lessons from my animal companions

It is perfectly quiet this morning. No electronic noises other than the fan in this computer and the constant whoosh of the a/c. I'm sitting in an armchair in the family room, the sun streaming in the window behind me and the cool touch of the air-conditioned air sliding down my bare arms like a blanket when rising. One cat lies on the footstool at my feet, the other in the chair next to me, and Scout is still sleeping up on my son's bed. It makes me smile every time I go wake them, to see them sharing a bunk. She knows she's not supposed to be there, but it is so soft, she risks it. She also knows no one will get mad at her. She's just too sweet.

Wouldn't that be lovely? To have the kind of personality that no one ever got mad at? To always be welcomed with physical touch, a hug, a scratch behind the ears, on a good day a full body rub, complete with tummy pats?

Yet, to always be the dog wouldn't work for me. Lately I've struggled with my sideline roles in relationships that are important to me. I've spent my life behind the scenes, in the center of the action, but often in charge of what goes on "onstage." Why now then? Why do I ponder the reality of it? I don't know.

Last night I met friends for dinner. Writer friends. We were in class together for about seven months, but as I've seen with many such classes, a bond was formed. Perhaps because we trusted each other with that creation more delicate even than children: our words in fledgling form, still undecided if we would let them fly or give them up. I feel protective of these people, knowing that as soon as we venture beyond this circle there are chinks in the wall, someone else to say, "no, this point of view doesn't work," or "your grammar is atrocious," or "this is not credible." Writers are supposed to be tough, I know, but not with everyone. We have to have heart, somewhere. Besides on the page. Don't we?

I've gotten out of the discipline of writing. I used to be able to say, when asked, that I spent about four hours every morning, writing. Words that I save from day to day to let me understand what it is around me that matters. And too often when I let the words free to someone else's eyes, they lose what it is I wrote them for. That happens, that is fiction, but when I start listening too much to the outside criticism and too little to the word whispers in my own head, then it stops being my creation. I have to get better at listening. To myself.

The cat at my feet is curled into a position where his little paws are crossed and curled toward his soft body, and he looks so very vulnerable… not the big brave lion who can chase squirrels from the yard and capture any bird he wants with his speed, but a kitten again, trusting that so long as he stays close to me, he is safe and can rest. It gives him the courage to be that other cat. I think that is a metaphor.