens, that loves so fiercely it forgets to honor instinct.
When Love Bites: Cat Symbolism
Additional Information
Symbolism of the Cat — Wildness as Medicine
Cats are sacred messengers. They carry the medicine of boundaries, sovereignty, and shadow. They do not perform. They do not bend. They do not betray their instincts for comfort. Their presence is unapologetically whole.
Remi didn’t just bite me. He mirrored me. He showed me what happens when wildness is cornered, when truth is ignored, when control masquerades as care. His bite was not random—it was a rupture. A spiritual exorcism.
It tore through my illusions and exposed the blind spot I had refused to name: animals. I had always seen them as light. As safe. As incapable of harm. But that’s not true. They are wild. They are whole. And they will reflect our shadows if we refuse to see them.
Remi’s wildness is sacred. He doesn’t bite to escape. He bites to end. His instincts are sharp, ancient, and unapologetic. He is not broken. He is not bad. He is a teacher. And his lesson was clear: let go—or be torn open.
His bite wasn’t just a rupture—it was a consecration. A soul-level invocation to meet the wild with reverence, not resistance.
Descent and Revelation — The Blind Spot
The days that followed were a descent. Not just into physical recovery, but into spiritual reckoning. I had just been kicked in the face by an owl months earlier. Now this. My body was screaming. My soul was unraveling.
I realized how much I had been clinging—to animals, to roles, to the illusion that love could override instinct.
I had spent years healing my physical body, clearing blind spots in my external life. But this—this was the one I hadn’t touched.
Animals are my light. My medicine. My mirror. But I had turned that light into a crutch. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t detach. I couldn’t trust that releasing them could also be an act of love.
Remi forced me to see that. Not with words. With teeth.
This was the sacred wound. The one that doesn’t whisper—it bites. The one that doesn’t ask—it demands. The one that doesn’t punish—it purifies.
Healing Through Shadow and Light — Loving Detachment
I’ve learned that loving detachment is not abandonment. It’s trust. It’s surrender. It’s knowing when you’ve done all you can, and letting the rest unfold.
Emily is now in a beautiful foster home—with gentle cats and kind humans. She has her own space. Her own path. And she’s thriving.
Remi is still with me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
This wasn’t the old Remi who used to bite unprovoked. That version of him is gone. This was a provoked attack. A final straw. A message delivered in blood.
I’ve stopped trying to change him. I’ve started listening. Respecting. Honoring his wildness. He’s not a cat you mold. He’s a cat you meet in the wild and bow to.
And I’ve stopped trying to control outcomes. I’ve started trusting the path. Even when it hurts. Even when it bites.
Closing Invitation — Bite as Blessing
Sometimes, the soul lesson arrives with claws. Sometimes, the teacher is a creature we love. Sometimes, the only way to release control is to be bitten by it.
I’m still healing. My wrist is still tender. But my heart is clearer. My boundaries are stronger. My trust in instinct is deeper.
If you’ve been clinging to something—an animal, a role, a relationship—ask yourself: Is this love, or is this control?
And if you’ve already been bitten, maybe that was the answer.
Let it teach you.
Let it free you.
Let it become your medicine.
Let it become your altar.
Let it become your blessing.
And let reverence be your response.
Shadowland with Animals: When Love Bites Part 2
When Love Bites: Tarot as Mirror, Bite as Portal
Opening Reflection — When the Cards Speak the Unspeakable
I didn’t plan to have a tarot reading. It unfolded the way soul work often does—unexpectedly, urgently, with a sense of divine timing that overrides logic. But from the moment the cards were drawn, something shifted. The air thickened. The veil thinned. What emerged wasn’t just insight—it was invocation.
Nine cards were laid out from the Rider-Waite deck, but the reading wasn’t about structure. It was about story. About soul memory. About the bite that tore through more than skin. The cards didn’t just speak—they roared. They became sacred emissaries, each one a vessel of divine reverence, echoing truths too deep for words.
This wasn’t a reading—it was a ritual. A communion with something ancient and holy. The bite, the grief, the rupture—they weren’t random. They were consecrated. They were the altar upon which my soul was asked to kneel.
