So this is my cat, Sneaky. And, as you can see, her meditation posture is a little more relaxed than her sister's, my other cat, Shadow. (See Kitty Meditation post for a picture of Shadow's excellent posture.)
And so, My Dear Reader, here is a prose poem for the above photograph.
She snuggles into the soft cushions of her meditation cave, this tiger of a cat. Green eyes glistening with the clarity of a sphinx, her wiry whiskers twitch as she purrs, revving up her awareness for another moment of presence. She smells of wool blankets and sunshine and clothes that have been hung out on the line. Her claws, like huge talons, they need and claw with love and affection. Her fur, ancient, yet soft, like the eyes of a wise man.
I smile and nod to her. My eyes meet hers. A crazy yogi, she is, knowing that practice is in every moment, not just on the cushion, in perfect posture. She sits on the cushion, and waits for me to practice, waits for me to sit in perfect meditation posture, with legs crossed and a long spine, while she, this crazy tigress, snuggles into the warmth of my lap, her paws needing my thigh as she purrs and coos, like an infant swaddled in the maternal hug of a fuzzy brown blanket.
Her wisdom eludes me – while she does not have human consciousness, I know that she is still very much aware, so skilled at the art of being - a Great Master, Sneaky is, disguised as a fat, lounging cat.
© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, Angela Dawn MacKay
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