Sit.

a song to set the scene // follow the sun by xavier rudd

What are you doing? my gem asked me over the phone.

Pacing, I answered, pacing.

Why?

I don’t know, maybe because I’m stressed?

(About work, and my family, and my life. Oh, and I’ve got some large unexpected financial burdens and a show to put on in less than a week. Time for myself? Ha. I wish)

Brusquely hanging up with him, I found that my pacing had taken me to my computer, where my pink velvet chair beckoned out to me: sit.

Like a beacon in the night, I felt obliged to follow its command.

So I sat.

And here we are.

Fingers poised over the keyboard, lashes crusted with the still wet mascara I had cried off earlier in exhausted frustration, I sat in front of my computer and instantly felt better.

*sigh

Where does one start?

I’ll be honest: the last few weeks have been difficult for me.

See, last year, during this time, I was green in my relationship with my gem.

We had just started dating, and afternoons were filled with picnic lunches , and gourmet sandwiches on the riverbank. There was a hint of new beginnings in the air, and I felt as if time had slowed for us. Our relationship was blossoming. I felt like the world was mine for the taking.

This year though… feels like the complete opposite.

As summer fast approaches, I keep getting asked: how are you?

On impulse, I reply with a twinge of nervousness and trepidation: ehhhhh.

Not good. I wanna say back. Not very good.

Don’t get me wrong, me and my gem are are going strong. Like the dandelions making their way out of hibernation, we’ve worked through our fair share of meltdowns and stresses, stronger and better because of it.

And thank goodness for that, because I don’t think I’d be able to make it through without my gem’s support.

But personally? Things have not been very good.

Without going into too much detail, I’ve felt a little lost lately.

Lost and overwhelmed. Tapped out, anxious, at capacity, and beset with worry. Oh yeah, and on the verge of totally and completely losing it.

So as I was pacing, trying to figure out what to tackle first (is it laundry, vacuuming, sorting through an awful departure at work, or practicing my 4 part harmony for my show that opens in less than a week oh my lord my show opens in less than a week), I found myself in front of this chair that enticed me to just sit.

After lighting a candle, pouring myself a glass of water, and nibbling on some desert, I felt that as I started typing, I realized that what I was doing was taking actually taking a break, a much needed pause.

Which reminded me of something my friend had told me earlier in the week:

I know it can be hard, but make sure you make time for yourself.

Honestly, that’s been my last priority.

Which might explain my susceptibility to reacting in the severity in which I’ve been doing lately.

When I’m tired, or stressed, overwhelmed, tapped out, anxious, at capacity, beset with worry: oh yeah, and on the verge of totally and completely losing it, I find that I lose my ability to control how I react. I feel defenseless against these triggers.

Hence the still wet mascara I often manage to cry off.

And so when my pacing led me to this chair, I took it as a sign to pause, to slow down, and to use the space as an opportunity to make time for myself.

As I look outside my window, at the golden hour glow that reminds me so much of sunset dates with my gem, at the green buds on my lilac tree, and the chirping of the birds, I was reminded of all the beauty and goodness out there.

Yes, there may be a lot going on in here, but there’s also so much out there to be grateful for.

Like my gem who just pulled into the driveway.

Heck, even the two cats keeping me company right now are reminding me the importance of pausing.

Or should I say “paw-sing.”

A Thoughtful thing.

The comment came out of nowhere.

There I was, having brunch with my friends on a rare Saturday off when someone at the table looked at me and said: “I wouldn’t consider you a thoughtful person, Elan.”

I nearly spit my bubbles out.

My first instinct was defend.

I mean, someone just insulted me, I simply had to protect my honor.

But then, just as quickly, I paused.

Let it sit, my heart whispered to me.

Is it really the truth?

And so I wound up taking the comment and placing it in my hand. I examined it next: closely, and from all sides, and where once before I would’ve swallowed the critique and obsessed over it for days, I instead chucked it behind my shoulder, letting it go.

I know myself better than that.

So I’m driving home on this rare Saturday off, feeling very proud of myself for how well I handled things earlier, and as I pull into my driveway, I notice a cat laying down outside by my garage.

A cat that wasn’t mine.