Queen of Cups — The Grief That Opens the Gate
She came first, and I knew immediately she was holding space for Emily. Her energy was soft, intuitive, grief-soaked. She reminded me that healing begins with feeling, not fixing. That grief is not weakness—it’s initiation. And that initiation, when honored, becomes sacred.
Emily’s departure cracked something open in me. Not just the ache of loss, but the deeper truth: I had been clinging. To her. To Remi. To the illusion that love could override instinct.
The Queen didn’t ask me to solve anything. She asked me to surrender. To let the tears come. To honor the goodbye. And in doing so, she opened the gate to everything that followed. Her presence was a benediction. A divine invitation to bow before the grief, not resist it. To treat sorrow not as a burden, but as a holy passage.
The Sun — Illumination After the Bite
The Sun card followed, blazing clarity into the shadows. It didn’t come to soothe—it came to reveal. The bite wasn’t just physical—it was soul-deep. The Sun showed me what lay beneath: the illusion that love could override instinct.
It burned away the fog. And in its light, I saw Remi not as a villain, but as a mirror. His aggression wasn’t random—it was a message. A rupture. A karmic echo. The Sun reminded me that truth, even when painful, is the beginning of healing.
And healing, when done with reverence, becomes devotion. Not to the wound, but to the wisdom it carries. The Sun didn’t just illuminate—it sanctified. It turned the bite into a blessing, the rupture into a rite.
High Priestess — The Soul Contract Beneath the Fur
She whispered of past lives. Of lion jaws and eagle talons. Of karmic threads woven through lifetimes. She told me this wasn’t random. That Remi and I had danced this dance before. That this time, we were meant to finish it differently.
The High Priestess doesn’t speak in words—she speaks in knowing. In dreams. In the quiet certainty that some bonds are older than memory. Her presence in the reading confirmed what I had felt all along: this was a soul contract. And it was time to honor it.
Divine reverence lives in this card. It’s the energy that says: this is sacred. This is not just behavior—it’s soul choreography. And you are being asked—not to fix, but to witness. Not to control, but to consecrate.
When Love Bites: Death and New Beginnings
The Aftermath, the Reckoning and Primal Strength
Death — The Bite as Ending and Beginning
This card held the bite. Not as punishment, but as transformation. It was the moment the old story died so the new one could be born. Remi’s attack wasn’t random—it was the culmination of months of tension, misalignment, and ignored instinct. It was a soul rupture. A karmic reenactment.
In a past life, he may have been a lion, or a raptor, or something else with talons and teeth. And I may have been the one who didn’t listen. Who didn’t see the warning signs. Who paid the price. This lifetime is the reckoning. And the bite was the turning point.
Death doesn’t come to destroy. It comes to clear. To strip away what no longer serves. To make space for what’s real. And what’s real is this: Remi is not just a cat. He is a soul companion. A karmic mirror. A teacher. And his lesson was delivered in blood.
The bite wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual. It tore through illusion, through control, through the belief that love could be imposed. It asked me to let go. Not just of Emily, but of the version of me that thought I could hold everything together.
Death came as a sacred threshold. And I crossed it—not with fear, but with reverence.
Strength — The Sacred Dance of Wildness and Love
This card has always been mine. It’s the one I’ve felt in my bones, even before I understood why. It’s the card of soul taming—not through force, but through love. It’s the sacred dance between wildness and compassion.
Remi is wild. Not in behavior, but in soul. He carries the medicine of the predator—sharp, ancient, unapologetic. And I carry the medicine of the healer—soft, intuitive, fierce in my own way.
The Strength card reminded me that this isn’t a battle. It’s a dance. And the only way to survive it is to stop trying to lead. I can’t mold Remi. I can only meet him. In the wild. In the shadow. In the place where love doesn’t mean control—it means surrender.
This card also speaks to the past life—the one where he may have bitten me fatally, and I may have had to end him. That karmic imprint lives in both of us. And this lifetime is the chance to rewrite it. Not through denial, but through conscious choice. Through trust. Through the slow, sacred work of healing.
Strength is not domination. It is reverent partnership.
