Pepper is five years old now; she is a tiny cat at just around six pounds. Less than half the size of our older cat which makes shared feeding a bit of a challenge. Her size makes her seem kittenish and she acts like she doesn’t quite know what’s going on. But she’s wily and sneaky so we are pretty convinced that the ‘dumb bunny’ routine is just an act.

For a long time we were people that allowed the cats indoor/outdoor access. We have a big yard, they loved being in the garden, and they are good for rodent control. At least the older cat was, Pepper is more good at insect collecting and napping. But a year or so ago the coyotes intruded into the yard, over the fence, Clementine (the bigger cat) got treed, and we feared the vulnerability of both for different reasons. They became indoor cats which is not an easy transition. But there are blessings of course: we have at least a half dozen varieties of birds that now live in the yard, presumably the lizard population is recovering, and the cats, Pepper in particular, is easy going and relaxed in a way she never was before.

Pepper has always been a snuggler, she likes to be physically on you at night and just purrs and snores curled under your chin. It is sweet and sleep disturbing; good and bad are connected. But when she would go outside she would get anxious. There was a lot of furtive slinking around, sneaking into the house to eat and then nervously moving from room to room. Until it was bedtime, and then she would jump into bed for naps and cuddles. I guess you could say she was emotionally autonomous, relaxed in certain environments, on alert when she felt she needed to be. Perhaps that is a better thing because it is the consequence of your own choice in how to live.

But an interesting thing happened when we brought her in: she just relaxed. There is no more furtive sneaking about the house, or rushing from hiding place to hiding place. She will come into a room and flop down in the middle of the floor to be nuzzled by the dog, or scooped up for petting. She rolls belly up to be loved, freedom to be vulnerable because she feels safe.

We have occasional escapes. The system is not perfect. The automatic dog door has been disabled because both cats would just wait and time it; netting is strategically placed on the balcony. And when she does get out, if she’s not asleep under a plant, we find her rushing from somewhere to the back door, nervously looking around until we get her in. For a day there will be hiding, and then we relax again. I can’t understand why she wants to go from seeming to be so content stretched out in a sun spot, snuggling, and snoozing to the world of fear and hiding. There are plants all over the house and near cat trees to create a sense of outdoors, there is an always accessible balcony with plants and hiding places and cushions. Why does she want the great outdoors with all of its danger when with the safe inside/outside experience there is only ease?

I wondered this as she sat with me during morning meditation and relaxed so much she nearly oozed off the chair (which not infrequently happens). And I wondered this for myself as well. In what ways do I go to the places and people and things that I think I am supposed to want, that are just beyond the boundary of where I function best, and that cause me to close in on myself? Why do I find it so hard to simply be where I am, doing what I am doing, and know that it is enough? That goodness experienced is all we really need to know, when we are given the opportunity to know it.

We can talk about thrills and adrenaline and excitement; I don’t think you need danger, true mortal danger, to find that. Or maybe I am just the kind of person that doesn’t think we need that. That rush of fear can feel alive in the moment, but the deepening of surrender to trust feels like complete connection to the great all of the universe – it’s not something that can be got at quickly or through fleeting feeling. It is an oozing off the chair into a vastness of trust. I’m not convinced that true freedom is only available at the edge of fear, I think, as C.S. Lewis might posit, that we were in fact made to be obedient to certain limitations; somewhere in that frustrating trust of the process we are forced to slow down enough to see how much we have right where we are.