Cattitude

I'm owned by two Siamese cats. They are numbers 10 and 11 in the list of cats that have owned me. Minki is a male Seal Point and Lily is a female Seal Point Snowshoe Siamese. I've often said that if I believed in reincarnation, I'd like to come back as one of my own pampered house cats.

Their life consists of a 24/7 buffet and rest rooms that get cleaned twice a day. Two window seats, especially placed to get optimum sun, allow them to catch the rays while stretched out in comfort. Cat naps extend to roughly 16 hours a day. And when all other luxurious resting places grow boring, all paths lead to a warm lap to settle into.

It's even more enjoyable to soak up the heat from the laptop when Mom walks away for a few minutes, or to sit upright in her lap when she's trying to type so that she can't see the screen.

But is there anything more peaceful than a sleeping cat? There's not a tense atom in their bodies--unless you count the ears which seemingly swivel 360 degrees to make sure no cans are being opened surreptitiously. Tails wrapped around the entire circumference of their forms, they doze in heavenly peace, interrupted only by the occasional twitch of a dream mouse being chased.

And speaking of mice, I had an infestation of the critters last winter that went on for months. My cats have numerous stuffed animal mice which they chase and throw in the air, carry around in their mouths while wailing like air raid sirens, and generally beat the stuffings out of them till they're virtually unrecognizable. But faced with the real thing--and one evening two of the rodents marched into the living room and took up stations under my arm chair--the cats appeared to view them as drop in guests and went upstairs to catch another forty winks, as they do when human guests come. I finally had to call the exterminator to reclaim my home from the siege.

Would I change any of this? Not. Matthew Fox once said that his dog was his spiritual director, and I feel similarly about my cats. They teach me to relax. They make me smile with their whimsical ways. They give me unquestioning affection (though I sometimes suspect that the real attraction is the afghan over my lap rather than myself). They give me companionship and loyalty. They remind me that we all come from the same Creator.

And all they ask in return is a 24/7 buffet, sunny window seats, lots of sack time, a willing lap and some stuffed toys to demolish. Little enough to pay for what I get in return.

Thoughts from the snow bound

I used to live in Buffalo.
I used to live in Chicago.
I used to live in Pennsylvania.
I've driven to western Michigan two Christmases in a row.

I've seen lots of snow.

Now I live in southern Delaware, where we don't see much snow--until this past weekend when we experienced a blizzard that would have been a blizzard in any of the locations named above, but was even more impressive because it was here.

The power here goes off under far less provocation than it had this weekend. Sometimes, it seems to go off with no provocation at all. It did threaten to shut down several times in the wee hours of Saturday morning when the wind was making sorrowful wailings around the bathroom windows that never quite keep it out. But each time, the power gathered itself together and came back on in a few seconds. And even during the worst of the storm, which didn't occur until Sunday afternoon, it stood tall and stayed the course.

Others weren't so fortunate here in my little bayside community. Some, just across the street, lost power in those wee hours when mine was flirting with me and threatening to find something else to do with its time. While I slept in warmth and comfort, they stumbled around in the increasing cold, looking for candles and flashlights.

How well I know that scenario. In a snowstorm some years ago, I had no electricity, I had no water, and couldn't even get out of my home, because the snow was so high the door wouldn't open. The fire company had to come and clear a way for me to get to common comforts and necessities.

So why was I so hesitant in offering my comfortable home to some neighbors whose landlord called to see if they could come and get warm? Why did I even have to think about it?

Years of living alone, I'm afraid, have allowed me to indulge in a degree of self-centeredness that seems to have become my default behavior. My home has become my castle, complete with a crocodiled moat and signs that proclaim Private Property, No Trespassing.

There's no doubt that I'm a classic introvert, and that is something over which I have little control. I also live with something called anxiety disorder, for which I take medication, and that has significantly improved my ability to deal with my anxiety. However, when faced with an emergency or a situation about which I have inadequate information, these two things jump to the fore instantaneously.

After the landlord hung up, obviously disappointed that I hadn't immediately invited his tenants to come to my home, my lack of response caught up with me and I had what I hope was a moment of grace, when I saw myself in their shoes, saw myself as I know myself to be, and was able to take another path. I called my neighbors and invited them over. We had coffee and apple pie together and a pleasant visit where we got to know each other. With the help of other neighbors, we found a unit whose absent owners gave permission for them to spend the night there, with heat and light and a far greater degree of comfort than they would have had in their own home.

I've learned over the years that this is what repentance really means--to turn and walk in another direction. I learned yesterday that my need for it never seems to end. It may be, and probably will be, that my ability to control my first responses will still be inevitably influenced by my introversion and my anxiety issues. These are things over which I have only limited control. But what I trust will also be is that God will continue to allow me those moments of grace when I see myself as I know myself to be and will be able to turn and walk in another direction.