Oh the noise, noise, noise, noise...

A lesson in feline theology.

Today is a coffee day. I am on my second pot and it’s not even noon. In my defense, this pot is decaf and I shared the first pot with my husband. Also in my defense, I am trying to be tender with myself(as well as I know how-HA), going slow, drinking said coffee from a blue and white rose covered teacup while convincing myself that this decaf will fool by body into having the energy it needs to do what it needs to do.

We were gone five days last week, but I was only hours into the first day when I began feeling frayed, undone, and untethered. Without details, I will say re-entry has taken days and the ceaseless internal motion still rumbles in little aftershocks.

This morning, I woke up with thoughts racing in and out, tripping and tumbling over each other while the urgent “shoulds” jostled for first position. Focus slipped further and farther away with the noise of it all. Monday mornings are usually a reward, of sorts. It’s the beginning of a new work week and my husband says his goodbyes, leaving me to sit sipping the last of the caffeinated coffee. I need this quiet on the regular. Today I needed this place of peace and stillness, prayer and poetry, a place of reminding of what has come undone and a resecuring of the warp of self. My body became still, but my heart and thoughts remained jangled, unable to gain purchase on the peace I desperately sought. I did all the things, all the pious motions meant to usher me into presence, but it was nothing more than more movement, more “more”. Then God showed up looking an awful lot like an old white cat.

There are days Bo would just as soon bite you as look at you. Baudrillard, named after a French philosopher who wrote extensively about simulation and simulacra, Bo, for short, is a seventeen year old tomcat. All white with one green eye and one blue, he’s blind in the green eye, slightly deaf, limps a little and has been ornery since day one. His meow has grown gravelly and roughened from years of carrying on. This combined with his appearance and attitude makes him the equivalent of a hard smoking dock worker in feline form, or perhaps a pirate. I’ll add that I am allergic to cats, but we have an understanding-I love him and will pet him faithfully every morning.

He arrived on cue-that being me holding a cup of coffee and sitting down-and sat by my feet. In my slightly unravelled-ness I was slow to respond. In fact, I didn’t. I was busy wrestling out my knotted mess of thoughts, page pacing (what I call thumbing through books to find something to land on), and basically ignoring Bo. Ordinarily this could result in a nudge, or a bite on the side of my foot-gently on good days and deadly if he is grumpy. Instead, today, he laid down and ever so gently rested his head on my right foot. I didn’t notice at first. And then…the quiet weight of his head, the softness of his thick fur, his warmth seeping into my cold bones grounded me. I could feel the the warp tightening, realigning. After being back for days, I was finally home.

Can there be a theology in the care-filled warmth of an old white cat? Or, in the way sunlight falls just so through branches? The fervent chirps of a healing bird? What about in the flavor of a good, red wine or the comfort of hot coffee in the morning? Can prayer sound like silence, or like snowfall? Or laughter? Can it be hidden in the kneading of bread, or the crease of freshly folded laundry? What about words, or art?

Can the work of my hands work out the deepest prayers, the wordless ones concealed in a completed piece? If you believe that God can show up in the form of an old white cat, then yes. Personally, I believe He is savvy enough to know that He can refit the cords of a loosened soul through the simple warmth of an old cat. I also believe he will hear all the un-worded prayers worked out by the hands of this wrestling spirit. He can find me in hot coffee, or in my studio, or through an old white cat named Bo. On any given he might use all three. I think He uses where he finds us-or, perhaps, where we find ourselves.

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Words…

I know I have shared this before but with each turn of these pages I find new, glorious breath: How to Love the World; Poems of Gratitude and Hope by James Crew. Do yourself a favor and get a copy of this little gem-it is worth it just for this line on page 99

…

among them in my wonder that beauty is needed

most of all when it is useless, when it fixes nothing.

Third Year of My Mother’s Dementia, by Lynne Knight

Work…

If you’d like to know more about what I do, look for me over at The Writist. I’ve started a project sharing the process of writing my next poetry book, and creating ten handmade books in relation to some of the poetry pieces. The idea is to share the good, the bad, and the ugly of bringing projects to life and, hopefully, sharing some encouragement for others to just begin their own! Sign up to receive updates and if you like what I do you can upgrade to a paid subscription anytime to get all the behind the scenes info and conversations. Here is a small glimpse into some of the work I have been sharing…

Pages for 1st hand made book in progress.

Until next time, stay curious, keep working, and keep an eye out for the unexpected ways God reminds you he is here,

Susan