But now... now he's hopped up with feline grace, onto the hand railing, even the sloped section where the railing follows up the first three steps to the landing. Nimbly he steps, paw over paw, a cat on a tightrope. He is at the perfect age and size. Not too big, or heavy, not disinterested. He is curious and capable, still willing to risk embarrassment. This is a moment in time to take notice and admire his featly, feline, lissom, lithesome, fleet-footed Fooness. Dare I say? What an elegant puss.
Sometimes I still find myself waiting to be grown-up, to be competent, some variety of successful. I long for tangible evidence that I can nail a landing, and at the risk of embarrassing myself, I do keep trying. Intellectually, I have come to realize that in life there is no cap and gown moment, when we are handed a diploma and officially sanctioned as a graceful, capable being, worthy of admiration, respect, acceptance in the adult realm, and vaguely confident of our significance or worth. Emotionally, I am not so sure, and this doubt and frustration is a problem for me. I long for that moment when I feel I have nailed a landing, made a mark, achieved success.
But in reality, it's a journey, right? We keep moving forward. Perhaps in a Cha-cha? 2, 3, cha-cha-cha.
(I think it's hilarious for me to use a dance metaphor, because I cannot dance. Those steps, the very concept of rhythm, these confound me. "Tempo," "harmony," "steps," "rhythm," "in tune," "in synch..." all, sadly, not in my DNA. I digress. Digressions are in my DNA.)
Perhaps, too, even admitting that I feel this uncertainty, this expectation of a moment when I will simply know, should be embarrassing. Well, it is embarrassing. Actually, blogging is often terribly embarrassing. I am like a cat, a little too old, a little too heavy, and though I feel I am an introverted, shy cat, a quiet and domestically orientated cat, I regularly scan upward, crouch, and leap for some height that I am bound to miss, and then I fall down, down, down to the ground. Yes, that is one way blogging feels, like standing in a public square, hoping to nail a landing, and quite regularly falling short.
Older cats embarrass. They fall, too, but unlike Foo, who shakes it off and tries again, an older cat looks around, hoping he was not noticed, and walks away as though he was never awkward, foolish, clumsy, seen.