The sounds were terrible. The high-pitched squeals, low yowls, and general mayhem-y like sounds indicating cat trouble were coming from the outside deck, where, except for the solar lanterns along the path, it was beyond black. As I sprinted toward the trouble, both cats came shooting through the cat doors, tails the size of Swiffer dusters. He immediately under the bed, she under the ottoman. Kneeling down with treats, all I got were saucer eyes from her and growls from him. Clearly there was no way he was coming out although sometime in the night, he ended up on the bed. The next day it was clear he’d met some trouble. He was limping, not putting weight on his right leg, although a check of it showed nothing broken so it was a matter of him staying off it while it mended, which he was only too happy to do. But also, there were middle-distance stares and general malaise. I mean, the boy-cat has always been a bit of an ennui-kitty, but for these last few days he’s been even more seemingly haunted. A tussle with a gremlin appeared to be the cause after we found tears in the catio/patio screen near the deck stairs. Who knows what he saw, swiped at, tore the screen to get at or protect himself and sister from? Since we don’t have a camera out there and he can’t tell us, we’ll never know but boy have I realized how easy it is for me to create a scenario out of whole cloth. Transfer onto him a load of feelings I’ve decided he’s having, even if his general tone may be simply “I want to be alone” (add in a touch of M.Dietrich here).

It’s a reaction I’m familiar with having spent much of my emotional life finding it easier to notice/caretake other people’s feelings before my own. When going through my divorce, I remember it being a helluva lot easier to feel bereft and tragic about an acquaintance’s breakup before I could turn my attention to my own emotional stuff. I really was only glancingly a friend of this couple and yet their split bored into my heart as if the world were cracking in half. In fact, as I remember it, I was pretty sure I was handling my stuff just fine, but this other person? Hoo-wee, their stuff needed attending to. This isn’t some seismic psychological surprise on any level of human behavior. Transference being a really handy protective element when it comes to painful emotional moments. If I’d listened closely to the voice inside me trying to shout out for attention, something I had absolutely no interest in doing, I’d have had to feel and sit with some very deep pain. Who wants that?

Even as my outward-facing self was all, “I’m good, I’m feeling it” while reading Pema Chödrön When Things Fall Apart and nodding my head vigorously, I was far from OK. It took years and baby steps for me to face the pain and psychological toll, along with personal responsibility, I was carrying from decisions around and including my marriage. Obviously, I’m still exploring the grooves carved into my psyche from living it and life as a whole. None of us escape that and, again no surprises here, it gets more important with age, which isn’t even a maudlin “Oh, there’s only so much time left” but more “wow, do I really want to feel itchy about this stuff in the time left?” Not to mention, I can feel the actual “I’m really tired of shoving this stuff away” emotions leading as I notice things bobbing around close to the surface, why not lift them into the boat rather than feel them bang away at the hull until I capsize. Even if I can’t quite see them, if I stay still and stare into the dark, my eyes will adjust, and I’ll probably be surprised to see just enough light to help me explore them.

Whatever our boy-cat is seeing off in the middle-distance of his stare, I’ll never know. Whatever it is I’m placing there—ugly things, gremlins, surprise terrors—they’ve all become a mirror reflecting my own stuff right back. And I’m still here.