Park Walk in the Clouds

A tree branch snaps somewhere off to the right, and I register its descent, counting the seconds, anticipating the thud as it hits the ground. The sound barely echoes in this evening stillness, yielding quickly to the silence like a child told to hush. A single stone is disturbed and is sent tumbling, a few inches at most, yet I am certain about what happened as if I were watching its short-lived journey with my own eyes. It so happens that I am not watching it, because my eyes are closed, and have been for some distance now.

As we walk, I become more and more aware of the world around me, the world I would ordinarily only perceive by pattern recognition - tree, rock, yellow tractor. Deprived of my most overused sense, I am forced into the present moment by a combination of fear and curiosity. What if I walk into a tree? What if I step into bear droppings? What if I look somewhat different from the way normal people are supposed to look, different from all those people who don't walk through the park at sunset with their eyes closed… Gradually, curiosity takes over - Let me listen to the birds and … wait… what happened to the birds? The tranquility of this evening moment is disturbed only by a handful of distant bugs, making our footsteps and our thoughts the loudest events in the park.

It may seem that we are also subject to the decree of silence seemingly accepted by all living things here, but this is not the case. Our silence is premeditated, or perhaps - currently meditated. We are here to listen to the energy of the park, and to practice guided walking. Intellectually I know that I am not in any danger, for my hand is held firmly by my lovely companion who is not only excellent at avoiding bear droppings, but is managing to create an energetic space of acceptance and ease as we walk. I move inwards, and try an ancient Tibetan practice of cloud walking. I picture myself walking confidently right up to a cliff and then stepping off, onto the blue infinity, continuing to walk on that which is nothing. Although my goal is to feel weightless, all I manage to achieve today is a certain degree of lightness and ease. This is fine as well, there is no rush, and there are no deadlines.

A feeling of gratitude arises spontaneously in my heart, and we switch roles. No matter how many times I've experienced it, I've found being trusted to feel unusual. I am now balancing a feeling of responsibility with a sense of joy. I'm responsible for her safety, true, but I'd also like to return the favor, to provide her the best experience possible. I know intellectually that this is not in my control, so I try to drop responsibility in favor of pure love. It mostly works.

The road comes to an end, and so does this practice. A pair of green eyes offers me unquestionable love and understanding and a pair of my own reflections. There are two, on two levels at once - the images I see is just the surface. I realize now that she is not thinking, and that's the very state I'm after. In her perfect stillness she is reflecting my nature as a perfect mirror, and my own stream of thoughts begins to finally put on the brakes. This is like having real-time biofeedback that actually works. I understand now the poetic desire to jump into the pools of your lover's eyes, and I do this with my consciousness, joining with her and feeling a oneness that requires no words. I know that both of us are entirely content, and there is nowhere else to go. Not this moment.

Thinking Black

Even from here I can sense the subtle and quick pulsation in the neck, partially obscured by fur, though not well enough to hide it from me. To be quite honest, I don't know what sense I'm using to detect the creature's pulse. Sometimes I think I'm hearing the friction of the blood against the arterial walls, sometimes I feel as though I might be smelling fear. Pheromones and other fancy things, most probably. I know of such things, I've heard the voices talk about them before, from the warm silver box She stares at in the mornings. I don't always pay attention, of course - on most mornings the box talks about complete nonsense, and frankly I don't really understand why She would prefer the box to me in the first place. I may not talk about Remote Viewing or Astral Projection, but that doesn't mean I can't teach her how to do it. Like this morning, when I was exploring ancient Egypt… now there's a place where you get treated right.

Besides, She often needs help, She may not know it, but I do. If only She would calm down a little and stop baby talking to me as if I were a first-rate moron, I could really help her focus and even pull some of that darkness out, the thoughts she brings home sometimes. For now, I'll just have to keep doing it at night. She thinks that I crawl into bed because I like to be warm, and that's fine with me. An agenda of stealth, that's my game.

But now is not the best time to get sidetracked by all this pensiveness.

The pace at the jugular quickens slightly, the ears perk up - he heard something, though certainly not me. I am completely still, even my tail has ceased its unending oscillation. What is the deal with this tail business, anyway? I seriously think that sometimes it has a mind of its own. Sometimes it gets so excited that I can barely hold it still to … wait, hang on, he's on the move. A few hops at a time, taking his time to look around, cautious, and rightly so. All the caution in the world won't help you, little friend. Some of us are prey, that's simply how it is. It's not that I'm so unabashedly self-assured… although I am, in this case… no, sometimes certainty is just so clear and tangible that there is no doubt. Somehow I just know what is about to happen, it seems to come from somewhere both within me and beyond me. What was that phrase this morning? "Zen duality?".... call it whatever you like, as long as it helps me bring this rabbit home. Bonus points for helping me avoid the noisy rolling beasts, blind as they may seem, there have been more of them lately. I must think about this a bit more later… I'm not sure I like the way things have been changing around here.

Hold my thoughts… he stops, inches from my face. No, my furry prize, you cannot smell me, I'm downwind from you, and I smell you just fine. These are the nights when I'm truly grateful for being born black. He's staring right at me, sensing something, yet there is nothing to focus on, nothing to pick out in the blackness of the shadow. I am part of the shadow now… and boy could I work that topic for a while, but I won't, not right now, my thoughts must yield to the instincts that drive me to play this ancient game. Why do I even have thoughts, in the first place? Am I the only feline in the world that asks questions? I've tried it, tried talking to the neighbors, and would you believe it - nothing! Not a single ounce of interest in anything but stuffing themselves silly and commiserating on their dissatisfaction with the weather, all expressed in the same one-word neanderthal language they've used for millennia. Yes of course I know what they mean, but seriously, it's the same weather as last year. And the year before. Mrrl...Year? Yes, year, you mindless furballs, they repeat you know. And maybe it isn't so bad to be constantly surprised by what happens next, keeps life interesting I suppose… but taking it to such heights of ignorance! Makes me wonder sometimes if we as a race even deserve to catch our prey, after all, what makes us better? Are we really any different than those long eared, grass munching poop factories?

Maybe it's better not to go down this path, I don't want it to turn out like last winter, depression isn't that much fun, as it turns out. She pretty much had to resurrect me with her infectious liveliness - without her I'd probably just sulk into the blackness…. but hey, at least I'd blend in, right, right, eh? See, I'm not depressed now, that's right, not a bit. And now it's time to crunch on some collarbones, that's always exciting. And there he is, right on schedule, walking right into my mouth, I won't even have to run. Not that I mind running, mind you, I'm in really good shape, 8 pounds of shiny fur and shapely muscles, and I do say so myself.

Well, that's that then, and now I have my teeth in his stinky scruff, dragging him across the road. Why can't you furballs come a little closer to the house and save the Ghost some work? Maybe when She sees you on the steps, the gift of gratitude that I owe her, maybe she'll start calling me by my real name. Not that other name, I won't even mention it, it makes my tail hairs stick up every time I hear it… why do they always do that, these humans, why do they make up names for us and just assume that we're cool with it, that they are the foremost authority? Did you ever think to ask us? To give her credit though, She sometimes just calls me "Cat". Even that's better than … no, I won't fall for that trick, you won't make me say it. That name always brings up an image of a country bumpkin out to chop firewood. Not that I have an issue with alternative fuels, but seriously, it just doesn't feel cool. And have you seen me? I'm pretty damn cool. Now up the steps, furry token of gratitude, She'll be up soon.