A Dream of a Mirror Bird: As I Looked at It, It Looked at Me

Last night, I had a dream that, afterwards, I realized very neatly mirrored events that had been dominating my life. It started with a bird. Maybe it was a robin, or a cat bird, as it had that classic robin-like bird shape. I could not see the red breast or any colors in the dream; the bird was larger and a bit thicker in the middle than most cat birds.

 

And it had such big eyes. The dream, as far as I remember it, started with the bird hanging out on a tree branch, looking at me, like it had selected me out of all humanity, and it wanted something from me.

 

I had written a blog recently about a stray cat who first visited us months ago. He was skinny and all beat up when we first saw him and would come to the door of our house crying for attention. But whenever we went to the door to talk with him, he would immediately run away. Disappear.

 

And my wife and I heard from 3 of our neighbors that he had done the same at their house. But finally, we left out food. And he came, slowly, over days and weeks, to eat it, and eventually to trust us. We then brought him to the ASPCA for neutering and then our vet for tests, shots, and treatment. His coat improved from the food and care.

 

And he dominated much of our attention, making our other two cats jealous. Tests showed he had feline AIDS, so we were fearful that if we of took him in, he’d infect the others. But the wonderful vets at Cornell Veterinary School and three adoption agencies reassured us. They said the disease is almost always spread from a deep bite. We didn’t know what to do. At first, we tried to find him a home where there were no other cats, but we were unsuccessful. And we couldn’t just kick him out. We had begun to love him.

 

So now he’s ours, or we’re his. Whenever he sees us, he rushes happily into one of our laps. We named him Mr. Night, as he seems to most need to be with us at night.

 

But the dream bird did not run away as the real cat originally did. After the dream-me saw it, or it saw into me, so many other people got involved, people I can’t now identify. Somehow, the bird got adopted, sort of, by this group. It became the center of events, like what happened with the stray cat that had adopted us. But unfortunately, so much of the memory of the bird disappeared as soon as I woke up. As soon as my waking consciousness took hold, the bird consciousness was gone, leaving only its tracks in my mind.

 

I know many things happened….

 

 

*To read the whole article, please go to The Good Men Project.

The Conversation that Arises Out of Everything: What We Feed in Ourselves Lives in Ourselves

When a conversation begins in our mind, what do we do? When we respond to such a conversation by just listening, wondering, then letting it go, we learn from it and it usually passes. When we talk back, or hold onto it, the conversation continues. Even if we step back from it for a while, it carries on someplace in us. What we feed, lives.

 

A feral cat has lived in our neighborhood for at least 6 months. For months, he kept coming to our house. He would show up at different doors of our home and call to us. He would hang out with one of our cats sometimes, or at least not get in a fight. But if we’d try to get close to him, or even open the door when he was there, and he’d run quickly away. He’d never let us close.

 

Then one day, my wife gave it food, despite knowing the likely consequences. It was just too painful to hear him cry or see his need. Then a few days later, she did it again. The cat appeared more often, but still ran when we opened a door and roamed without us seeing him for hours or days. Then my wife did it again. And then every day. Then twice a day. Then he let her touch him. Then he let me pet him. And now? Now he acts like he’s ours. He follows us around or hangs out by the front door on our deck, looks in the kitchen window with pleading eyes, and dreams of us taking him in.

 

It’s the same with the content of our mind. What we feed becomes us, or “ours.”

 

The painful follow up with the cat is that we took him to the ASPCA, who vaccinated and neutered him, but wouldn’t take him in for adoption; they were too full. We next took him to our vet, for tests and further treatment. It turns out he has feline AIDS. Now, we must figure out what to do next. We have two other cats, who are indoor-outdoor. Even though feline AIDS is not easily transmissible, and humans are safe from it, there’s still a chance he might infect our other pets. In fact, our vet said that if we took in the stray, infection would be inevitable. Plus, he would need to live only indoors so he doesn’t spread the disease or get injured himself.

 

He must’ve had a home, once. Did they kick him out of their home and cut him from their heart? Or did they just run out of money to care for him? I wonder if they even knew he was sick and were afraid of, or didn’t want to face, a cat with AIDS?

 

What we try to ignore or cut from our hearts stays with us. The cat might be physically gone for this person. But the memory? The pain? The guilt? Cutting out is just another and more harmful form of feeding. It’s feeding what psychologist Carl Jung called our shadow, the part of our self that we deny, won’t or can’t acknowledge and try to project onto others but carry with us as a weight. To let go proficiently, we must do it with awareness, care, compassion, even love. What we feed in us becomes us.

 

I have to say that hearing that the cat had AIDS hurt so much….

 

 

*To read the whole article, please go to The Good Men Project.

The Sound that Quieted the World: Saying Farewell to a Friend and Regrets

Max died recently. He was one of our three cats. When we were out of town visiting my brother last week, there was an awful storm here that knocked out the power for 18 hours. We don’t know for sure, but from the report of the cat sitter and the awful images in our imagination, the loud scream of our generator joined with the lightning and thunder to frighten him into hiding, a hiding he never came out of. Or maybe, he just knew it was his time. Cats seem to know such things.

 

We looked for him for days. We looked and looked and called and called and always expected, or maybe so wanted him, dreamed of him, prayed for him to just emerge from the bushes or from wherever. But he didn’t emerge. I finally found him hidden out of sight in one of his safe places. Until that moment, we could never accept that he was dead.

 

He was such a good friend. He was originally found on the streets with his sister before being taken to the ASPCA. And he remained a street cat in spirit all his years, loving to be outdoors. He’d come inside at dinner time, ask for food, but not eat it until we put it outside. But when he did come in to see us at night, or to rest or sleep, he was our only cat who cuddled. Who sat in our lap or slept on top of one of us.

 

He had a heart problem. One night, when he was a few months past his first birthday, we heard a scream outside. We guessed he was in a fight. I ran outside, looked up into the ancient apple tree that sits outside our front door. And Max fell from a high branch into my arms. Literally.

 

We took him to the best vet we knew. She said Max wouldn’t live for more than a year. His heart was not able to adjust to any deep stress he would face. She prescribed surgery to give him a pacemaker. We then took him to Cornell Veterinary College for a second opinion. They said don’t do the surgery. It probably wouldn’t work, and if it did, he’d never be able to roam outside again. That would have killed him. He clearly didn’t die that year, or for another 12.5.

 

It hurt so much when I found him. All the worry and wondering where he was and what had kept him away turned to anger, guilt, and pain. When the fearful wall of death meets the universe of love, an intensity of what ifs, of should and could have beens, can arise. The intensity of regret increases with the number of half-lived, half-hidden moments we’ve stored away. And it decreases, hopefully, with the gratitude, amazement, even grace mixed in with the grief. There’s something so naked and mysterious in many relationships between humans and beings of other species.

 

We had a funeral for him in our yard. As we covered him with soil, we also covered him with memories, with “We love you, Max.” “We’re so sorry.” And then, unplanned, I started chanting “Aum.” My wife joined in. The notes seemed to rise up and quiet the world….

 

*To read the whole post, please go to The Good Men Project.