The White Cat

Completely void of colour and so white as to be an endless stream of possibilities, the cat bound its way onto my lap. It had no desire to be controlled; rather, it had an interest in me with an implicit agreement that there would be no grabbing. My palm and fingers received the wisp of otherworldly soft hair, so fleeting as to be both forgotten and remembered forever. 

“I accept,” I said.

Fine. Then I’ll teach you.

Moving like a spring cloud, she passed through me and hovered on the TV stand, seeing into my eyes.

Don’t stop caring.

“It’s the only way to lessen the stress,” I said.

What’s stressing you?

“Everything. My job, the kids, my health, my wife.”

Those things can’t stress you.

“Wanna bet?”

Nothing is stressful except what you make.

“I don’t understand.”

Keep caring about everything important to you.

“That’s the problem. I care so deeply that everything stresses me.”

Sissoning from the TV stand to the printer perched atop a stack of books and magazines, the snowball sat powerfully and precariously.

“Careful, sweety, the whole pile’s going to come down.”

That’s stress. You care what happens next.

“Of course I do.”

Allow the future to dance in front of you.

“Is it all art then?”

Sure – art and possibilities.

“Not sure if I totally get it.”

Care about the dance, not where it goes.

“Right! Loosen my grip on the outcome. I get it now.”

Like a Chinook, the cat melted away and I was left with the idea of control. If I were able to release my control over what comes next and care about what is, I wondered what life would look like. 

Probably a lot like what a cat sees.