The Serenity of Feline Company

     For a while back there I used to have time to meditate for hours on my own. I'd go to my treatment room, where I use Tibetan singing bowls, study, read and relax, and then just find a comfortable position to sit alert and focusing on my inner state. It was quite idyllic and I was quite spoilt. So spoilt, in fact, that when a cat adopted me (yes, you read that the right way around) I found myself suddenly having to adjust my habits and patterns to accommodate a new kind of behaviour.

     We live in such a busy world that it's unusual to find a situation where you can meditate without distractions. Having become accustomed to the silence of West Cork in Ireland and the almost uninterrupted view of fields and mountains, I first found the attention my new feline friend was giving me a bit intense. She loves to sit on my lap of an evening and somehow, to her, the logic of me shutting myself away in a room where she couldn't get access to my strokes and cuddles just didn't make any sense.

     In the midst of my silent meditation I could hear her scratching at the door to come in. When I called to her to stop, she mewed at me in such an incriminating manner that I had to relent and let her in. My original plan had been never to let her into this sanctuary. This was supposed to be a pet free place where visitors who wanted soothing meditation could relax without the overtones of a 'mad cat person' intruding on their inner peace. So what? It would mean having to use the hoover a little more conscientiously before a session. It was a small price to pay to satisfy Pusia and restore some of the former inner balance. She ventured into the room with some trepidation at first (the first time I played the bowls she looked at me like I was a mad man and ran for cover).

     From an animal's point of view, there must have been so many new, exotic and interesting smells. My equipment is brought from the farthest reaches of the Asian world and some of it originates from the incense laden atmosphere of Buddhist monasteries. I watched with interest as she explored, sniffing and jumping at every little creak and crack she heard.

     And then I realized what a great teacher she is. Every moment of anxious shock at a new noise or unexpected movement such as the gong swinging backwards and forwards was greeted with a moment's statuesque type risk assessment and then, once assured there was no danger, a few gestures of absolutely defiant composure such as licking herself or looking nonchalantly around at nothing in particular. It was a very practical example of living in the now. 

     I decided it would do no harm to let her explore further while I meditated. She was, after all, quite content and quiet as long as she was in the same room as me. But then something very magical happened. Quite contrary to being a distraction, Pusia became the focusing force of my attention.

     As I sat down to meditate she stopped her exploration of the room and its contents. As if it was the most natural thing in the world she wandered up to me and curled up in my lap where I sat in a relaxed but alert state. She didn't purr or meow but stared at me and steadily met my gaze. We sat like this for a while as she performed periodic gymnastics before she settled into a comfortable position. Then we spent 20 minutes or so like this for the duration of my calm meditation.

     She wasn't a distraction and she remained perfectly calm until the end of the meditation. Then she got up, arched her back and stretched her legs and wandered off again on, no doubt, important cat business. 

     This episode reminded me that we can't really develop our spiritual practice in isolation. In order to grow and to practise  love, empathy and compassion we have to relate to another living entitiy, human or animal. Pusia made me realize that instead of reducing my contact with the external world to promote my meditational practice it's time to start reaching out again. It's the only way to create the Dharma we need to develop.