Our delightful cat was 21 years old when her body died. I held her in my arms the night before, as I carried her to her bed. I did this every night for years. Something felt different this time. I paused, opened the back door, and stood on the threshold while we stared at the night sky together. The stars blinked at us. The moon beamed in a clear inky sky. Nothing was said. The endless silence held our parting beautifully.
Our-delightful-cat – Gavin-Birchall
Heartbroken, we promised ourselves that we would not bring another cat into our lives. Their inevitable loss would be too painful. For some few months this felt true. Then my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer and our worlds lost their previous coherence while a new one very slowly emerged. But not for a while. There was a period of uncertainty that displaced anything seemingly solid enough to rely on. We held onto each other.
We’d walk our dog each morning and each lunchtime, carrying on, as it is the only thing to do. While walking we began to notice the cats that lived in our neighbourhood. One particularly stood out. Maud is her name. We had an accord. Friends without words. A mutual, positive regard that spanned species. She became our ‘spare cat’.
Shortly after the diagnosis, which was three years ago to the day as I write, amidst a mess of fractured futures, we were walking ‘around the blocks’ unsure of our steps. The Beast From The East had brought persistent freezing temperatures and heavy snow. It was treacherous. As we passed the vicarage behind the church, a noise in the bushes caught my attention. An animal noise contrasting with the sharp crunch of ice. We looked and saw a large white and ginger cat. Young and slim. Very slim. He stood up and miaowed loudly. We recognised him as George the cat who had appeared five or six days ago on a missing cat poster attached to every lamp post for miles.
I picked him up. Somehow he let me. There was desperation. For both of us. He was big. Big paws, big claws. Glad I had my Winter gloves on. Still he wriggled a little. Unsure. Our dog was excited. It was chaos. We were yards from home so we took him in. Into the conservatory. We fed him some cat food we had left. He inhaled it. A whole sachet. We fed him another. He inhaled that too. Starving and cold and lost. But friendly and warm and tactile. We called the number on the poster and waited for the grateful owner to come and collect him. Seeing the unbridled joy on my wife’s face while he loved her softened something that had frozen inside me.
George-saves-us – Gavin-Birchall
Soon after, our niece and her partner mentioned that a friend of theirs had some kittens that needed a new home. Still full of the pain of losing our previous cat we resisted as we moved through medicalised days and made choices about treatments without any reliable information to work with. I resisted. My wife and daughter were ready to love again. I was not. Surgery happened and recovery began. Hopeful and incredibly hard. As a group we found a way. Led by my wife and her indomitable spirit.
There were hard days though. High points and low. It was during one of these low points that new life seemed like a wonderful way to amplify hope, to foster dreams and to encourage the life that was already trying its hardest to flourish. Life begets life. This was not an uncaring or cavalier decision. Bringing a new being into our world and our care was an act of the most profound meaning: for as long we all live. Despite being exhausted from the experiences we’d recently had we adopted not one, but two kittens.
Not-one-but-not-two – Gavin-Birchall
‘Apply two kittens to the affected area for twenty years.’
– A quote from the poem ’Two kittens’ by Gavin Birchall.
They were incredibly kitteny and brought a weather front of kittenness with them just when we needed it. They didn’t know about cancer or pain or loss. They do know about a lot of other things though and as they have grown into their adult selves here are some of the lessons they have shared.
This-cat-has-lessons-for-all – Vitcoria-Birchall
1. Everything is terrain.
There are no tables, no chairs, no books, no records, no curtains, no floors, no walls, no anything. There are no names and no ideas. There is just terrain. Some of it is appealing, some of it isn’t. They don’t wonder why. Their bodies know why and they trust that knowing.
2. Cats be catting.
Cats do not try to be cats. They just cat. They do not wonder if they are being a good cat or a bad cat. There is no comparison in their worlds. They do not try. They just are. They cat.
3. Cat in presence.
A deep presence in the moment spills off cats in peels that can be felt. It exudes and floods and utterly becomes the space within and around them. They do not bother with that which is outside of their sensory world. But they are all, all, all about that which is.
4. Can’t distract a cat.
From their instincts. Wave a feather in their direction and they are on it. But that is not distraction. That is action. Driven by instinct. It is their focus. Their only focus. Life as instinct.
5. Cat’s in-between.
If there is a space in-between that which we humans might consider meaningful, a cat will find it. A forgotten chair in a corridor. A cavity in the mess under the bed. The parts of us that we have forgotten exist while we get on with what seems important to do.
Everything-is-terrain – Gavin-Birchall
You can connect the dots here. I’ll leave that to you. There are more lessons. Of course there are. Everything is in everything. Then there is perhaps the most important lesson of all. Which I can only express in the words that came following that night, gazing at the stars, with our ancient, delightful cat in my arms.
Here, the fullness and culmination of lessons from cat.
A home in the past.
They teach us lessons all must learn,
Wordless wisdoms of unspeakable truths,
Of beginnings and beings and endings too,
Of when love that has a home in the present,
Finds a home in the past,
So that we may face our lives and loves,
With a little more courage,
For having loved and lost we learn that we continue,
These are the gifts they give to us,
With their brevity they ask for little in return,
To be fed, to be walked, to be cleaned when needs be,
Most of all they ask only for the exchange of love,
And in this asking their greatest lesson of all,
That this exchange is all that matters.
Gavin Birchall
Lessons are everywhere. Life is a metaphor for itself. Helping each other notice what our lives are about is a helpful part of coaching.