I managed to coax him inside, and then I realized: Oh my. Now I have a stray cat in my garage.

As I waited for the other cat lady in my family to arrive (my sister), I got to work getting him some food, water, and a blanket to lay on, which he very quickly collasped onto.

Once he was safe and warm, I kneeled down to pet him. It was then that I registered just how rough of shape he was in.

I felt bones. Dirty, matted, leaf-ridden fur atop just bones.

His nose, which he was having difficulty breathing out of, was bloody and infected.

His eyes were sad and he could barely eat.

My heart ached.

When we tried cleaning him with baby wipes, we discovered that he wasn’t fixed, and that his genitalia didn’t look to be in the best shape.

When my sister arrived, we did what everyone told us to do: take him to the shelter.

Upon arrival to the already overwhelmed, overworked, and overflowing animal shelter, we had him scanned for chips and checked into the database. No cat by his description had been reported missing in the last six months.

“Do you want to surrender him?” they asked.

I paused, for the second time that day.

I couldn’t.

I just… couldn’t.

The thought of dropping him off and never knowing what would happen to him just broke me. My heart again whispered no, and trusting that inner voice, I walked out of the shelter with this poor decrepit cat.

Now what?

Little pained meows were the soundtrack on the drive home as I wracked my brain as to what to do next. Looking down at him, skinny and starved, my heart went out to this hurting creature.

Obviously, he needed a vet. So I made plans to call first thing Monday morning to get him in.

The rest of Saturday passed.

I went to bed with worry.

Sunday went by.

I went to bed with worry.

On Monday, I called as soon as they opened. They could get him in for an appointment tomorrow.

One more day.

Unfortunately, it was on this day that I noticed his condition worsening.

Garage developing the stench of death, he wasn’t eating and he wasn’t drinking.

Every time I opened the door, I waited anxiously to hear a meow, fearful that I would find that this poor cat had passed.

I was in ruins.

Whenever I leaned down to pet him, tears fell from my eyes: gentle plop plop plops.

I felt helpless, not being able to help. I felt that I had exhausted all efforts and it was killing me not being able to do more for him. And that as a result, he was declining, and fast.

I knew those around me were thinking: why is Elan putting more emotional stress on her plate? She’s already sensitive, she doesn’t ned this additional burden.

And part of that was indeed, true. I am sensitive. I am also emotional. And yes, there did live that hurt in my heart, this reality that I could potentially lose him.

But this “emotional stress”, this additional “burden”, were all feelings of love.

That compassion I felt, that empathy towards another living thing that was suffering, all of those so called “burdens” came from a place of love and care.

And even though there was that potential of loss, I also knew there was potential for gain. Yes, he could die. But he could also live.

And if love was the only thing this cat got to feel in his final moments, then at least he would go softy, carefully, warmly, and with me by his side.

Unable to wait another day, my family called the vet and we were able to get him in for an emergency visit.

When we took him in, the looks on their faces echoed my concerns.

He looked like roadkill.

First: they did tests.

A lot was going on.

Basically, his white blood cell count was off the charts, which meant that his body was fighting infection, most likely in his genitalia, and nose.

He was about five pounds underweight, severely dehydrated, and extremely malnourished.

So they kept him overnight. Prayed that by morning his condition might improve.

Leaving the vet’s office, I was still worried but I also felt as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, for I knew he was in good hands.

In the morning, I was having coffee with my brother when I got the call.

Squeezing my hand and supporting me with sympathetic eyes, I took a deep breath and answered the phone.

My cat… had improved.

He was okay! He was going to be okay.

Tears of joy coming out of my eyes, the vet told me that she was just as surprised and shocked as I was, that the entire staff had been rooting for him and that he had miraculously pulled through.

After informing me that they’d like to monitor him for the next few days, the vet signed off, telling me: Had you left him at the animal shelter, they likely would’ve had to put him down. You did a good thing.

Fast forward a few weeks.

I now have two cats!

Guji, of course, and now Mika, my handsome new boy.

As I sit here on the couch with two cats napping next to me, I look out the window and smile.

What were the odds that this cat would find me on a rare Saturday off?

More ironically, what were the odds that this cat would give me an opportunity to do a thoughtful thing?