What I Learned about Life from Cats

 

Have you ever sat and observed a cat as it transitions from one response to another? If you haven’t, you’re missing  a valuable lesson–especially if you experience anxiety attacks or other nervous disorders.

 

I grew up with chronically-clenched fists. I didn’t know it at the time, but the baseline emotion in my nuclear family appears to have been “chronically anxious”.

 

Case in point: One of the earliest images of my childhood shows my sister and me sitting on Santa’s lap. I’m on Santa’s left knee; Laurel is on his right. In the photo, I have a tightly-clenched fist and appear almost catatonic.

 

In sharp contrast, early photos of me with animals show me looking comfortable, happy and engaged.

 

I think I must have discovered, early on, that animals were “tamer” and “safer” than my own family!

 

My dad was a fast-driving, hard-drinking, impatient, verbally-abusive, almost maniacal, tough taskmaster.  He couldn’t sit still so, of course, none of us were allowed to sit still, either.

 

Dad, a general contractor, always had construction projects going, even at home. Life was either hurry up/warp six or full stop/an interminable wait.

 

For example, we three girls could be awakened at 3:30 and told, “You have twenty minutes to get ready to go to camping. If you’re late, we’ll leave you behind.” (We didn’t know that leaving us behind would be deemed child abandonment and that he was just bluffing so our nervous systems shifted from serene slumber to red alert in a matter of seconds.)

 

If we were with Dad in a car and he had to speak to a subcontractor, he’d say, “I’ll just be a few minutes…” An hour later, he’d return.

 

That’s just the way it was. We adapted. That’s what kids do. We didn’t know any other way of life. Being wide-eyed, on high alert, and on our toes was all part of being a Smith.

 

So I grew up under circumstances that were nearly always anxiety-provoking. (Patience? What was that?) I never knew when another (metaphorical) grenade would explode to rattle my nerves.

 

I was probably in my early twenties, after I’d left home and was on my own, when I recognized that cats don’t carry chronic anxiety around with them.  They can go from fast asleep to high alert to fast asleep again in a matter of minutes. As soon as their crises appear, they’re on them, but as soon as they pass, you’d never know they ever happened. Cats are able to “drop it” as soon as the danger has passed.

 

Because I was still so anxiety-ridden in nearly every situation (at work, in social settings, even when living alone and on my own), I started consciously “mirroring” my cat’s response to anxiety-provoking moments in my life. I stopped over-thinking in the aftermath of each occurrence. As a result, I was able to deescalate and re-program myself to become less reactive to stimuli and more responsive to my ability to settle down and return to what passed for my baseline ‘normalcy’.

 

Instead of curling into a fetal position when anxious thoughts possessed me at home, I would consciously lie on my back on my bed, spread my arms and legs,  and open my fists so my body position would reflect openness and acceptance instead of defensiveness.  I would ‘meditate’ in that position, telling myself “There is nothing in this room that can harm you. Be a cat. There is no danger here. All is well.”

 

I learned to observe my unhelpful, anxiety-provoking thoughts instead of giving them free rein to dictate how I should feel. As I got better, I was able to do the same thing at work and in social settings. I realized I had been telling myself stories that weren’t true about the circumstances I was in.

 

And it all started because I observed a cat. And then a dog. And a horse. And a goat. And a chimp.

 

The only animal that seems to store up and embrace unreasonable images of imagined doom is the human animal.  Too many of us seem to hold onto fear like a priceless heirloom. Relaxing seems risky. Just being seems lazy. Our minds are always talking to us, telling us tales…tales that our bodies embody (take on as realities rather than mere thoughts). And that’s how fear grabs hold and perpetuates itself.

 

Maybe cats appear to have nine lives because they don’t worry as much as we do. They may worry more often, out of necessity, but they don’t worry as long. As soon as the danger passes, they flop onto the floor , groom themselves, and go about their business.

 

Humans, on the other hand, nurse the scare, re-live it in every detail. We even embellish it– “it could have been so much worse!” and on and on the movie goes, starring us as its directors, producers and audience.

 

If not for cats, I would still be an anxiety-driven mess.  Thanks to cats, I’m not.

 

Observe your pets. They’re terrific teachers!