Five of Swords — The Aftermath and the Reckoning
This card held the guilt. The confusion. The moment I realized I had forced a peace that wasn’t real. I had tried to hold onto both cats. To make it work. To override instinct with intention. But animals don’t play by human rules. They live by energy. By truth. By the unspoken.
Remi had been telling me for months. Not through aggression, but through withdrawal. Through flattened ears. Through quiet protests. And I didn’t listen.
The Five of Swords is the card of conflict, of betrayal, of walking away from battles that can’t be won. It showed me the cost of my choices—not just the bite, but the emotional rupture. The loss of trust. The grief of knowing I had pushed too far.
But it also showed me the way forward: stop fighting. Start listening. Let go of the need to fix. Begin the work of repair. This card is the mirror that reflects the shadow side of devotion—the part that clings instead of trusts, that sacrifices peace for the illusion of harmony.
And in that mirror, I saw the sacred wound. The one that asked not for resolution, but for reverence.
Seven of Wands — Boundaries as Medicine
This card is where I stand now. Not in fear, but in discernment. I’m not rushing. I’m listening. I’m asking Remi to show me—not just with silence, but with soul. The Seven of Wands reminds me that boundaries are sacred. They are not walls. They are altars.
I no longer force connection. I invite it. I no longer override instinct. I honor it. Remi has space now. To be. To breathe. To choose. And I have space too. To heal. To reflect. To trust.
Boundaries, when held with reverence, become medicine. They become prayer.
King of Swords — Truth Without Sentiment
This card is my clarity. My boundary. My refusal to be swayed by guilt or longing. It’s the part of me that says: I love you, but I will not abandon myself for you.
It’s the sword that cuts through illusion. And it’s the crown that reminds me I am sovereign. The King of Swords doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften truth to make it palatable. He speaks it clean. And that’s what I’m learning to do—with Remi, with myself, with the past.
Truth, when spoken with reverence, becomes liberation.
When Love Bites: The Path Forward
Healing the Soul Contract
Sometimes, the soul doesn’t whisper—it wounds. It bites. It claws its way through the illusion to deliver the truth. Sometimes, the teacher is through aggresse lo. The lesson is blood-marked. And the altar is your own trembling heart.
The cards didn’t just reflect the past. They offered a map for the future. This is a soul contract—between me and Remi, between healer and predator, between shadow and light. And if we are to honor it, we must do the work. Not just the emotional work, but the spiritual work. The reverent work.
Shadow work isn’t about fixing. It’s about witnessing. I’ve begun sitting with the bite—not just the physical pain, but the sacred wound it opened. I’ve asked: What did this awaken in me? What fear? What memory? What blind spot? What vow from another lifetime still echoes in my bones?
I’ve written letters to the past life. To the lion. To the eagle. To the version of me that didn’t listen. I’ve burned them under moonlight and pulled cards for the new contract. I’ve stopped trying to change Remi. I’ve started listening. Respecting. Honoring his wildness as holy.
He’s not a cat you mold. He’s a cat you meet in the wild and bow to. And I’ve stopped trying to control outcomes. I’ve started trusting the path. Even when it hurts. Even when it bites. Especially when it bites.
Healing this contract means creating space—for both of us. It means boundaries that honor instinct. It means rituals that speak to the soul. It means asking Remi what he needs, and being willing to hear the answer. It means trusting that love doesn’t always look like closeness. Sometimes, it looks like distance. Like silence. Like surrender.
This is not just healing. It is consecration. It is the sacred tending of a karmic thread that spans lifetimes. And every step forward is a prayer.
Closing Invitation — Bite as Blessing
This journey is not just about Remi. It’s about me. About the part of me that fears being hurt again. About the part of me that wonders if I was once the predator. About the grief I carry, the love I offer, and the boundaries I must hold.
The bite was the beginning. The cards are the compass. And the path is clear: shadow work, soul healing, sacred surrender.
Sometimes, the soul doesn’t whisper—it wounds. It bites. It claws its way through the illusion to deliver the truth. Sometimes, the teacher is through aggressive love. The lesson is blood-marked. And the altar is your own trembling heart.
