wise one

My eyes open to the soft darkness, instantly aware of the now familiar unease. Closing my eyes again, willing myself back toward rest, I feel the fatigue of this anxiety we are all lugging around. We labor together to haul the uncertainties, the fears stoked to fever pitch and still amply fueled by so much in the gaping absence of trust.

In the quiet, troubled dark, I feel the velvet brush of the cat’s paw on my forehead, so soft and gentle. I can hear his deep, radiant purr. He speaks to me with some other kind of knowing. 

I can find my way back to joy. My heart beats not for my place on this chart, my statistical or economic value, my pool of data. No, my heart beats for the unquantifiable. The ecstatic mysteries of life and love are wholly mine, ours. It is there where all possibility remains. I turn my eyes in that direction.

Slowly, I am lulled back to restful slumber, feeling the cat’s soothing undercurrent of purr close against me.

###

inner tabby

inside

you hold the wild

your dance so fierce with joy

that leaps and flies among the clouds

alive

###

the well-read cat

There is nothing my wonderful best friend cat likes better than to curl up with me and a good book, or even a mediocre book. As long as he can comfortably situate himself, Tippy’s reading appetite is nothing short of voracious. Together, Tippy and I have delved into a fantastic array of places, people, and ideas as we turned the pages and allowed ourselves to be transported.

My tabby friend and I have had wondrous escapades like flying over Africa or sailing the North Sea or exploring beyond the planet. We’ve studied maps and pictures. We’ve figured out how to do things. We’ve pondered philosophical issues and romantic ones. 

Tippy has purred his way through many delightful pages, and sometimes sat on them. He has also patiently listened when I’ve tested the words on the page, reading aloud. We’ve explored rhythm and imagery. We’ve counted syllables.

True, with such a diverse catalog of reading, we have on occasion disliked a book, even found ourselves scoffing. We have, however, never found ourselves in disagreement.

Unlike my beloved Biddo, Tippy is not a book biter (a little bit on that here). No, although he does enjoy exploring the physical depths of a book shelf from time to time, he respectfully leaves the books intact. He is not, however, above taking a swipe at a bookmark.

Tippy’s joy in books seems to lie in the shared reading experience and, most important, the cuddling. In fact, from his nestled perch in my lap, he often insists that other tasks be put off, while we enjoy yet one more chapter. 

Yes, a well-read cat is a true treasure. Beyond words, really.

###

what a tabby cat knows

it comes over 
not quite like a squall line
but one of those looming
heaps of clouds
that slowly moves in
and the whole day gets dark

maybe it’s just a careless word
that hurt
or maybe it’s that inner voice
stuck in fruitless repetition
asking why or how

when those days happen
he somehow knows
he never fails to come near
he doesn’t say a word

if you speak
he listens
if you cry
he touches you gently on the cheek
he stays, steadfast, at your side
watching with caring eyes
the close warmth of him
speaking where there are no words

such deliberate compassion
spanning an abyss
between a human
and a feline
who somehow seems to know 
how to witness the hurts of life in others
and nurse them with a tenderness
sometimes forgotten by members of our own species
the deepest empathy and absence of judgment
innate if only we allow

as the skies clear
a butterfly 
suddenly captures his attention
and delivers a smile to your lips

whimsical whiskers

whimsical whiskers
mercurial moods

intent observation
eyes unwavering

tail a’switching
ready to pounce

slithering sneaking
hiding leaping

playful rolls
laughing jokes

reveling in touch
eager affection

curled in sleep
lost to dreams

beautiful soul
amazing friend 

worries

I notice the shadow falling over the afternoon. I pause, wondering. Then, a long, rolling rumble of thunder confirms it.

I feel both a tension and a peace, and I’m not quite sure how that works together. 

The weather moves in, and the rain begins to pelt.

The sudden coolness and wateriness of the world surrounds me. The energy sweeping this maelstrom to my doorstep buzzes in the air. The pressure of the next thunderous boom builds inexorably.

And yet, I am at utter peace. There is somehow safety in this sequestered moment, resting in the arms of nature even when there may be trouble there. There is a necessary letting go; there is nothing to which to hold on. This minute just is. 

I look down, and there is my best friend cat stretched out lazily about as far as he can go, wholly content.

It is just a breath of a moment where all the worry, all the unknowns of life in the Time of Covid recede: a rainy respite from what might be normal, or should be, or could be, or God help us. 

Coming away from it all too quickly, I feel the forgotten sense of potential, and right on its heels, fatigue. There’s a lot of work in all the routines of uncertainty and concern, and I’m tired as the mantle of subconscious worry slips back over me. We’re all tired, I think.

But for just that moment, I let go and now I remember what that feels like, that it’s possible inside this epoch of abnormalities. I picture the narrative we’ve lately been living just drifting out the window, like a mist sucked away with the now retreating weather, and I can’t help but notice what’s left.

Possibilities. Everywhere.

Best friend cat renews his stretch, rolling over, abandoned to it.

doodles: windows

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