Caught in a Downpour
Letters to the Ether, S1E2
Dear whomever,
Where I am, rain falls and stops as if God decided to pour just a bit from his cup. It is a heavy, sudden thing, gone and finished just as quickly as it came. I spend most days by the window of my bedroom, accompanied by an almost decade-old cat, who watches the view out to the street with unending focus. At the sound of thunder, his head perks up, startled and confused. He looks to me for what I feel is an explanation, to which I can only provide a quick pet of his coat. It is this thunder that signifies the downpour, like an announcement, which occupies him further. He is used to rain.
About a year ago, he woke me from sleep by suddenly jumping from my arms. What scared him straight out of his slumber was the too-loud rumble of an airplane flying above us – and I realized, sleepily, that I had taught him this fear. My younger self would jump from sleep at this same sound, run to the next room, vision blurry, blinded by my horror as I imagined the plane dipping too low and crashing into the building. I would try to find a way out of the house, desperately, through the black spots that appeared before my eyes, and only when the sound slowly dissipated, I would calm, sometimes fall to my knees and lay on the ground until I relaxed, until I could see clearly again. Through the years, I’ve contained this fear, learned to sit still through it until the sound passed instead.
I’ve begun, ever since my discovery, to see this feline as an extension of myself, maybe a sort of personalization of my anxieties. He has picked up many of my mannerisms, even some that I had briefly forgotten were a part of me.
As I attempt to get used to life on the other side of the world, I feel more sorry for this being than I do for myself. Before the 24-hour-long travel day, all my anxieties were wrapped up in his name. How would he handle such a long plane ride? How do we make sure he is not terrified throughout it? Could anxiety kill a cat? I realize, now, that this frustration remains – anger that I feel for him, which is an excuse, maybe, not to feel my own. He claws at doors he wants to get through, the circular knobs different than the long ones which he, with such ease, could jump onto and hold until they clicked open the doors back home. There, he could move between the rooms of the house as he pleased; he could get through the doors with no help at all. Here, he is stuck between the walls, at complete mercy of whoever hears him and lets him through.
Watching him struggle hits a nerve with me. Being stuck behind a door, not understanding how to open it. Wondering how to twist the knob so you can get through. There is an opportunity – an opening – but how to get through? How to decide between patience and perseverance? Sit, and wait? Or claw and scream?
As I write to you, my anonymous reader, a loud boom blows once more in the distance. The cat looks to me, eyes wide, and I glide my hand across his fur. The rain falls even harder, now. His gaze softens at my touch, and his body relaxes - he gifts me with a slow, tired, blink of his eyes. There it is – the significant power of the intertwining of love and understanding. the way they can cut through fear, so easily.
I don’t know how this cat (named Cas, by the way) learned to open doors in our old house. One day, I heard a click, and he emerged from the other side. I like to imagine he tried different things. He is a great jumper. After trail and error, he must have learned that if he held on just long enough, he’d be able to join me in my room.
Rain plummets against concrete, now. Between these walls I cannot smell the dampness of the earth. I do not care to. My life, currently, is in a perpetual pause. Frozen as time moves forward, I am navigating the labyrinth of my mind. The only energy I have, I give to this cat, who looks out into the world with a mixture of bewilderment and awe. Occasionally, I spare enough breaths to sit in a backyard and stare up at the trees, but even those few steps outside exhaust me. The trees, they are always dancing in the wind, wet and wild and free. Did it take love for them to grow, or did they sprout up with only the occasional help of downpour?
How much care do we need to flourish?
I wanted to write about the power of love and understanding. About help and reasoning. But I doubt my ideas, and my words fall short. Here I am, by a window, the view unfamiliar. Here is my cat, curious and eager to see what life has to offer. And here are my words, confusing things to me, but perhaps meaningful in some way to you.
And here is the truth: I am not sure what it means to be human, here and now, in this world.
I have made attempts to figure it out, but always come up short and empty-handed.
Here is a thought: I don’t think it’s necessary to have it figured out.
I don’t know.
Perhaps next time I find the will to write, I will have found the answer.
