On courting
Oh! I say to myself. Who's that?
She looks back at me with terrified yellow eyes and an expression that reads far more skepticism than I had...Ohhhh...who's that?
I open the door. She scatters away.
A few hours later...the courting begins again.
I open the door. Same response.
A few minutes...later...she shyly turns the corner. Her face reads a little more friendly.
I open the door. She scatters again. This time I follow. I open the fence gate and gently invite her over. She turns to look...there's fear in her eyes still, but more intrigue. Should I? she asks herself.
I leave the gate ajar. I go to get some food and place it inside the yard on a paper plate.
I go inside.
An hour later...the food is gone.
A ritual begins. She shows up each afternoon. I respond, opening the door; she scatters away. I leave food; she eats at some point.
A ritual expands. She appears in the morning on my front porch, as if she's been following my moves from afar and knows that I feed the birds at a certain time each day.
I hear her. "Meow..."
I respond. "I hear you, love bug. Come to the back."
I walk through the house to my back porch, and there she is, shyly looking around the corner up at me.
"Come, Lucy."
She sheepishly walks up the stairs, stops, turns to go, looks back. I remain. She continues walking only to stop, turn, look back again. I still remain.
She walks all the way and instead of heading straight to the food bowl, she walks slowly around me and gently head butts me, inviting me to pet her.
I do.
The courting on both sides is on. Full force.
“To love at all is to be vulnerable...If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.”
Over the last week since Lucy came into my life, I've stopped a few times to think—what am I doing? I already have two bunnies dependent on me who need my love. I've already committed to the birds every day, too.
Lucy reminds me of Heymo—how could she not? My beautiful feral cat who stole my heart within months of my moving into Anacostia. Two strangers who chose each other, who became fast friends until one fell ill and passed away, leaving the other's heart (mine) no longer intact.
And while I miss Heymo dearly and daily both, am I ready to give my heart to another animal whom I might have to leave should I move away—or who might leave me the way Heymo did?
Over the last week since Lucy came into my life, I've found myself looking forward to peeking out either the front or back door to see if she's there (and knowing that if not, she's usually not far away). I look forward to leaving food out, knowing that she'll eat it when she needs it or is ready. I look forward to her head butts and the corresponding belly rubs (hers, not mine).
What I don't put on the plate next to the food is this—that I'm not so sure of my own ground these days. I don't know if this back door, this yard, this city will still be mine a year from now. So when I leave the gate ajar, I'm doing it from a place I might not get to keep—offering a steadiness I'm not sure I have, to a cat who isn't sure she can trust it.
We're both at the edge of something, deciding whether to come closer. Hers shows up as four paws frozen on the fence line. Mine shows up quieter—but it's the same flinch. The same hesitancy. One of us just hides it better.
I don't have a name for what I'm doing until I do: this is 1.33, the sutra I've taught a hundred times without living it this plainly. Meet what's in front of you with friendliness. With compassion. With some actual gladness. And—the hard one—with equanimity toward everything you can't change.
I can't change the unknowns. Whether I move. Whether she stays. Whether this is Heymo all over again, or something that lasts, or three good weeks and then nothing.
So I don't try to. I just keep meeting her at the door—glad to see her, scared of what it might cost, doing it anyway. That's me, on the back steps, choosing the courting one more morning. And welcoming her in.