Vitamin Share

The moment my alarm wrestles me from dreamland, I sense a strange tightness in my feet. I must have been clenching them for hours! I imagine my feet curling, almost cramping, and relaxing again through the night. What could my mind have been processing? I recall a dream about Disneyland and a massive, confusing, hotel. Maybe, even in slumber, I've searching for rest and for peace. That sounds about right.

I pry myself from under the covers, pat my still-inert spouse, and stumble through my morning necessities before settling on my stained office chair. I place several warmed rice packs in critical locations. I close my eyes. I open my hands and sink deep. 

Well, I try to sink deep. 

Most days lately, I've attempted this sacred unwinding. I still my soul, clear my mind, and repeat whatever mantra will draw me closer to peace and to God. The practice lasts until the rice packs cool down, and then I open my eyes and start moving. The simplicity has proved vital to my current season. I draw on the solitude all day.

But today, as is her current norm, my daughter's cat, Gerty, arrives to inhabit this space with me. First comes a gentle meow, then several padded footfalls. Finally, her soft bulk fills my lap and the beginnings of a contented purr replace the sweet silence. 

I emit a small sigh. Gerty has settled atop my open hands. Clearly they were offering her stroking, offering love. Gently, I move, cupping one palm to cradle her head. I place my other hand on her chubby body. The warmth of it emanates through the skin and up past my wrist in a comforting flow. 

Together, the cat and I breathe. Occasionally, she nudges me: More chin-scratches required! I sit and I think, and then I force myself not to think. My quadricep muscles slowly release (I didn't even know they were tight). My mantra shifts from "rest" to "Jesus" and then back again, but I figure they're basically the same. 

Gerty and I keep on breathing.

And then, just when our contours have melded into a comfortable connection, she makes a small noise and moves off. Her footfalls depart but her purr remains, somewhat muted. She's probably stationed just outside my office door, waiting for Chris to emerge from the bedroom so she can accost him with requests for attention and food. 

In the middle of my stillness, I smile. It took several days to make room for ritual. But then I realized that our pets, like our souls, require tending. When we invite them into our space, we implicitly agree to this care. But unlike houseplants or a new set of tools, they require presence and connection to achieve optimum health. We must extend. Expand. We must faithfully give and receive. 

Gerty's soft purring subsides. She's probably drifted into dreamland: I feel a small, jealous twinge. Then my mind settles back, safe in its blanket of silence. My mantra repeats. My soul stills. Jesus. Rest. Sharing my space and my soul. Somehow, the three intertwine. My mind stops is searching. My soles begin to relax. Together, Gerty and I submit to the Presence that invites us deeper, shares It's soul, invites us in. 

And we breathe.