Journal entry by Eve Ilsen — 40 minutes ago
A purring Mishka dozes on the desk to my right.
She is a cat who develops customs, then teaches me.
This morning, she was hungry earlier than I was awake; so she walked up my sleeping midline and let loose an operatic meow.
By the time I had wakened, dressed, made the bed and gone downstairs, she was perched atop the reclining chair.
And this is the morning ritual: she waits while I put up coffee and serve her breakfast. By the time I have irrigated the new little tree, watered the potted plants in back and front, and am ready for the coffee, Mishka has finished Breakfast and her Morning Grooming.
She stands by the recliner, directing me to bring the coffee there. Once I am settled, she leaps into my lap for the Morning Snuggle.
She is teaching me how to play with her with yarn or feathers, when she will accept being brushed, how often to scoop her litter, how to manage a cat on my lap at the same time as a journal in which I am writing with a fountain pen.
Now, she is curled by my right arm on the desk, eyes half-closed.
Meanwhile, the work of the season goes on, internally.
I have written notes to my beloved and to my mother, and put them beneath my pillow begging for dream visits from them.
So far, nothing doing: no visits, no dreams.
my mother teaching me as a little child how to think about the year just passing as we walked in the woods.
my beloved, going inward with deep intensity in preparation for leading High Holy Day services.
i don't stop missing them.