Do we overuse the word “miracles”?
I would contend that we underuse it.
I have no fewer than 100% of cats on my side.
Maybe you, too, have caught flak for this phenomenon. Swoon “it was miraculous!” or “we had a little miracle this morning!” or — closer to the bone — “it was a Tabby’s Place miracle!” and you’ll see eyes go wry and sly.
Few will be so bold as to say it, but the ice forming on the ends of their noses will speak plenty: a miracle, really? Did CAT heal a leper? Did CAT forgive CAT? Did CAT exert self-control around poultry?
Really, aren’t you being a bit naive?
You do not need to answer these questions. You do not need to question your “miracles.” What you need to do is wade knee-deep into the life we share with cats, and marvel accordingly.
Marvel at the miracles that meaner minds think are mere ickles — ticklish things, pleasant sneezes in the solemn business of life.
Our miracles, “miracles,” and mere ickles are every inch as huge as they feel, and several feet huger than that. (Cats, of course, are also several feet huger than they appear.)
Exhibit A: Tabby’s Place has hosted multiple cats named for the meats with which they manifested on our door. Is that not a miracle?
Exhibit B: Multiple meats EXIST. Is that not a miracle? (Nominated by 100 cats.)
Exhibit C: CAT and CAT have mastered the art of wrapping themselves into a stromboli of love. Is that not a miracle?
And even if it’s a mere ickle, may we never be so dull as to sleep through the ickles. The ickles are our alarm to ensure we kiss the dawn. The ickles matter. The ickles are inklings of another world.
CAT has seen the other world.
CAT was cast outside like a beggar, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, and fleas with teeth the size of tractors. This was not a miracle, not even a surprise. We live in a world of shattered glass and scattered sympathies.
CAT was unwell and unaccompanied, a minor nuisance to neighbors and an embarrassment to the squirrels and foxes. This was not a miracle, not even a surprise. We are all unwell and unwise unless and until we are engulfed in love’s eyes.
CAT was quite unappealing to the vast majority of beings, a thatched-roof hut on Park Avenue, a holey sweatshirt at Fashion Week, a mile-long medical bill on a planet that pretends health is wealth. This was not a miracle, not even a surprise. We are all a few misfortunes from feeling forsaken.
But “forsaken” is the road not taken when miracles take the wheel.
That’s just where the horses, seemingly running down the ravine, grew wings.
That’s where the dirty water became wine.
That’s where the leper became the Lord of the Dance.
That’s where the meanness that masquerades as the mainstream was minced by mercy.
That’s where the least likely cat became the most loved, most celebrated, most valuable player on the all-star Tabby’s Place team of moonbeams and sundogs.
You’ve seen sundogs, seen them so often you probably don’t “see” them anymore. Also known as ice halos, sometimes staying up late enough to become moondogs, these acrobats of light are as common as fear but actually worth our attention. You can enjoy them around twice a week, if you’re paying attention. Forming a ring of light around sun, moon, or even streetlight (miracles know how to improvise), they’re enough to make you drop your hot dog.
Every living cat is a sundog. (Not a single cat would drop his hot dog.) Every living cat is a ring of light, as common as stripes and as holy as a halo.
And CAT is the supreme sundog, the ordinary emissary of the other world.
CAT is the commander of mercy’s squadrons, the reminder that the spear of selfishness can be shattered in an instant.
CAT is the quiet victory, the V of gentle geese over a hill that long looked haggard and heartless.
CAT is safe, sung-to, and cherished by a rag-tag, rick-rack family of free hearts.
Every one of them — every one of us — has known the ordinary loneliness.
Every one of us has known the splintering self-interest.
Every one of us has said “yes” to the unlikely and the unlovely and the unwanted.
Miracles. Mere ickles. You be the judge.
You might want to consider all of this as you amble around Quinn’s Corner. Glimpse a sundog through the skylight; lasso a moondog under the ellipse.
Take a bite out of the revelation that none of these cats, not CAT, not CAT, not CAT, not one, would be alive if people much like you didn’t give when they could have taken, didn’t love when they could have said, “isn’t this all a bit naive?”
Slip into the epiphany that every living creature in view is a star against the night that insists it’s “normal,” a beating heart against the harshness that claims it’s “sensible.”
Miracles. Mere ickles. You be the judge.
Someone once told me that I have too many revelations and epiphanies. Really, now, do all these little marvelments mean anything if you see them in everything? Who but a child, a kitten, would revel in endless awakenings?
Who would want to stay asleep?
Take heart, moonbeams and sundogs, miracle-makers and mercy-magicians. We have 100% of cats on our side.