Shaman Cat Lady
I’m sitting across from the shaman cat lady who is reading my astrological chart. She is an interesting bird, a mixture of seemingly disparate parts. We are in a classically appointed office and she was then probably what I am now in age, early 60’s. Gray hair and glasses. So far, looks are congruent. Then she starts talking about cats.
“Cats are higher beings than humans and they run the planet.”
I love cats and I’m also a bit out there in how I regard them. There are cats that are cats, but then there are cats that I think of as being on their last life before they become human. If reincarnation is real, then when they come back their next run on the planet is as a homosapien.
I’ve had two such extraordinary felines in my life, Jupiter and Mr Man. Jupiter was a rare female orange tabby, and Mr Man, a buff tabby. Their “time” was way before I would have called it, but the creator recalled them early for their next journey on this fine planet. Any day now, I should run into a delightful 10-year old strawberry blond girl to whom I will instantly bond. I always imagine she will be Irish. And I hope I can keep up with the Nordic god-superhero named Raul, Mr Man’s given name, who will be unmistakable in his blond prowess and Hispanic name.
Even so, I’m challenged by the shaman cat lady’s take on cats, so it’s hard for me to accept her proclamation, which came after a minute or two of mouth pursing and eye squinting as she ran her finger over the piece of paper on which my chart was printed:
“You will be asked to write.”
What? I’m sitting in a chair, all crossed legged and yoga like. I may as well have had my leg behind my head, announcing the last thing I was interest in was writing. I politely left and disregarded the message.
It’s 24 years later and I’m looking over my new blog. I’m working to corral all my writings into one place, which is a lot like herding cats. Consolidating 12 years of essays from various platforms takes a lot of thought, and included the sudden recollection of the crazy cat lady and her pronouncement.
She didn’t specify who, or what, would ask me to write, and as it turned out events with my daughter in 2012 demanded I do so. It was a matter of efficient information dissemination; I couldn’t keep up with phone calls, remember who knew what, and did I relay important information, or forget? I turned to email and the record of written words, and the ability to keep a distribution list. Facts quickly morphed into story telling as a form of therapy. Naming, in precise words, the unusual situations I encountered helped me identify and understand the hell I was floundering in. Over a year and a half I developed a voice and the confidence to let it roam free on paper and on the planet, even after the crisis with Madison ended.
So never mind it was by me, but the shaman cat lady was right. I was asked to write, and you know what that means? You better be nice to your cats. They rule the planet.
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