But even in rupture, there is reverence. Even in pain, there is prayer. The bite was not a mistake—it was a sacred intervention. A soul-level summons to remember who I am, what I carry, and what I must release.
I don’t yet know if Remi wants to stay. I am still listening. Still watching. Still waiting for the soul signal that says yes. But I do know this: I will not abandon myself in the process. I will not override instinct with longing. I will not confuse control with care.
I will meet him where he is—wild, wounded, wise. And I will meet myself there too. In the shadow. In the silence. In the sacred space where healing begins.
Let the bite be your blessing.
Let the pain be your portal.
Let the wild be your guide.
And let reverence be your response.
Shadowland with Animals: When Love Bites Part 3
When Love Bites: The Guarded Heart
Opening Reflection: Possession, Protection, and the Soul Behind the Bite
The bite wasn’t the end. It was a threshold.
After the rupture, after the tarot, after the grief—I began to listen. Not just to my own soul, but to his.
Remi had more to say. Not through behavior, but through energy. Through silence. Through the trance-like stare that said: I see everything. He wasn’t just recovering. He was revealing. And what he revealed wasn’t just trauma—it was truth. A truth shaped by betrayal, survival, and the sacred instinct to protect what matters most.
The Intelligence of the Wounded
Remi is not like other cats. That’s not just a sentiment—it’s a soul fact. He’s scrupulous, calculated, and deeply observant. He doesn’t move impulsively; he studies. He waits. He calculates risk like a creature who’s had to survive in systems that didn’t honor his instincts.
He’s not just reactive—he’s discerning. He reads energy like a seasoned mystic. He knows who’s safe and who’s not. He knew my neighbor wasn’t. He sensed something in Emily that felt like a threat. And he responded the only way his body knew how—with possession, protection, and primal defense.
The communicator said it plainly: Remi knows scrupulous people. He doesn’t just sense danger—he tracks it. When he saw the way my neighbor looked at me, he didn’t just react. He guarded. His body shifted into a trance-like state. The bulldog stance. The ready-to-kill look. It wasn’t aggression. It was knowing.
He’s possessive of his person. He doesn’t want to share. Not with strangers. Not with other cats. Not with anyone who might take me away. And while he likes me—respects me—he hasn’t let me into his inner circle yet. We are still estranged. He senses it. I do too.
The animal communicator confirmed what I had long suspected: Remi’s mind works differently. He’s not just a cat—he’s a watcher of worlds. He’s separate, estranged, and exquisitely intelligent.
He doesn’t trust easily, but when he does, he becomes fiercely protective. He doesn’t bite to misbehave. He bites to survive. And survival, for him, is sacred.
He’s not a “bad cat.” He’s a soul who’s been betrayed. And betrayal taught him to bite before he could be erased. His intelligence is ancestral. His instincts are sacred. And his bite is a boundary.
The Bite as Soul Memory
Remi’s bite history isn’t just behavioral—it’s embodied memory. It’s the language of a nervous system that was never safe. He was dominated, retaliated against, misunderstood. Grabbed in anger. Slammed. Bitten. And thrown—twice.
The communicator shared what I had sensed but couldn’t fully name: at some point in his past, Remi had latched onto someone’s arm in a moment of primal defense. Not out of malice, but out of instinct. And in response, the man pulled him off and threw him against a wall. Not once, but twice. The violence wasn’t random—it was reactive. And Remi’s body still remembers.
His central nervous system didn’t begin to decompress until six weeks after arriving at my home. Until then, he saw red. He flared. He couldn’t regulate. His bite wasn’t a nip—it was a kill response. A fireball of protection. A soul imprint that says: I will not be dominated again.
His bites are primal. He doesn’t escalate—he erupts. Zero to ten, no in-between, he sees red. It’s not calculated. It’s instinctual. It’s the nervous system screaming: I’ve been grabbed before. I’ve been thrown.
And yet, he’s making progress. He’s not stuck. He’s sacred.
When I scruff him to give meds, he doesn’t resist. Because he knows I won’t hurt him. Because he knows I won’t try to kill him. Because he knows I see him.
