My daughter is away on vacation this month. That means I’ve been handed the responsibility of watching her cat, Moose, whom I lovingly refer to as my grand cat.
Moose is a rescue. He’s a very large, fluffy boy whose Swiffer duster-sized tail has, on multiple occasions, almost swept my morning coffee off my side table. Moose moves through his days in predictable cycles. There are moments of pure madness, when he tears through the house at full speed, chasing something only he can see. Some invisible threat, or house ghost, that only cats have access to.
And then, just as suddenly as the whirlwind began, it’s over. He finds a patch of warm light near a window, settles in, and sits there with his tail gently swaying. Perfectly content with exactly where he is and what he’s doing.
For the past few days, I’ve been watching him perform his morning ritual and thinking, “I want that.” Not the sprinting through the house part. The other part. That complete and uncomplicated arrival into calm. When his stillness comes, Moose doesn’t resist it. He simply inhabits it.
I continued studying him, trying to figure out how he transforms from chaos to calm so effortlessly, and whether his ability to shift might rub off on me.
Maybe that’s why the word “stillness” has been on my mind lately.
When My House Went Quiet
Watching Moose, I found myself thinking about the first time I recognized feeling true stillness.
I remember my first few empty-nester mornings like they were yesterday. The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been in years. There were no lunches to make or lists to check off. My daughter wasn’t there to need anything from me.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I actually laughed out loud, wandering from room to room, vaguely aware that I was looking for something to organize or solve. Old habits are hard to break.
Eventually, I made a cup of coffee and went outside to the backyard. I sat on my wicker chair listening to the birds singing. Just me, the warm morning air, with nothing pressing to do. Experiencing this stillness was a little uncomfortable at first. I was fighting a restless feeling as I thought, "Shouldn't I be doing something?"
But I stayed seated. Happily taking in the quiet and stillness.
Somewhere in those minutes of settling in, I realized that I had stopped thinking about what I should do next. I was simply there, in my backyard, coffee in hand, listening to the birds. Just being still.
Looking back, I have to say the moment felt a little bit magical.
It may have been the first time I understood what stillness could look like for me. Not in a meditation or yoga way; I had been practicing both for years. This felt different. It wasn’t something I had practiced my way into. It effortlessly showed up.
Watching Moose settle into that patch of sunlight reminded me that I have access to that type of stillness. I just have to remember to make time to tap in and experience it more often.
Summer Stillness
Summer has always felt like the season most willing to offer stillness. The days stretch on a little longer. Dinners move outdoors as we enjoy lingering conversations. Even when our schedules don’t change all that much, something about the season invites us to slow down.
These days, I’m learning to find smaller moments of stillness. Making a second cup of coffee or tea in the morning and not doing anything else while I drink it. Stepping outside in the middle of the day for no reason other than to pause and enjoy the warmth of the sun. Or turning off all electronics and savoring the quiet of my house.
Moose, of course, doesn’t care what season it is. His commitment to morning, afternoon, or nighttime moments of stillness remains impressively consistent. But watching him, being active then suddenly still, has made me wonder. Does stillness come more naturally when we stop treating every quiet moment as a space that needs to be filled?
Moose seems to have always understood this. Unlike us humans, after the chaos passes, he doesn't wonder whether he's earned the right to rest. Or think about what comes next. He just settles into the warm light and stays there, satisfied.
Of course he does. He’s a cat.
I’m still working on remembering to settle into the stillness.
A Few Things to Think (or Write) About
Where do moments of stillness already exist in your life right now, even if they’re small or easy to overlook?
What’s one simple way you might create a little more room for stillness in your everyday life?
When you think about summers past, what quiet moments stand out in your memories?
I'm laughing, grinning. First, the name Moose tells me your daughter has a great sense of humor, always welcomed these days. I've had cats and they are amazing creatures, I love them deeply and they've always returned the emotion. Then your description of Moose tearing around the house. If you look closely at Moose's eyes in the photo, he has a typical little spot at the corner of his eyes facing his nose. That's a love spot. They all do that when they love you, and he DOES love you.