Ode to my cat's Zen

My female cat is the embodiment of Zen. Her name is Zena (with a Z because of her crooked tail), but we call her Baby Girl. She is a gentle, petite, sweet disposition, Tabby. I see her curled up on her pillow in a spot of sunlight, or sometimes playing enthusiastically with nothing more than her own tail and I yearn for her simplicity of joy. For her, 'Be Here Now' is not a striving for higher consciousness, but her existence. This morning I looked into her beautiful large gold brown eyes and saw serenity.

Baby Girl Knows

Languid, soft, and sweet companion
friend, teacher, feline daughter
Independence, home,
the simple, important things
Baby Girl knows

Soft voice calling me
from profound thought
Diminutive steps,
arched back, beckon touch, love
Baby Girl knows

Moments of great sadness, tears
She offers sincere affection,
gentle kiss, mew
Sooths hurt with doe eyes and silken fur
Baby Girl knows

Spontaneous joy, the hunt, childish play
importance of a soft bed
a simple touch
Her face serene in contentment
Baby Girl knows

Little tiger face peaking through ferns
the mighty huntress in the grass,
plucky in pursuit of flies
Unaware the passing of time,
no concept of beginning, ending
only here, not here
A moment unto itself, delight
Minimalist,
Zen

Petite, brown eyed, feline Buddha
I seek your enlightenment,
your brave, unabashed,
bountiful existence
Teach me

I am as positive that pure joy
is to be curled in a ball
like a pill bug on a pillow,
face cozied up to one’s own fluffy tail
as I am that behind large, soft, brown doe eyes
Baby Girl knows

Grey Summer's Morn

Such a grey summer’s morning, it leaves the mind to wander. There is no desire to venture out or accomplish anything that would give a sense of reality to the day. I am happily perched upon my balcony looking out, taking in the foggy, dream like lake. The monochrome landscape may reduce the mind to sleep or ignite the imagination. In the absence of color the mind paints its’ own scenes and lovely words, songs, begin to form, but fail to materialize beyond their implied birth.
Ideas dance in my head, sometimes elegant, sometimes wild. As they take shape, if I tried to take hold of any one of them, they would all flutter away like monarchs on an August afternoon, and so I simply let them dance. I admire each one and let them work their spell on me. The sublime, the fanciful, and the brilliant are born from stuff of nothingness leaked out from some unknown crevice in my head, and mingled with the mystery of lake fog. Surely all great thought and thinkers were born this way. I am on the brink of something, an original thought so magnificent that the world will rejoice at its’ coming. Careful. Pull back. Do not try to touch that thought or you will loose them all.
There is an annoyance, an agitation at my nape like a stinging insect. Its’ buzzing, “Get up. There is work to do.” I swipe at it. Buzz. Buzz. “Don’t while your day away with useless day dreams you fool.” That last sting so irritates me that I am snapped from my perfect state. How dare the sensible mind interrupt my perfect reverie!
Refocused, I find there is no recapturing the dream like quality. The spell is broken. Reality has taken shape and it is just a grey rainy day with work to be done. I leave the balcony and take up the task of the laundry.