I’m convinced you don’t know love until a two-legged cat you thought was perhaps pure evil hobbles up to your body heaped on the floor under the weight of life (or something like it) and lightly places a nub on your arm and a head in your hand.
Tilly seems to be making progress.
I struggle to disconnect. I mean struggle. I can’t do it. I’ll answer emails and texts and comments and tweets and all other forms of communication all day and all night. When they make a pill that makes it no longer necessary to sleep, I will take it and type the night away. It’s sick, really.
So I’m working on that. When I’m with people I sometimes try to deliberately forget my phone, in my car or on the dresser–just far enough away to make checking it inconvenient but close enough that I don’t freak out.
I’m trying to take walks in the evening when the sun is still high enough that I feel like I won’t get jumped in my hood but low enough that it creates this perfect late-day golden glow and these long, early-evening shadows. It’s my favorite time of the day.
And the newest thing is just laying flat on my back, arms and legs splayed, eyes closed, doing nothing. Savasana, basically (for all you yogis), but with no yoga class preceding it.
Savasana is, sadly, among the least respected but most important (and in my opinion, challenging) yoga poses out there. It’s the reason we practice at all. It’s the reset button. Those few minutes at the end of class (or at the end of the day for me lately) are precious. A rare chance to turn off and turn in.
I use the analogy of a snow globe when explaining the importance of savasana in class. The class leading up to it is the shaking of the snow globe. It brings up all this stuff–emotions and physical sensations and fears–and it all just swirls around. Savasana, then, is the settling. It’s the time when everything we shook up settles back down, landing us in our new normal–calmer, stronger, quieter.
So that’s where I was this afternoon: Head spinning, mind racing, I just collapsed on my floor. And in an act of that kind of pure animalistic intuition that never ceases to amaze me, Tilly (“the Terrible,” as we’ve not-so-kindly dubbed her) hobbled on over and dropped her little head into my hand.
My dad had a little business advice for me today as I rambled on and on about where I am and what I’m doing and what I’m trying to figure out (and, admittedly, make up as I go): “Don’t trust every damn person that walks through the door, Tater.”
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Tilly is not a bad cat. She’s just in a vulnerable position and doesn’t trust every damn person that walks through the door. Not right away, anyway. Just give her a little time.
Give me a little time.
The point? Treat yo’self. To peanut butter cups and afternoon walks and (veggie) chili dogs and savasana and grace and banana pudding and the benefit of the doubt.