Our perceptions on land, where we are not at
risk of drowning, can become smudgy, inattentive, unfocused, less than
acute—our senses dulled. The additional risk posed by being at sea can heighten
awareness, underscored by the salt-brined, negative ion quickening that comes
off wind and tidal flux—there can come a heady delight from standing on deck in
blowing sea-spray. However, there are two sides to the doubloon of a vibrant life (our
word doubloon is a fusion of the French and Spanish spellings—meaning double—it
was double the worth of a pistole). And, so, too, there is double value, two
sides to the coin of our well-being; our sense of all's right in our world:
ª —one is an inner, two-part, sense of worth—partially it
is experiential—that of those peak moments of really feeling good in our own
skin; a fluid, inner balance, a sense of resonance with our environ, of direct
pleasure—it is also the inner conviction that we have value, that we have merit
and appeal, that people like having us around—that we’re worthy of things
working out for us, worthy of our blessings.
ª —second is a self-measured sense of
competency in the outer world, in the 3D—that we are effective, capable of
producing not only effects—but directed effects—ones with a series of desired
results; the sense that we can chart our course and navigate our world, not just make the
boat float—though that’s a good start.
Cats are good instructors on both of these
essentials. One of the blessings of feline perspective, unless “neuroticized”
by people, is that they don’t question their value, question whether or not
they “should have” their needs met, or their wants met. For them, it’s a given.
‘Yep, better open that can of sardines. I’m right here, paws licked,’ and "Oh, yah, scratch me behind the ears.' And,
while there are those occasional “sins”- where they miss the mark (with acute,
un-admitted embarrassment), cats largely are very accurate and effective in producing the
results which they, and we—in the case of the rodent catching, want and expect
from them.
What cats have is permission. Whether hanging
out at a naval shipyard, or watching Star Trek movies, most of us are familiar
with: “Permission to come aboard, Sir?” – Cat’s already have it. Ever try to
explain to a cat why he or she shouldn’t be on top of the galley counter?
We could use a little of that audacity when it comes to our
culture’s habit of cultivating self-contempt and shame, and try on cat-style
cheek—going for the zest, for our gold, our doubloons—including our right to
define what that gold is.
Dare to be cat-sassy; give yourself permission to go for: who you really are, and what you really want. Don't settle for leftovers, for dinner scraps from the table. Don't settle for someone else's definition of what your life should or could be. And, as you're exploring that, allow yourself to contemplate your options through the confidence of a cat--and, update your life-script accordingly. Change your script to one
that doesn't question your worth--but considers it a given: decide that you are worthy to be 'out on the water,' charting your course, living your 'cat tale.' Map the life you really want. Embark!
Author, speaker and visionary career/success and book coach, Tama Kieves http://www.tamakieves.com says it this way: . . . " We are not trying to “figure this out” but let it out." It's about permission to tune-in to what's already within you, already on-board your being, that wants to express--(ever met a silent Siamese cat?), spring into action, engage. Dare!!! Dare to be feline cheeky. Give yourself permission to express all of the grace and fire that is already inside of you. Give it voice; give it form. Let it out. Allow it presence in this world. We need you, as you really are; the truth of you out-pictured into radiant form in our world.
Follows three mini cat-tales, poetic snap-shots of Felis catus in action:
Night Velvet
I pour out of the bag of my past,
a sleek black cat slipping from a burlap sack –
shake my paw at the puddle of wet on the ground,
pause—sniffing the night damp —
silvering invisible paw-prints into the mirror puddles,
sleeking into the sauntering black silk of oncoming night . . .
first star presenting.
Spilt Milk
Klink.
Spilt milk pools over the freshly scrubbed surface.
“Here – kitty, kitty.”
Brenda, like a Rorschach ink blot, as cat, appears.
Together, they lap the liquid tablecloth back from the edges.
Their noses meet at the sideways glass;
Not a tear in their eyes.
Top Cat
The cat thumped stiffly
On its three stumpy legs –
The fourth hovering, tenderized by
The “top cat” fight that had left him
Un-king of the night before.
Holding him gingerly in her lap
She whispered softly,
“We are more than a morning after
a midnight brawl.”
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