The Cat Asleep Across the Room

There is a cat sleeping on a chair. I can see the rising and falling motion of her ribs, and her paws are tucked under her like a loaf of bread. She’s been there for more than an hour. I am working at my desk. She is doing nothing.

This is not the same as being alone.

I would have thought that company meant interaction. Conversation, eye contact, and some active exchange of focus. And sometimes it is. But my cat has helped me understand that there is value in presence. In specific, her presence. Presence as in she will not make eye contact or ask for anything. But rather, she is here. And that is enough to change the quality of the silence.

It is the kind of peace that comes from a sleeping cat. It is not the peace of true solitude, and it is not the true peace of true solitude, but rather the peace of being in a shared space with no demands. I do not have to entertain her, or elaborate, or reassure her, or prove that I am paying attention. Just the fact that I am in the room is enough for her to choose me, and to sleep. That is the whole transaction.

I have felt the urge to reflect when I quantify connection based on its sheer physicality. How many times do I think that love, friendship, or companionship needs to be demonstrative to be authentic? But look at Luna, she is completely still, and yet she is making me feel less lonely than I did an hour ago. She is not performing being still. She probably is not even aware that I am watching her from across the room. She is simply still, and being close to me is enough to warrant that.

There is a unique and particular feeling that comes from being trusted enough to be ignored. She would not be sleeping this soundly if she did not feel safe. Her presence is a statement that the room is a goodness place to be. That I am good enough company even if she is only half aware of me as I type at my desk, lost in my thoughts and with no further interest in what is taking place in the room.

This is one of the many things that I realize animals do much better than we do. They can simply be with us, in silence, without wanting or needing anything from us. For instance, a dog that sleeps by your feet while you have a lengthy phone conversation, or a cat on the arm of the couch while you are reading. They do not sit at your feet, or at the arm of the couch, waiting for an interaction to begin. This is the interaction.

I wonder if this is something we could work on. Sitting with loved ones where it is not necessary to fill the quiet with conversation, or to be purposeful, or function as an emotional support of some kind through visible work. To simply be present, breathe, and let that be sufficient.

Luna lightly stirs, shifts, and settles. Her eyes are closed. The refrigerator hums and my fingers tap on the keyboard. Nothing is happening. Everything is perfectly fine.

She will wake whenever, and I will finish my work, and it will be whatever it is. She may come over, or she may stretch and leave the room. Right now, it doesn’t matter, the important is this is present.

And this, I have come to learn is a sort of gift.