June 12, 2013

Grief is a hunting cat

I’m returning from a great mystery that somehow involves the heaven and earth, belief and non-belief, proof and disproof..and a thousand other paradoxes. Some are ineffable, but they all swirl around loss. As personal, as individual as is loss, it runs through all our lives.

My cat sleeps most of the day in the city but during winter nights in the country she is a hunter. She’s quiet, still, alert. She watches dark corners for movement. She waits for a small creature to appear, and even then, doesn’t jump to grab it.  She follows it with her eyes, moving no other muscle. And when the creature has stopped, its back to the cat , the cat pounces from the dark and pins the mouse under her paw. She holds it in place, looks around serenely, gently lifts her paw to release the little mouse. It darts away, and my cat pounces again. Then, she grabs it with her mouth, gives just enough pressure to cause injury and starts up a tossing game until she is bored. She then kills the mouse and walks off to find a soft bed.

Grief is a hunting cat. We are the small creatures it follows in our house of loss.

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