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Jan Flynn

How My Cat Helped Me Find My Place in the Universe

On a Friday morning precisely at 7:48AM



I maintain a modest but consistent morning practice


I arise early — not ascetic-monk-early, but pretty early for someone who no longer has to report to a workplace at any particular hour. Like, I’m up by 6:30 AM. 

After I’ve brushed my teeth and put on exercise clothes (because if I’m already dressed for a workout, it’s much likelier to happen), I feed the cat and dog, start the coffee, let the dog out, let the dog back in, pour myself a gorgeous steaming cup and then settle in for a 10-minute gratitude meditation followed by journaling.

It’s one of my favorite times of the day. Especially in the fall and winter months, which surprises me a little. But there’s something magical about those hushed, predawn hours that I, a former night owl, have come to love.

This routine hasn’t conferred upon me an unwavering, Yoda-like serenity. But it gives me a break from my high-wire thought patterns and starts my day nicely. 


Until one recent Friday 


I’d progressed through the morning drill to the point where I was curling up on the sofa in front of the fireplace, mug of coffee in hand, preparing to meditate.

This is not the traditionally upright, cross-legged posture. Nor is drinking coffee standard meditation protocol. I’m aware, so if you’re a purist-type practitioner, don’t come at me.

Anyway, there I was, settling in, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a cat in gastric upheaval. I leapt up and rushed to where poor kitty coughed and gasped, arriving just in time to witness him yak up his entire breakfast. Squarely in the middle of our hand-woven Kurdish rug.

It took multiple paper towels, liberal applications of carpet spot cleaner, and a spatula to address the situation. The cat, relieved of his distress, observed with calm interest as I wiped, sprayed, scrubbed, and shooed the dog away while also holding my breath.


That done, I plopped back down on the sofa


Rejoining my cooling coffee, I plugged in my AirPods and started up a guided gratitude meditation (again, not a purist over here). I was hardly in the mood, but like any practice, you don’t get very far if you only do it when you feel like it. 

I was about to close my eyes when the view outside the window caught my attention.

There, unfolding above the neighbor’s rooftop, was one of the most glorious sunrises I have ever beheld in all my three-score-and-ten (plus one). 

The sky coruscated in shades of pink and rose, building in intensity until the colors transmuted, like alchemy, into a dazzling gold, blazing through the bare branches of the trees.

And all the while the beautifully modulated voice in my ears gave thanks.

As did I, with all my heart and soul. It was a moment of transcendence, of bliss, of quiet awe, a moment that can’t adequately be conveyed in words.

The dawn gracefully and gradually subsided into the gray of a damp November morning. The guided meditation ended. 

I remained, gazing out the window, suffused with a deep sense of miracle.


Until the cat puked again


This time he at least ejected whatever was left in his stomach onto the hardwood floor instead of the rug. Also this time the dog was faster than I was and had eaten most of the mess before I could clean it up.

Which I did calmly and with a newly grounded understanding. 

This is life. Our temporary, earthly being is poised between celestial splendor and cat barf. All of it is to be experienced fully and given its due, the glorious and the gross. The point is not to miss any of it.

So, that’s what I learned that Friday morning, and it has stayed with me.

The cat is fine, by the way.

And I disinfected the spatula.



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