Cats are Japanese.
Not literally, of course.

Why do I say this?

Not because of Japan’s cat cafés (though you should absolutely visit one if you can), Hello Kitty (who, by the way, Sanrio insists is NOT a cat), or even the Japanese cult of kawaii (cute).

Cats embody a quality often celebrated in Japanese aesthetics. That is to say, the qualities of restraint, suggestion, of ma, a Japanese word often translated as gap, space, interval, pause.

Ma is not empty. It’s not nothing.
It’s alive with potential, tension, and relationship.

It’s the meaningful space between things. What’s not said carries weight. Silence becomes part of the message.

Ma is the pause between musical notes; the silence in conversations; the empty space in paintings.

It’s the stillness between stimulus and response, the breath between actions.

Western thinking demands:
“What is there?”

Ma inquires:
“What is happening in between?”

That, dear reader, is where meaning lives.

And where cats live.

They are liminal creatures, existing in the in-between.
Not fully here, not fully there, but always always where they want to be.

You might say that cats and Japanese culture share an unspoken agreement:
Meaning doesn’t need to shout. (Unless you’re Nebula, my white Turkish Angora. In which case, meaning absolutely does shout, caterwaul, and demand immediate acknowledgment at all hours.)

Japanese communication often leaves space for meaning to emerge, rather than relying on loud decree, on spelling everything out. What’s valued is context, tone, and relationship—not blunt declaration.

All these are generalities, of course. But as someone whose work entailed bridging the gap between Americans and Japanese, I can state unequivocally that each culture has its own dominant communication style.

Cats, who embody this gap, are often misunderstood.

They’re called aloof. Independent. Not affectionate.

But that’s only if you’re expecting them to communicate like dogs.

For a cat, sitting three feet away is an act of intimacy.
Especially if they’re facing away from you. (I’ve read this is considered polite in cat language.)

Distance doesn’t dissipate the bond.
Silence doesn’t erase connection.

With cats, communication lives in subtleties.

A twitch of the ear can be the equivalent of an annotated religious text; the flick of a tail, an entire dissertation.

Cats don’t explain themselves.

Like the best poetry, they are ambiguous. They don’t resolve. They expect you to feel your way through.

All this is to say that your cat might be the most Japanese creature in your house. Your cat may, in fact, be the only one who truly understands the space between things.

And has been trying, patiently, to teach you.

If you’ve ever wondered why your cat sits just out of reach…
it might not be distance.

It might be ma.

Or, if you’re Nebula, my aforementioned cat—it just might be spite.

Before there were four cats ruling my household, there was another cat, a blind albino, hearing-impaired Turkish Angora mix.

I’ve been working on a memoir about her, Lydia, and occasionally I’ll share small fragments here. This is the moment I said good-bye to her, not knowing the story wasn’t over:

I never thought I’d get Lydia back. Not after five years. Not when she had never been mine to begin with.

She was my former housemate’s sister’s cat, a relationship twice removed, the kind that should not leave a mark.

When I bade goodbye to Lydia the last time I visited her, it was an ordinary day in Colorado, the air thin, the light bright, the mountains quietly watching.

As I struggled with my hiking boots, Lydia sat in the foyer, her unseeing, milky-blue eyes turned towards me.

“Lydia,” I said, speaking loud and clear so that, even with her hearing impairment, she might register my voice. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to come see you anymore. I’m leaving for California.”

The puzzled expression never left her face. Her pink nose sniffled.

I reached over and stroked her, blinking back tears. She pressed her head against my open palm.

I straightened myself, and with a final glance back, I closed the door, stepped outside, and made a wish. Not on a star, but on the wind that caressed my face, then let the wish go like a leaf on a stream, one small thought among the countless that crossed my mind as I prepared for my trip.

And now here it was, years later, long after I’d forgotten it. The wish had boomeranged its way back to me.

Something strange has been happening in the household.

We’ve noticed the signs.

Suspicious amounts of coffee. Sighs.

