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Trying to Meditate with a Cat

Let’s be honest: I didn’t choose the monk life. The monk life (with fur and murder mittens) chose me.

This morning I sat down, spine long, candles lit, breath like ocean waves… and within twelve seconds my cat decided I was clearly summoning her for a sacred anointing of whisker and fur.

“Shhh,” I whispered, eyes half-closed in that serene way you do when pretending you’re not annoyed.
She purred louder.
I exhaled.
She kneaded my thigh like a tiny baker working through ancestral rage.

I tried to realign with the mantra.
“Inhale peace, exhale distraction.”
Her tail said thwack against my incense stick.
Now we’re both coughing incense fog and existential irony.

But somewhere between the purring, the pawing, and the sacrilegious knocking over of my rose quartz, I had a revelation:
Maybe meditation isn’t about escaping interruptions — maybe it’s about letting them climb onto your lap and remind you you’re still part of the living world.

Cats don’t care if you reach enlightenment. They are enlightenment — embodied chaos that still lands on their feet. They remind us that presence isn’t sterile. It’s messy, soft, occasionally clawed, and always full of fur tumbleweeds.

So today’s truth is simple:
Stop chasing perfect peace. Pet the cat. Breathe through the fur storm. Enlightenment might just be purring at 4:44 AM.

🔔 Invitation

Next time life interrupts your calm — the cat, the phone, the memory, the noise — see if you can bow to it instead of banish it.
After all, the Divine doesn’t always come in silence. Sometimes it meows.

With devotion and wonder,
The Inspired Imaginative | The Devoted Mystic

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