This is not just trauma—it’s soul memory. A karmic echo. A primal defense. His bite is not a mistake. It’s a message. And I’ve learned to receive it not with fear, but with reverence.
The Room, the Perch, the Prayer
Remi chose his sanctuary. My office. The cat room. Our shared space. The place where I write with Remi perched beside me, watching the world from his lookout. The room with birds outside and quiet inside.
He asked for more fresh air. A catio. A hummingbird feeder. He asked for space—not isolation, but sovereignty. He doesn’t want to be touched much. But he wants to be near. He wants to be included. He wants to be respected.
He loves birds. Squirrels. The wind. He wants to go outside without me attached—not to escape, but to expand. He wants freedom, not abandonment. Autonomy, not exile. He’s not asking for affection. He’s asking for dignity. And that, too, is love.
This room has become more than a space—it’s a sanctuary. A place where he can decompress without being fearful. A place where his bite history isn’t a liability—it’s a language. A place where he can be wild, wounded, and wise—and still be safe.
Shadowland with Animals: The Soul Behind the Eyes
Shadow and Light: Healing the Wounds Within
Remi is healing. Not through obedience, but through sovereignty. Not just through behavior modification, but through relational repair. He doesn’t want rehabilitation. He wants reverence. He doesn’t want to be fixed. He wants to be understood.
When I first brought him home, the shelter noted he had some back issues—likely from a bite he received when he first arrived. It made sense at the time. A single injury. A single moment.
But as the months unfolded, and as I began to witness his patterns more closely, it became clear: this pain was older. Deeper. More layered than a single incident could explain.
His body tells a longer story. The third vertebrae from the base of his tail holds tension. His neck—especially at the C1 and the base of the skull—carries a guarded posture. He sometimes holds his head low, like a creature bracing for impact.
And when unfamiliar hands reach toward him, he flares. He rages. Not just emotionally, but physically. Like a predator bird sensing danger. Like a soul who remembers being grabbed in rage.
He’s not ready for a chiropractor. Not yet. The idea of hands-on manipulation feels invasive, even threatening. But he is open to energy healing—hands-off, gentle, intuitive. The kind that doesn’t force but invites. The kind that doesn’t correct but listens.
Energy healing, for Remi, isn’t just about the body. It’s about the soul. It’s about tending to the emotional and spiritual wounds that live beneath the physical ones.
It’s about creating space for his nervous system to soften, for his heart to trust, for his body to release what it’s been holding for years. It’s about meeting him where he is—not with pressure, but with presence.
He’s like a child in therapy—guarded, brilliant, slow to trust. He’s not interested in moving on. He’s interested in staying. In rooting. In becoming.
He’s more comfortable here than he’s been in years. He’s not asking for a cure. He’s asking for communion. He’s asking for a place where his soul can rest without being reshaped. For a relationship that honors his pace, his pain, and his power. He wanted to be sure I knew: he doesn’t carry emotional baggage. He’s a cat making progress. That’s how he wants to be seen.
He’s asking for his soul to be claimed.
The Sacred Yes
I had been asking in my heart for weeks. Quietly. Tentatively. Wondering if he was ready. Wondering if I was. The question lingered in the background of our days: Do you want to stay? Do you see another family in your future? Or is this home?
Today, I said it out loud.
I asked him directly: Do you want me to adopt you? Do you want this to be your forever home?
And the communicator confirmed what I already felt rising in my chest.
Yes.
He wants to stay.
He considers this home.
He said he has it good here. Don’t upset the apple cart. He knows his bite history makes him a risk. He knows another home might not be possible. But this one is possible. This one is sacred.
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with presence. With stillness. With the kind of quiet that only comes when a soul feels safe enough to stop performing. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. He stayed.
He said he doesn’t want updates anymore.
This isn’t the shelter.
This isn’t the blog.
This is the bond.
He said I’m good to him.
And that’s enough.
Because the real yes isn’t about paperwork.
It was about belonging.
It was about being chosen—by a creature who doesn’t trust easily, and who finally decided that I was worth the risk.
Shadowland with Animals: When Love Bites Part 4
Shadow Light Healing – The Soul of the Bite
There’s a moment when the wound stops bleeding and starts speaking.
