Vitamin With

“With is … God’s plan for our lives.” (Bob Goff)

A year ago, I started the practice of sitting still. Through many trials and much error, I’d come to realize that I spent the majority of my time running, striving, scrabbling, sweating, and fomenting unrest – all in the first several minutes of my day. When I learned about the practice of centering prayer (that’s meditation for Jesus people), I knew I had to step in. My current blood pressure, my future psychotherapy bill, and my present loved ones would all thank me.

And so, I sat still. Twice a day, several days a week. I closed my eyes, settled my hands, selected a centering word, and breathed deeply. I tried not to expect instant results. I chased my errant thoughts back towards stillness. And I waited.

It was slow going at first. My thoughts wandered. I changed my sacred words like an athlete changes his socks. I developed twitches, itches, and excuses to help me avoid those 20-minute sessions. But bit by bit, I experienced a level “success.” set my to-do lists to one side, at least sometimes. I found favorite places, like the driver’s seat of my parked car, to sit still. I began to look forward to my sessions. I relaxed.

Some time later, about nine months into this experiment in stillness, we welcomed a new member to our family. Gertrude, or Gertie the Hut as my husband has dubbed her, arrived just days before Washington state’s quarantine took effect. Hailing from who-knows-where, aged somewhere around three years, this C.O.U.S. (cat of unusual size) claimed my daughter’s heart the moment she saw her online photo.

“Mom,” Summer breathed when we met Gertie at the Humane Society the next day. “She’s so beautiful!”

I looked around. Several normal-sized cats lounged nearby, displaying several states of beauty. The only visible part of Gertie, a nondescript portion of what may have been her back right quadrant, spilled through one side of the “cat house” where she had been hiding since we arrived. It rose and fell with each breath, confirming that she was, indeed, alive. But beautiful? I had my doubts.

Still, I reserved judgment. Carefully, we coaxed Gertie into our presence. 

Noncommittally, she allowed us to stroke her vast girth. Summer’s devotion increased, and so did her tugs on my heartstrings. Finally, after a hurried consultation with my spouse and a trip to the store for supplies, we stuffed Gertie into a too-small cardboard carrier and brought her home.

Would she survive? I had my doubts. Outside our doors lurked coyotes, foxes, and various birds of prey, still salivating over their memories of our former cats. Summer instructed us to keep Gertie inside; we humbly agreed.

But would we love her? Could she love us? I doubted that, too. Our dog, Minty, struggles with social boundaries. Our lifestyle involves frequent guests. And we immediately put Gertie on a crash diet. What newcomer could feel welcome in such conditions?

Initially, my fears seemed well-founded. Gertie spent the first month of her new life with the “I’m nervous” patch of fur on her back perpetually upraised. She traversed the house with her paws clenched and her legs stiff. She did a low of meowing. My husband guffawed each time she walked by. Summer’s older brother, Ethan, found her simply offensive.

“She’s so ugly,” he sniffed. “I can’t stand her!”

But slowly, our home climate has changed. Minty gives Gertie a wide berth (claws demand a certain respect). Ethan allows her to sit on his lap. Despite frequent binges, Gertie has lost several pounds (and gained them, and lost them again). Today, I have to admit it: Gertie’s become one of our clan.

Gertie seems to know this, as well. She sleeps in my favorite chair. She’s stopped yowling. And now, when I practice sitting still, she wants to join me. I settle my spirit, lay my hands in my lap, embrace my inner quiet, and hear her soft meow. Her purr starts to rumble, there’s a grunt and a whoosh, and suddenly, my lap’s full of kitty.

To be honest, it’s distracting. I’ve read the manual these kinds of things. Nowhere does it mention leaving room for a love-hungry cat.

But it doesn’t mention rejecting one, either. Once again, my heartstrings are singing. I clutch my sacred word in my mind, asking it to wait just one second. I lift my hands and rearrange them around Gertie’s soft form. Her purr kicks into low gear, and the rumble fills the stillness as, together, we practice our rest.

Maybe true stillness, like the other disciplines of grace, cannot be threatened by the presence of one lonely cat. Maybe her presence enriches it. Maybe togetherness unfolds the true beauty of every good gift, the way the wind lifts a flag to unfurl its full glory.

This virus and the isolation it creates has affected our togetherness so deeply. We feel the impact now. We’ll feel it far into the future. How can our rhythms shift? How can our actions accommodate the with–ness we must offer (and accept) in order to stay whole?

We’ll have to dig deeper, that’s certain. We’ll need to look wider than we already have. We’ll need to include our pudgy pets, and our stinky ones, too. We’ll reach out to our awkward neighbors, our annoying spouses, and the children who twang on our every last nerve. We’ll find ourselves leaning over other lines, too: Lines of routine, of expectation, of hostility. Together, as we learn to give and receive with-ness, I believe we’ll find ourselves, and our stillness, too.

One simple, shared sit-down at a time.