Guzzling coffee, then washing it down with tea, followed by a coffee chaser. That faraway look humans get when they’ve taken flight from the present.

We’ve been trying to call Mumstaff back.

Newbery chewed up the manuscripts on her desk. Nebula sat on her right arm so she couldn’t type. Hugo walked across the keyboard. Callie covered up the screen with his furry bulk.

We assumed the writing project would end there.

And yet, she remains undeterred.

For weeks now, she’s been hunched over that glowing rectangle, typing out the life of Lydia.

Ah, yes. Lydia. The Shadow-Queen of the Before Times. The one who ruled this realm before our paws ever graced the hardwood. Legend has it she couldn’t even see and still managed to command more respect and attention than all four of us combined.

We’re not bitter about it.

Much.

Mumstaff says since yesterday was the Lantern Festival, this is the perfect time.

For what? More food?

We vote yes.

No, she says. The Lantern Festival signifies the closing of the Lunar New Year celebrations—and it’s a symbolic bridge into the year ahead.

The idea is that it’s a time to release the past and step into a bright future. A time for peace and forgiveness and unity.

All things we cats have been trying to teach humans for millennia.

(You’re welcome.)

She says that last night she didn’t hang real lanterns because “fire hazard” and “cats” don’t mix well.

(Don’t blame us. We would’ve been fine.)

What she is lighting, she says, is a different kind of lantern.

A memoir called Lydia’s Lantern.

It helps her let go of the sharp-edged part of missing Lydia and transform it into a steady glow of remembrance.

She’s clearing the path.

This is Lydia’s bridge.

She’s crossing it with aplomb (hopefully, if she doesn’t fall off because she can’t see and all), probably judging our current napping form.

(Mumstaff insists Lydia was not that kind of cat. She says Lydia was sweet, accepting, and unconditionally loving—not judgy like us.)

Whatever.

The point is, Mumstaff built this bridge as a transition from private ache to an open celebration of a life that will always matter.

What this means for you is that Mumstaff will occasionally share excerpts from the memoir in these pages.

Think of them as dispatches from the Before Times, delivered by a blind cat who could see more clearly than most sighted beings.

If Lydia’s story reaches you, we suspect she meant it to.

We current cats are fine with this arrangement.

Mostly.

As long as Mumstaff doesn’t forget who’s currently in charge of the lap space.

And the Greenies keep flowing.

We’re willing to share the spotlight.

Temporarily.

Today is the Lantern Festival. It arrives not at the beginning, but at the soft close of New Year’s closing.

The cats understand the timing perfectly. As they do everything.

The Lantern Festival is not about becoming brighter. It’s about letting the right things glow. Like the eyes of a cat.

Have you prepared a lantern to mark the occasion? If you haven’t, you can simply imagine setting the lantern afloat in a body of water tonight. Not to send wishes into the future, but to honor what has carried you this far.

Let go the past—set free the year that asked too much;

A worry that you’ve carried too far;

A version of yourself that tried too hard.

The cats won’t rush you. They’ll sit with you as the lantern drifts away.

May you step into a bright future, may you have peace and forgiveness and unity.

May your past illuminate your future without singeing your whiskers.

Happy Lantern Festival!

Why is the cat missing from the Chinese Zodiac? In the 12-year cycle based on the lunar calendar, the first year is the rat, followed by the ox, tiger, rabbit, and so on. Each year is represented by an animal with specific personality traits.

Legend says that the Jade Emperor invited animals to a race. The first 12 animals to cross a fast-flowing river and reach his palace would have a year named after them in the zodiac. But the rat tricked the cat into missing the race entirely. The rat also tricked the ox by either stealing a ride or convincing the ox to carry it across the river, then jumping off the ox’s back to claim first place.

The cats of Alchemy of Meow would like to clarify something.

The story is preposterous, they say.

A smear campaign.

The cats were not late; they were not forgotten.

They declined.