Just over a month ago, Remi bit me. Not a nip. Not a warning. A full-bodied, redirected, soul-splitting bite.
Emily left that day. And I stayed.
Since then, it’s been just Remi and me—two creatures circling the aftermath, listening for what the silence wants to say.
The house changed. The rhythm changed. The air changed.
There was no longer a triangle of tension, no longer a fragile peace held together by my effort to make everyone feel safe.
There was only the wound. And the one who made it.
And the one who stayed.
I didn’t understand it at first. I was still holding on to Emily, still trying to keep the peace, still believing I could soften the edges of something that was never meant to be tame.
But Remi knew.
He knew what I couldn’t yet admit: that love, when stretched too thin, becomes performance.
And when he sank his teeth into me, he wasn’t just reacting—he was revealing.
The bite was a boundary. A rupture. A vow.
It was the moment the mask fell off.
And the wild stepped in.
The Bite as Portal
There’s a soul contract that forms between beings who choose each other in pain.
Not in ease. Not in comfort.
But in the raw, unfiltered places where instinct meets intimacy.
Remi didn’t trust me. Not fully. Not yet.
But he chose me.
In Part 3, he said it clearly: I am home.
And with that, we entered a new chapter—one of permanent foster care, pending full adoption.
It’s not symbolic. It’s somatic.
He’s not ready for the vet clinic, not ready for new locations, not ready for the world beyond this sanctuary.
But he’s ready to stay.
And so am I.
This isn’t a rescue story.
It’s a soul story.
And the bite was the threshold.
In that moment—when instinct overtook intention—he marked me.
Not as punishment.
As initiation.
A few weeks ago, I found out this has happened before.
In another life.
In another form.
Was I the one who couldn’t be reached?
Was he the one who tried?
I’m listening for echoes. For past lives. For the karmic imprint that brought us here again.
Because this isn’t just behavior.
It’s memory.
It’s the soul remembering what the mind forgot.
It’s the body reenacting what the heart still carries.
And maybe this time, we finish the story.
Shadowland with Animals: The Truth Behind the Soul Contract
The Beast Within
I’ve been listening to Lady Gaga’s “The Beast” on repeat.
It’s not just a song—it’s a mirror.
She sings, “Turn off the lights / I wanna feel the beast inside…”
And I feel it.
Not as seduction.
As surrender.
The beast isn’t rage.
It’s truth.
It’s the part of us that stops performing and starts listening.
It’s the part of Remi that couldn’t pretend anymore.
And the part of me that had to choose: leave, or stay and become something wilder.
The song pulses like a heartbeat beneath this chapter.
It reminds me that the beast isn’t something to fear—it’s something to meet.
To honor.
To understand.
This is where the Strength card enters—not as control, but as communion.
In tarot, Strength is the woman and the lion.
Not fighting.
Not taming.
Just being.
She places her hands on the lion’s jaw not to silence him, but to say: I see you. I’m not afraid.
Remi’s bite was his beast speaking.
And my staying was mine.
Strength is not the absence of fear—it’s the willingness to stay present with it.
To sit beside the creature who could hurt you and choose love anyway.
To feel the tremble in your own body and still say: I’m here.
We are not here to tame each other.
We are here to witness each other.
To hold space for the wild.
To let the holy rise from the wound.
The Strength card reminds me that love doesn’t mean softening the truth.
It means holding it with reverence.
It means letting the beast speak, and listening with your whole being.
Karmic Repair
Staying isn’t easy.
There are moments I flinch.
Moments I question.
Moments I wonder if love is supposed to hurt this much.
But healing isn’t always gentle.
Sometimes it bites.
Sometimes it breaks.
Sometimes it asks you to rewrite the contract in blood and blessing.
Remi and I are doing that now.
Not through obedience.
Through listening.
Through ritual.
Through the slow, sacred work of trust.
This is not about dominance.
It’s about devotion.
It’s about showing up, again and again, even when the past is still echoing through the present.
I’ve started to see the bite as a karmic signature.
A soul tattoo.
A reminder that we are not just healing this life—we are healing the ones before it.
