Looking out my office window, a thin hush hung over the backyard, the kind December lays down when the world lies between fall and the winter’s obligations.
The cursor blinked at me, waiting for a sentence with some heart. A half-written line sagged under the year’s dents and bruises. My chest tightened, blinking away tears, and that’s when Otis pads in, silent as snowfall, and parks himself in the doorway, catching me being vulnerable.
He hopped onto the desk, sat directly on my notebook, and stared at me like I had just failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“Trying to capture holiday magic, are we?”
“Just trying to make sense of it, buddy.”
Otis blinked slowly, the feline equivalent of throwing me a kiss.
He nudged my pen off the table. “First mistake,” as he looked down on the floor, examining his handiwork, “You don’t chase meaning. You let it knock the ornaments off the tree and pretend that was the plan.”
He stretched, long and lazy, and draped his tail over my wrist.
Then he head-butted my chest, “You’re fine. Sit still and breathe. Stop trying so hard. Christmas isn’t about the perfect moment. It’s about the honest one.”
He began to luxuriate himself into my lap.
And for the evening, the noise of the year quieted. The doubt, the grind, the endless chase of the algorithm, it all dimmed. There was just me, a beautiful cat, and a December evening that didn’t require me to be anybody except the person sitting there.
Can We Help You?
What brings us back to ourselves?
Otis says if this post gave you even a flicker of something real, share it.
He also wants a comment, claims it keeps him entertained while he ignores me.
And if you want more of his wisdom, subscribe.
He might act above it all, but trust me, he’s grateful you’re here.
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