I set my Zabuton meditation mat on the floor and plop my rectangular Gomden cushion and support pillow on top, settle into a cross-legged position and rest my palms gently on my thighs. I relax and bring my attention to my breath. And invariably, a cat walks by.
As anyone who lives with cats knows, they have an uncanny knack for finding the most inconvenient place to be at any given time. There’s something about a body in meditation, or yoga for that matter, that attracts them from the other room as surely as a tuna fish sandwich.
In our household, one cat in particular seems to gravitate to me when I’m meditating. Walking invitingly in front of me and curling his tail over his back as I’m trying to concentrate on, well ... not concentrating on anything, he chooses this particular moment to decide that he must have my attention right now.
He meows up at me piteously, begging and pleading for attention, not possibly imaging why I am sitting on the floor if not to reach over and scritch his soft brown back.
I try ignoring him, and it works to a certain extent, except for the guilty feeling I get for not attending to those piteous cries. He’s got that, “I’m just a poor little cat looking for some affection,” shtick down pat. It gets me every time. But I hold my ground.
When this doesn’t get him anywhere, he proceeds to explore the highest point in the room, which is the top of the bookshelf.
He gets there via the top of my husband’s dresser, which he leaps onto as easily as I would step out of the shower. Then he crouches into a striped, furry mass, and out of the corner of my eye I see him propel himself as if shot from a rubber band to the top of the bookshelf, a mere foot from the ceiling.
By this time my meditation is pretty much shot. Even though I’m not looking at him, I know he’s up there, and instead of letting my attention rest lightly on my out-breath, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, when he will execute a controlled fall back to the dresser with a considerable Thump, the tag on his collar jingling as he goes.
It’s just like thoughts, really. Every time I sit down to clear my mind, there they are. I try ignoring them, but they beg and plead. “You’ve been running around all day and now you sit down so I think you are going to pay attention to me. But you’re not? How could you? I’ve got some really good ideas! And besides I want to know what’s for lunch.”
I wish I could say that I’ve managed to ignore both the cats and the thoughts during meditation, but it’s just not the case. I’m working towards a mild yet benevolent curiosity, and maybe that’s as it should be. Thoughts, like cats, come and go through my life, and even though they can pop up at the most inopportune moments, I wouldn’t want to live without them.
Photos of cats who "help" write Thoughts Happen courtesy of the author.
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