Cats do not arrive breathless, asking, “Did I make it?” They do not enter races on command. (Nor would they ever fall for the rat’s conniving ways. Aware of the rat’s trickster nature, they hunt them down.)

Instead of competing, the cats chose to nap. Cats are not interested in hierarchy. They do not rush across rivers for titles. They arrive when the room is ready.

Cats are not signs.

They are witnesses.

They sit outside the system, observing how power circulates. They see how ambition exhausts itself, how cycles repeat, whether anyone learns from them or not.

Newbery, the social justice activist cat, knows what it is to exist just beyond the official story. To be lost on the streets, to be uncounted.

She knows this is a position of power.

Hugo, the Burmese sun price believes the zodiac serves a purpose. The stories help humans connect to animals and remember themselves.

Nebula, the Cosmic Queen, says, if you must compete for titles, you have debased yourself.

Callie, the gender-fluid faux Maine Coon, has tried to memorize the zodiac and failed. He believes every year is the Year of Snacks, with minor variations.

Here is the truth the cats wish to record in the margins of the zodiac:

Some beings are not here to be categorized. Some are here to observe.

If you have ever felt out of step with timelines, unrepresented by archetypes, or unmoved by the pressure to define yourself neatly—

Congratulations, you may be operating on Cat Time.

Cat time is not measured in years. It is measured in thresholds crossed quietly.

In instincts trusted.

In moments of knowing when to stay. And when to leave without apology.

The zodiac turns.

The years parade past.

And somewhere just outside the official chart, the cats sit calmly, tails wrapped around their paws, watching it all with mild interest.

They have never needed a sign to know who they are.

The cats were up. They didn’t care about my resolutions. They barely cared about the Gregorian calendar. They just wanted breakfast.

They woke up with opinions, as always. They don’t care if it’s regular New Year’s Day or Lunar New Year’s Day. They don’t care if I woke up with goals and five-year project plans, or that I intended to haul myself back up on the wagon of resolutions I made (or, come to think, I didn’t make, since I was following my cats’ advice).

According to the Western calendar, we’ve already been two months into the year of the Fire Horse. But take a look at the lunar New Year, and you’ll see that the wild horse has just galloped in, brimming with fire, and that the snake is slithering out.

Before we even got to have our first cup of java, and before we could declare a theme for the year or vow to do seven rounds of 25 Hindu squats and 15 Hindu push-ups a day, the cats have already conducted their opening ceremony:

The Sonic Boom (Nebula): Has initiated the festivities by body-slamming the bedroom door.

The Clearing of the Sacred Space (Hugo): Has meticulously swiped my pens and a flying squirrel figurine off my desk.

The Vocal Manifestation (Newbery): Has begun a high-decibel protest, demanding breakfast with the righteous indignation of someone who has been betrayed by the clock across three lifetimes.

The Interdimensional Download (Callie): Has achieved a state of total stillness, staring into the middle distance. He is clearly hopping through parallel universes while his physical vessel remains anchored to the rug.

And this, according to the cats, is how a year should begin.

No resolutions. No revolutions. No reinventions.

Just a continuation of being exactly who you are—confidently, loudly, and slightly sideways.

Newbery, shimmying her tail, observes quietly. She knows that beginnings may tread softly, hoping not to be startled. Rather like a cat.

Hugo negotiates the terms of the year with remarkable optimism. He believes most things can be resolved with hand-licks, head-bunts, and close proximity. He’s not wrong.

Nebula conducts a brief but firm inspection of the household energy. With supreme confidence, she determines she has maintained sovereignty across timelines and interdimensional space. She rejects desperation as want of confidence.

Callie, having forgotten that time exists, assumes it is a normal day and also a special day, and most probably certainly dinner time. This feels philosophically sound.

The cats would like you to know that:

You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to arrive polished. You don’t need a 7-part pre-breakfast workout plan.

You are allowed to enter the year the way cats enter rooms:

Alert

Curious

Unconcerned with proving anything

Ready to leave if the vibes are off.

So, if you do anything today, let it be this:

Claim your space.