The ones where we couldn’t stay.
The ones where we didn’t know how.
And now, we do.
This is the soul of the bite:
Not just the pain it caused, but the promise it carries.
The vow to stay.
To listen.
To love without taming.
Shadowland with Animals: The Beast and the Soul Message
Closing Invocation – Meeting the Beast
If you’ve ever been bitten—by love, by grief, by the wild edge of transformation—this is for you.
Not all bites break skin.
Some pierce the soul.
Some arrive as ruptures in trust, in rhythm, in the story you thought you were writing.
And some, like Remi’s, mark the moment you stop performing safety and start listening to truth.
The beast lives in all of us.
It is the part that refuses to be silenced.
The part that growls when boundaries are crossed.
The part that bites when the heart has been ignored too long.
This is your invitation to meet it.
Ask yourself:
• What part of me has been bitten into awakening?
• What soul contract is asking to be rewritten?
• What beast within me is ready to be heard?
Light a candle.
Play the song.
Let the bite speak.
Let it tell you what it needed.
Let it show you where you abandoned yourself.
Let it guide you back to the place where instinct and intimacy are not enemies—but allies.
Let the bite be your altar.
Let the beast be your teacher.
Let the past be rewritten not in shame, but in sovereignty.
This is where the wild becomes holy.
Where the wound becomes a vow.
Where the lion lies beside the priestess—not tamed, but seen.
This is Strength—not as control, but as communion.
This is love—not as performance, but as presence.
And this is the moment you stop asking the beast to leave.
And start asking what it came to teach.
Shadowland with Animals: When Love Bites Part Five
Opening Reflection – Silence, Stillness and the Soul Journey
There’s a moment when the silence shifts. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But like a breath you didn’t know you were holding—finally released. It doesn’t come with fanfare. It doesn’t ask for attention. It simply arrives, soft and certain, and everything in the room feels different.
Remi said yes. Not with words. With presence. With stillness. With the kind of quiet that only arrives when a soul feels safe enough to stop performing. It wasn’t a gesture or a behavioral milestone. It was something deeper—an energetic shift, a soul-level softening. He stopped bracing. He stopped watching me with guarded eyes. He simply existed beside me, and I could feel the difference.
He said: I am home. And I believed him. Not because I needed to, but because I could feel it. The tension that had lived between us dissolved. The air changed. The rhythm changed. And in that stillness, something sacred emerged.
We’re now on a permanent foster journey, pending full adoption. The paperwork will come. The vet visits will come. The formalities will follow. But the soul already knows. This isn’t just a transition—it’s a ceremony. A quiet claiming. A sacred yes.
The Shift from Survival to Sovereignty
Almost two months ago, Remi bit me.
It wasn’t a nip. It wasn’t a warning. It was a full-bodied, redirected, soul-splitting bite. The kind that doesn’t just break skin—it breaks rhythm. It breaks illusion. It breaks the story you thought you were writing.
Emily left that day. And I stayed.
That moment marked the rupture. But it also marked the beginning. The bite wasn’t just an act of aggression—it was a boundary. A soul-level signal that something had to change. And it did.
Since the bite, everything has changed. Not just the rhythm of the house, but the rhythm of my heart. The tension that used to hum beneath every interaction has quieted. The triangle of fragile peace is gone. What remains is something simpler. Something truer.
Remi no longer flares at every sound. He doesn’t brace for impact. He watches. He waits. He chooses.
He’s not ready for the vet clinic. Not ready for new locations. Not ready for the world beyond this sanctuary. But he’s ready to stay. And that’s enough.
This isn’t obedience. It’s sovereignty.
He’s not submitting. He’s consenting.
And I’m not rescuing. I’m revering.
There’s a quiet mutuality now. A shared understanding. He doesn’t need to prove anything. And neither do I.
We’ve stopped performing safety. We’ve started practicing trust.
This is the shift I didn’t know I was waiting for. The moment when survival softens into presence. When the wound becomes a doorway. When the wild becomes holy.
Strength Revisited – The Lion Beside Me
The Strength card has followed me through this entire arc. At first, it was about restraint—about holding space for the beast without fear. Now, it’s something deeper.
