The Space Between Things
On Andersonville, Stanley, and what presence makes possible.
Some places don't just hold your history. They shape what you become.
Every morning, Stanley led the way. Down the courtyard path, through the gate, out onto the sidewalk where the neighborhood was already in motion. He knew the route before I did — straight to the Starbucks on Clark, tail moving, pulling toward his favorite people on the patio who always reached down to say hello.
I lived in Andersonville for years before I understood what it was teaching me.
I'd get my coffee and take it to the patio — the spot where the neighborhood gathered, whether anyone had planned it or not. Stanley on my lap, journal in hand. But Stanley had other plans. A mother and child coming through the door. A neighbor crossing the street. A stranger who slowed, asked if she could say hello, then mentioned her dog had passed the year before.
With all of it, there was nothing to do but put the journal down and be present.
That was Andersonville. You couldn't move through it without being interrupted by something worth stopping for.
On our afternoon walks we'd ramble down Clark Street. Stan knew every stop — Alamo, a local shoe store where he was greeted like Norm from Cheers. Stan first. Then me, secondarily. He had other favorite places because of the treats, but when those had to stop, he kept his route because humans were the next best thing.
He'd pause at a corner and simply wait for a stranger walking toward him. Both their faces would change. Shoulders drop. A big smile. Something release. He did this every day, with everyone. I watched it happen so many times I stopped being surprised by it and started paying attention to being there for it.
I learned here that presence is also something that moves between people. Not the stillness of a lake before dawn, but the aliveness of a neighborhood that notices you. In Andersonville, dogs were the conduit. They opened doors, softened strangers, held the thread between people who might otherwise have passed without seeing each other. Community, it turns out, is its own form of attunement. A different school than solitude, but no less precise.
What the Camera Showed Me
One weekend I began photographing neighborhood dogs in the studio. At first just dogs, then with their people.
And something shifted.
Looking through the viewfinder, I kept stopping. Not to adjust the composition or wait for them to sit. I was stopping because of what I was seeing — the love between them. Not performed for the camera. Just there, quiet, relaxed and complete — the space between a person and their dog.
There was one moment: a woman and her dog, gazing at each other. I don't remember her name now. I'm not sure it matters. What I saw through that lens has stayed with me longer than any photograph I made that day. I wasn't there for the image — I was there for what was happening between them. The bond itself. What I witnessed wasn't documentation — it was presence.
Maybe you've felt it too — that moment with your animal when something passes between you that has no name.
All of It Was Listening
Not everyone thought to look for nature in Chicago. But it was there.
On weekday afternoons I would make my way to the forest preserves and wild prairies at the edge of the city. There was one I kept returning to because it was simply magical. You had to cross a busy intersection first — traffic, noise, the ordinary Chicago shuffle. Then find the overgrown path, meant only for those who already knew it was there. And into an oak forest, where on the other side — it opened.
A hidden, restored prairie. The surrounding woodland and perimeter of trees softened every sound from the street until there was none. Just the wind moving through the grasses, and an occasional red-winged blackbird speaking up. The wildflowers pushing up from burnt earth the way they do — not delicate, but insistent.
On these days I was drawn to photograph what I found there — the textures, the shadows, the light, subtle events that most people drove past without stopping. I didn't know then that I was beginning what would become my nature spirit practice. I thought I was just photographing.
But all of it was listening. Listening to the golden Alexander or prairie dock backlit by the sun. A deer arriving to see who I was. Butterflies in constant movement. Time slowed into stillness. No past, no future. Only now.
It was the same attunement, the same listening I would later bring to animals — and eventually to the people who love them.
What the Animals Carry
Not long ago a woman asked me to communicate with her senior dog. She wanted to know how he was doing in his older years — whether he was comfortable, whether there was more she could do. There were practical things: getting up in the night, the hearing that had faded.
What he wanted her to know was this: not hearing doesn't trouble him. His other senses are wide open. He is not diminished. He is paying attention in a different way.
He also wanted her to know he'd noticed her own work — the quiet effort she'd been making toward her own balance and attunement. He appreciated it. He was tracking it.
She stopped me. You are exactly right, she said. Of course he knows.
Stan lived nearly seventeen years. After he died, I left Chicago — in transition too. Losing him became its own kind of opening. Grief has a way of doing that, if you let it. Afterward I stepped fully into this work — earning certification as an animal communicator. But the real training had already been happening for years.
What he taught me — what the prairie taught me — nothing ends. It's just presence changing form.
If you've been wondering what your animal is carrying — or whether the one you've lost is still present in some way — that wondering is enough to begin. Sessions are quieter and more practical than most people expect. I work with people in Chicago, across the Midwest, and everywhere online.
It begins the same way those morning walks did. By paying attention to what's already there.
Ready to hear what's already there? Book a session →
You might also enjoy: The Place That Deepened the Work — on Seattle, solitude, and what the Pacific Northwest asks of you.
Lesley Ames is a certified animal communicator and psychic medium based in the Pacific Northwest, with deep roots in Chicago. She works with people and their animals — helping them hear what's already there. You can find her at lesleyames.com.