The art of being, according to my cats
Eat. Groom. Sleep.
That’s the routine my cats live by, with occasional bursts of chaos when they decide to knock things over or chase invisible enemies. They make my sofa their racetrack or knead some biscuits on the fresh covers of my bed. I’m more amused by what goes on in their minds. How can they be so curious, knocking things over one minute, then suddenly snoring the next?
With an average sleep of 12-16 hours a day, they are built for slumber. How can they live so effortlessly when I can’t even get through a day without feeling the need to earn and deserve my rest?
I envy that kind of simplicity and peace, and the strange contentment in just being where they are. They don’t need any justification; nobody asks what they’ve accomplished. No one measures their worth by productivity. I even joked that I’d trade places with them in a heartbeat. No deadlines to beat, bills to pay, expectations to keep up with, or pressure to figure out life.
Just like them, I just want to exist. No purpose beyond simply being and somehow, it will be enough. Like cats, how I wish I could feel alive with just naps in warm corners and full, bouncy bellies.
When I watch them, I am brought back to my childhood when I didn’t have to worry about what to eat or wear. I just had to think about the next game I would play. Just like those cats playing on my bed, roaming our garden, catching a mouse, or lying in the grass. They can even choose to sleep the whole day, and there won’t be any complaints.
Reality is always calling me back from these daydreams and I must hustle. With age, life becomes more complicated and heavier. There are days I wake up tired and no amount of sleep can fix it.
It’s a tug of war between my viewpoints of the world and my cats’. I see them again, curled up under the sun, stretching and occasionally staring at me with blank expressions. No care in the world, yet they give me a strange sense of peace just by existing. No question of purpose, nothing to prove.
Meanwhile, I’m in the loop of proving to myself how to be enough and how to keep up. I feel the need to be someone, to achieve something. Like peace is a luxury I cannot afford.
I know I’m not in a race, that I’m still young, and that I shouldn’t feel so frustrated and pressured. But I tend to overcompensate, leading to burnout and slowly losing motivation. Then I’d feel overwhelmed, gasping for air.
In the middle of my thoughts, my cat taps me, meowing, signaling me to feed him. That tiny moment grounds me. When I feed them, I feel a strange calm. It’s like a tap that says, “You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.” As my cats crowd each other’s bowls while eating, I feel oddly proud, like a mother watching her kids devour a home-cooked meal. Something about that simple act makes me feel better. For a moment, I pause and breathe again.
Alone in my apartment during a very rainy week, I felt their warmth despite the cold breeze. Seeing them sleep made me feel peaceful. They looked so secure, and I felt the same way.
They came into my life unexpectedly and I can imagine how lonely it could be without them. It started with one stray cat, so little and adorable. Before I knew it, I had six. I even find myself wanting one of every color and pattern.
What started as an admiration for their cuteness turned into a reason. They’re here to teach me that sometimes, it’s okay to pause and rest without guilt. I should enjoy the sun and not rush toward the next thing on my list. I should allow myself to simply be alive, without being overly productive. These fuzzy little teachers of self-kindness stop me from spiraling. One look, one hug and I know I’ll be okay.
But don’t be fooled, my cats have attitude. They’ve bitten and scratched me countless times, like how life disappoints sometimes. Unexpected jabs, but a part of life that give lessons and meaning.
After a long day at work, I look forward to crawling into bed not just to rest but for them. My cats lie beside me, cuddle up and cozy into my arms. They’re not the clingy type during the day, but there’s something about the dark of the night that makes them want to be secured in my arms, tummy, or legs. Suddenly, they’re purring. Oh, music to my ears! Some say purring of cats is a sign of happiness or healing and I like to believe that those purrs heal me, too. Even if they wake me up at 5 a.m., climbing to my chest, meowing loudly, demanding food, I am thankful. “Hey, wake up, it’s a new day!”
Maybe I can’t live like a cat, but I can take life at a steadier pace. My cats, with all their quirks is my unlikely source of wisdom. In the weight of the world’s expectations, I can return to simplicity, living one day at a time. I need to listen to what my body needs and stop measuring my worth by tasks completed or dreams chased.
In their quiet, soft meows, they remind me that existing is enough.
—————-
Arianne L. Afable, 28, is a hugger and feeder of six lovely cats.
