I’ve blogged under the icon of Zen Kitty in the past. The cat was real and meant a great deal to me.
The other day, to my horror, I found Zen Kitty dead, ran over by a vehicle. Mortified, I carried him back to the house to bury outside in the pasture, his favorite meditation place. Tears blurred my vision. The entire rest of the day, my emotions were uncontrollable. I cried off and on constantly.
It was the image of the dead cat that stuck in my brain. I tried to shake it. I begged God to take it away—when I wasn’t throwing anger God’s way—why couldn’t God keep the cat safe?
My writing projects came to a screeching halt. They required inspiration, devotion, intuition, knowledge, none of which could be found in the immensity of grief that poured into my soul.
I started cleaning out closets. Literally. I sorted through items that had been stuffed into closets over the past few years. Piles accumulated. A pile to give a way, a pile to recycle, a pile to throw away, a pile to find a better location for.
I decided to look at pictures of the cat. It was easy. I had a million pictures. I snapped the pictures when the cat was cute, entertaining, compassionate, every second. The bad image started to fade.
The next morning, I heard the thought, “Cheryl, it’s time to go back to your writing, you can do it.” And I did, with deeper meaning.
My conscience was struck. That thought, telling me I could do it, was exactly what my cat told me. Was this the new form of the cat? Or, had it always been the form? Because the furry form I’d typically attached to the cat was gone?
Answers to those questions didn’t matter. The feeling of all-presence rubbed itself on me and I felt at peace.