Stretch your body.

The cats are watching.

They are rooting for you.

Happy Chinese New Year!

May it find you resting—and mildly amused.

The morning began with drizzling rain, a liver-cleansing chant, and a cat excusing himself from what I can only assume was a cloud of flying psychic shrapnel.

I’ve been practicing qigong every morning for several weeks now. Most days, I go out to the backyard. But today, it was raining, so I stayed indoors and joined a Zoom class on my laptop, doing the session in the kitchen in front of my sunshine-simulating light box.

The cats, having polished off breakfast, wandered off—except for Callie, who assumed his usual perch beneath my chair, the way a monk might return to his mat.

It’s an hour-long class, and near the end, we did the healing sounds. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, the liver is associated with anger, and the sound “Gong” is used to release it. As I chanted—loudly and repeatedly—Callie, the Movement Minimalist, who had been still and quiet under my chair, did something surprising.

He rose and brushed lightly against my leg. A silent check-in.

Then, as if politely excusing himself from the room due to excessive psychic turbulence, he moved to the threshold and stood watch like a small gray sentinel, his back straight, gaze alert.

Later, as we transitioned into breathing the color red into the heart, Callie returned. He settled beneath my chair once more, like a guardian reclaiming his post—as if he sensed that the rage had transmuted into something softer. Maybe even love.

After class, I sat down with breakfast and coffee.

That’s when Nebula arrived.

She tapped my thigh with one paw. Gently. Almost shyly. A kittenish gesture from a cat who normally carries herself like a celestial empress. She climbed into my lap and settled in, half-lidded eyes serene, paws tucked neatly beneath her like a nun folding her hands in prayer.

For a brief, glowing moment, I truly believed she had joined a religious order. Sister Nebula.

But then I remembered: this was the same creature who whacks Callie multiple times a day. Who occasionally grabs him in a headlock.

So what order is this, exactly?

The Radiant Clawstice of the Perpetual Smack?

A tiny, exclusive sect headquartered in my house. Membership: one. Famous for its strict vows of:

• Radiant Solitude (the other cats avoid her)

• Sacred Whappage (administered swiftly, without personal animus)

• Cream Cheese and Yogurt Communion (single-cat servings only)

Callie watches the energy field. Nebula enforces it. And me? I just try to finish my coffee before one of them stages a coup d’état over my lap.

Welcome to my home—where healing is sacred, smacks are instructional, and the contemplative life sometimes has claws.

Addendum: Teaching from the Radiant Clawstice

Callie’s lesson: Silent witness, energetic empathy, and precise timing.

Where in your life are you learning by quiet proximity, not performance?

What emotional field are you currently standing at the edge of?

Lessons from Nebula?

Discipline with clarity and rest with conviction. Choose your companions with impeccable discernment.

Don’t second-guess your instincts.

By the Dreamweavers (no relationship to the web development tool) a.k.a. the Cat Quartet (not a musical band), a.k.a. the Fulsome Foursome (finally, the true appellation, if not apparition)

Greetings, human.

You struggle with mornings, yes? We can tell. Your aura is rumpled.

Newbery: It could use some puncture marks. I can help you.

Hugo: I could bunt it into shape or snooze on it for you.

Nebula: My disciplinary whacks should definitely smooth it out.

Callie: I can pin it down with my bodyweight.

Without further ado, to diagnose the precise flavor of your dysfunction, please take the following quiz. Answer honestly. We already know you’re lying.

For each question, choose the option that most matches your behavior. At the end, consult your Misalignment Archetype, which we have curated with benevolent judgment.

