“Animals spend much of their time dozing and idling pleasantly, but because life is short, human beings must cram into the years the highest possible amount of consciousness, alertness, and chronic insomnia so as to be sure not to miss the last fragment of startling pleasure.” — Alan Watts

Can you recall a time you secretly wished you were born as a cat? I once read an article in the health and wellness section of a magazine that claimed ninety-three percent of people would exchange their life for that of a cat if given the option. I have to admit, I’ve wrestled with this dilemma myself.

I’ve lived alone since the divorce last May. It hasn’t been an easy year, but I’m forever grateful that I had Whiskers by my side to help me through the lowest of the lows. She was a much-needed friend and an unexpected source of wisdom during these troubling times.

My relationship with Whiskers began to blossom in the early summer, when I would spend several hours a day sitting in a deckchair next to my miniature garden pond. I had taken a couple of weeks off work to get myself back into the frame of mind it took to be a healthy and constructive member of society. Unfortunately, the plentiful time to think was having the opposite effect. I silently watched the glowing orange fish circle aimlessly under the water, while my thoughts circled just as aimlessly, stuck on trying to figure out where and how my life had gone so wrong.

While I mentally tortured myself for wasting the days away alone, Whiskers was always out there with me having the time of her life. The lemon tree was her favourite spot. She would spend hours stretched out under the hanging oval leaves. Sometimes she would lie on her back and raise her legs as if preparing to catch a prematurely dropping citrus. She always looked content under there, shaded from the sun, with a faint glint catching her eyes and making them shimmer. The lemon tree was a sanctuary where she could simply enjoy her own existence. It was her own personal piece of paradise.

Whiskers had no trouble finding satisfaction in doing nothing at all. There was no searching, striving, or grasping while under the lemon tree. Joy was abundant because being was the only condition required. Whiskers had truly mastered the art of living in the moment and that was all she would ever need.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the difference between us. Why couldn’t I enjoy each moment as much as she did?

As the days passed, I realised that I needed to cultivate my own version of the lemon tree. A place that could provide a psychological retreat to weather the unpredictable storms of life. A mental space that allowed me to exist without the constant pressure of unbridled self-judgement.When life gives you lemons, spend some time under a lemon tree.

This was the first of several lessons Whiskers would end up teaching me that year.

Autumn was just around the corner. A period of change and uncertainty. Nature browning under the pressures of time. Unspeakable forces of progress in the air. Those once reliable, suddenly in flux.

I had decided not to return to work; I simply didn’t have it in me to sit in the artificial confines of an office anymore. Something had changed and it was my deepening relationship with Whiskers that was at the forefront of this transformation.

Initially, I felt content with my decision, but the darker mornings had knocked me off course. I had been isolated in my house for weeks and the strain of expectations was beginning to drag me down. I went out for walks to get back in touch with myself, but it wasn’t enough. My emotions had shifted sideways. I was heavily weighted to the point of walking with a psychological limp.

When I returned, I’d sit in the garden and watch Whiskers as she wandered back and forth along the narrow, wood plank fence. Cats have fantastic balance and Whiskers is no exception. She moved effortlessly and without fear of falling. The more I watched her do this, the more I became enamoured with her ability to navigate treacherous terrain.

I realised that the way she moved was a perfect balance between her intentions and her nature. She did not question what she was or how she conducted herself, it was apparent to her that there was no choice in the matter, instead, she utilized her nature to perform effortlessly the worldly tasks she was intended for.

This was the lesson I needed. It had been a rough month and balance certainly wasn’t a quality I considered myself to have possessed recently. But just like for Whiskers, balance wasn’t a state that needed to be attained, it was a natural part of my being. Therefore, maybe it was my feeling of imbalance that was the balance required of me. For if balance was my nature, then to feel off-balance must also be a form of balance.

I went back inside feeling more secure on my feet, the earth grounding me, serving my purpose as I served its.

For the rest of that week, the feeling of imbalance was gone. With my acceptance of my nature came a realisation of the natural balance that had always been there. And thus, I saw the change of the seasons with the same necessity.

The summer was long gone and the bitter sting of northern winds had transformed my home into a stone fridge. The back garden was even more unhospitable. Dense white mist rose from the ground, churning like an other-worldly spell. The overgrown lawn resisted and cracked upon touch.

On one evening in late November, I met up with two old college friends who I hadn’t seen in years. They consoled me on my divorce and my new status as an unemployed man in his fifties. When I told them that I had developed a spiritual relationship with my cat they seemed slightly concerned. I noticed them give each other a raised eyebrow glance when they thought I wasn’t looking. One of them then suggested that I get back out there and try to meet someone new. While on the surface I appreciated the advice, deep down I felt a bubbling disgust which culminated in the thought: mind your own business.

As the evening continued, I felt a strange sense of isolation, not just from my friends but from other people in general. It was as if there existed a transparent barrier that separated me from the theatre of the social world. I was no longer a participant in the drama, but an audience member, watching the entire story play out from the detached comfort of my seat. I noticed how every word, expression and action was a form of subtle manoeuvring. The communication between us didn’t come from a place of heartfelt sharing, but from a place of strategic gain through means of emotional and psychological manipulation. It was as if every gesture was a desperate attempt for validation, a harrowing cry: please love me. And it wasn’t just my friends, I was as guilty as them, I wanted to gather and hoard those scraps of love too. The only difference between us was I was now able to peer inside the system and notice the steaming mechanics operating behind the scenes.