It’s the woman and the lion, side by side. Not taming. Not testing. Just trusting.
I understand Remi better now. And I did when he first came to me—that was true. Back then, he bit unprovoked. I helped him learn how to communicate with humans, how to show discomfort without violence, how to be heard without harm.
Even when Emily arrived, he never got aggressive with me. Not until months passed. Not until the pressure of their proximity became too much. And even then, it wasn’t malice. It was memory. It was instinct. It was the roar.
The bite was the rupture.
The staying was the vow.
And this—this is the communion.
Shadowland with Animals: The Sacred Yes
The Sacred Yes as a Ceremony
To be honest, saying yes back was heartbreaking.
For over 25 years, my life was filled with cats—so many personalities, so much affection, so much love. Ophie was the last of them. When she passed in June, something closed. Remi and Emily were the beginning of something new, even if they were technically fosters. But it was Remi who truly needed the beginning.
He has to be the only cat. I’ve met plenty like him over the years—sensitive, reactive, aggressive, deeply intelligent—but I could never help them fully. There were always too many others in the home. Cats like Remi often waited six to twelve months for adoption, simply because they needed solitude. Eventually, it worked out. But I couldn’t be the one to offer it.
Now I can.
There are no other cats here. And I’m in a position to help him. That truth is both liberating and heartbreaking. It means I may not foster again. It means the house won’t be filled with the rotating chorus of feline souls I’ve grown used to. But it also means I get to help a cat like Remi—a cat who truly needs to be the only one.
And that, I’ve realized, is worth it.
Symbolic Adoption – The Ritual of Everyday
There is no more performing.
It’s just Remi and me.
I’m giving him the space he needs to feel safe and secure. There is no rush. We have our rhythm, and it works. The house feels quieter now, but not empty. It feels intentional. Like a sanctuary that’s finally been allowed to breathe.
He loves the open windows. He watches the baby sparrows that were just born—an unusual sight for October. They’ve found nourishment in the front garden, and I can’t help but see the symbolism. New life, in an unexpected season. A fragile beginning, thriving in a place that wasn’t supposed to hold it.
The sparrow has long been a symbol of vulnerability and resilience. They remind us that even the smallest beings carry songs of survival. I wonder if Remi sees them and feels something stir—some recognition of his own fragile beginning, and the safety he’s finally found.
Remi watches them.
And I watch him.
I’ve noticed the squirrels flock toward him more often now. The grasshoppers, too. There’s something magnetic about his presence—something grounded, something ancient. Squirrels are messengers of preparation and trust. They gather, they store, they return. They teach us about pacing and patience, about knowing when to leap and when to rest.
Grasshoppers, on the other hand, are symbols of forward movement. Of taking leaps without knowing where you’ll land. They don’t walk—they jump. They remind us that healing isn’t always linear. Sometimes it’s instinctive. Sometimes it’s bold.
Remi doesn’t chase. He observes. He belongs.
I like to think these animals are speaking to him in their own way. Not with words, but with presence. With stillness. With the kind of quiet companionship that says: You’re safe here. You’re allowed to heal.
He can just be.
And so can I.
I feel more at ease petting him.
More grounded when I speak to him.
I’m starting to feel safe with him again, too.
And for now, this works.
Until he’s ready for more.
To meet his new vet.
To meet the others who will be part of his journey staying with me.
Ritual Prompt – Claiming the Beast
If you’ve ever loved something wild—something wounded—something that didn’t trust you at first—this is for you.
Ask yourself:
• What part of me is ready to be claimed?
• What beast within me is asking to be welcomed home?
• What sacred yes have I been afraid to speak?
Light a candle.
Place your hand on your heart.
Say the words out loud.
Let the yes be heard.
Let it be quiet.
Let it be real.
Let it be yours.
Closing Reflection
The bite was the beginning.
The silence was the mirror.
The staying was the vow.
And this—this is the sacred yes.
We are not done.
The paperwork will come.
The vet visits will come.
The trust will deepen.
But for now, we are here.
Together.
In the wild.
In the quiet.
In the holy space where love stops performing—and starts listening.
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