On the walk home, I attempted to navigate the icy darkness while wrapped in three layers. My vision was obscured by my slightly intoxicated state as well as the woolly hat that was too big for my small head and kept falling over my eyes. I took a break and sat on a wooden bench. I took a deep breath in. The air was crisp and the sky was clear. Stars formed a net over my head, encapsulating my contained and limited existence. What I really wanted was out there with the stars. A state of being beyond the superficial grasping at love. I thought about what my friend had said to me about trying to meet someone new. The truth was that I didn’t feel like I deserved to meet anyone. I was missing something fundamental and that missing piece of myself had to be rediscovered before I could even consider putting myself out there as a finished product.

When I arrived home, I sat by the electric fireplace. The blanket of warmth was quite welcome after my long walk in the cold. I was about to put something on television and distract myself from the barrage of confusing and negative thoughts that had been triggered by tonight’s meet-up. But before I could reach for the remote, I heard a loud meow as the living room door was pushed open and Whiskers entered. As soon as I saw her I knew that something wasn’t quite right. There was a shakiness to her movements. Her eyes were wide and pupils dilated as if she had just been witness to some traumatic event.

I called her over. As she approached I noticed that her breathing was heavy and wheezing. She climbed onto my lap and rested her head against my belly helplessly. The white fur covering her chest pumped rapidly. I was seriously worried. All thoughts of isolation and incompleteness vanished and my only concern was making sure Whiskers was okay. I gently stroked the top of her head and tried my best to comfort her. After a minute she began to pur which I felt could only be a good sign. Her breathing still sounded off but it seemed as though she was becoming more herself again.

As the threat appeared to dissipate, I noticed how Whiskers had been so willing to open up to the love of her owner. There was no hesitation or self-consciousness. No pretence. Her reactions were transparent. There was no denial of her own worthiness to be cared for. She naturally assumed that my love for her was a given. And she was right. It was a given.

Then why, as a human being, did I question my own right to receive the same love? Why did I assume it to be conditional to external factors resulting in the micro manipulations that I had noticed earlier? Love needed to be earned, or so I thought. It was the reward for a life well lived. This was the assumption that had dominated my attitudes for as long as I could remember — and I hadn’t fully grasped the extent of this paralyzing framework until now.

For Whiskers there was no need to prove anything, her existence was the only requirement. She could willingly accept my love because she already loved herself without it.

The now fully heated fireplace engulfed us in its warmth, and for a while, the world seemed like a less threatening place. For if there were no requirements for love, there was nothing that could really hurt us.

Silently, the winter months slipped by, and with the bloom of the first flowers, the cold season felt like nothing more than a distant dream. Strangely, the memories of my life up to that point seemed to have lost their concreteness too. They still lingered in my mind, but more as reference points than lived experiences that could be identified as part of who I was. I felt like somehow the past year had radically transformed me, and for better or worse, there was no going back to the person that I used to be.

It was warm enough to go outside again. So I gravitated back to my old spot by the garden pond. One morning, while I sat there with a cup of hot coffee, I glimpsed my rippling reflection in the water and was taken aback by what I saw. Unkept dark, greying hair, a thick beard, lined ridges in the skin, and eyes that stared with an impassive resignation.

When you forget yourself time passes discreetly, careful not to wake you up from your slumber. But my reflection in the water had awoken me. With a heavy heart, I had to face the harsh effects of time. I wasn’t getting any younger and there was no way to re-live the days of my youth. To tell the truth. I was scared. There was a deep dread when I thought about the future and what it had in store for an old man like me. The world may have forgotten about me, but I knew that fate hadn’t.

I decided it was time to try and put the fragments of my life back together. Over the next couple of days, I trimmed my beard and cut my hair. I cleaned the house and tended to the garden, both of which had been disregarded for a long time. I even got online and started looking around for new work opportunities that would align with the new version of me. Whiskers, curious as ever, pottered around the house watching me. I’m not sure if she had any idea what I was doing, but I wish I could have told her how much she had helped me find the strength to embrace what remained of my life.

Like me, Whiskers seemed to have recently been in her own form of slumber. She ventured out into the garden occasionally, but not quite as often as she used to. With age and experience comes a certain apathy. It seemed life had worn her down too.

A couple of days later, on a beautiful sunny afternoon. I ventured out to the pond with a notepad and a pen. I started to write down my experiences over the last year. The lessons learned and the changes that had taken place within me. After I had finished I looked up over the garden. My eyes landed on the lemon tree and I saw her underneath. She was stretched out and frozen. A gentle breeze shifted the thin branches of the tree, and their shadows waved, giving life to the lifeless.

It was dusk by the time I found the strength to bury her. An orange glow streamed through the branches and onto the mound of dirt where she would now rest. I already missed her, and the unfairness of it all seemed overwhelming. But just like everything else we had experienced together over the past year, there was a lesson here too. Whiskers had approached death in the same way she had approached life, with a quiet acceptance. And this was her final gift. As I now knew how I wanted to lead my life going forward.

I said goodbye, took a deep breath of fresh spring air and walked away. There was sadness but no sorrow. She had lived a full life. And more importantly a true life. She would not be forgotten, not by me.

I heard a gentle thud, and when I turned around, I saw that a lemon had fallen from the tree and landed on top of the mound of dirt, the very same place she had always been.

Ben Worrall