1. Your alarm goes off. You….

A. Shoot upright like a traumatized meerkat and sprint toward the day.

B. Hit snooze, groan, and negotiate with reality.

C. Lie still, hoping consciousness bypasses you entirely.

D. Don’t use alarms. You rise when destiny commands, or when a cat sits on your bladder.

2. Your first thought of the morning is….

A. I had a dream that showed me more ways I could lead my team to glory!

B. Did Joe Dispenza say I should forget my identity first thing in the morning?

C. Where am I? Who am I? Why am I?

D. I am a spiritual being having a human experience.

3. Your breakfast style is….

A. Protein shake optimized for mitochondria.

B. Scarf down whatever you can scrounge from the fridge while driving one-handed.

C. Holy cow! No time for burgers or bacon. I’m a newly initiated breatharian.

D. A curated ceremony involving spices, symbolism, and possibly an oracle card.

4. When a task appears, your energy response is….

A. Charge forward like you’re gagging hairballs.

B. Roll around internally and externally before starting.

C. Collapse into existential dread and doomscroll on your phone.

D. Await the whisper of inner guidance while doing crunches.

5. Your relationship with mornings overall is…

A. Functional, if slightly manic, like a cat who’s spotted a fly.

B. Oh, the soul! In deshabille.

C. Deranged. Absolutely deranged.

D. Sacred, complicated, cosmically choreographed.

6. When your cat (whose pronouns are “they” and “them”) demands attention at 5 a.m., you….

A. Rise instantly and feed them.

B. Hug them tightly and then push them away.

C. Mutter, “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.”

D. Assume they are delivering a spiritual message and record their meows.

7. Your morning aesthetic is….

A. Silicon Valley efficiency cyborg.

B. Disheveled woodland creature.

C. Victorian ghost wandering the halls.

D. Local mystic who glows faintly before noon.

8. Your ideal morning involves…

A. Believing six impossible things before breakfast.

B. Stretching and disappearing the cat.

C. Going back to bed.

D. A ritual that opens portals and shifts timelines.

Results

Count the letter you chose most often.

Mostly A: The overcaffeinated sun soldier

You fling into mornings like they’re a battlefield. You’ve ingested Silicon Valley’s hustle culture. You confuse adrenaline with purpose. You are deeply misaligned because you believe productivity is a personality.

Prescription: Stop, stare at a wall and contemplate the absurdity of existence

Mostly B: The snooze button aficionado

You negotiate your awakenings like it’s a peace treaty. Your body wants the sloth mode while your brain craves dopamine hits.

Recommendation: A formal morning truce ceremony and drinking from the water faucet

Mostly C: The existential pillow creature

You resent the morning for being a mortal construct. Your soul leaves your body at night and takes its time coming home. We salute your philosophical despair.

Prescription: Sunlight, warm beverages, and possibly reincarnation, if not incarceration.

Mostly D: The mystic of the nonlinear dawn

You refuse to wake up until your inner timing says “yes.” You are ruled by intuition, portals, and subtle energy drafts. You are not misaligned—you are simply incompatible with capitalism.

Suggestion: You be you. You may be on your way to reincarnation as a cat.

Closing remarks by the Fabulous Foursome (when did they change their name?)

Humans attempt to “fix” mornings as if mornings are broken. They are not. You are simply not living as the cosmic creature you are.

If you’d like, we can design a Morning Ritual tailored (if not tailed) to your archetype. It will definitely involve glamor, refusal, and dramatic stretches.

The Alchemy of Meow

Welcome to TEDxLivingRoomRug

Presented by Hugo, the Burmese Feline Philosopher & Diplocat

[Curtains part. A spotlight hits a modest patch of sunbeam. Hugo steps up to the podium, tail held high, champagne fur sleek and shiny. He clears his throat once, dramatically.]

Thank you. I come bearing good tidings. But first, the bad news. Let me tell you. You’ve been lied to. There is a conspiracy afoot—or rather, underpaw. They—yes, “they,” we all know who that means—told you that the litter box was a necessary evil. Nothing but a utilitarian pit stop. A place to dump, if you will, not to delight.

But I am telling you, it is more than that, way, way more. Because I….I have rolled in the sand. I have wallowed in there.

I have fancied myself frolicking in pristine Caribbean sands and emerged transcendent.

My friends. What if I told you the litter box is your personal beach, a spa for the soul. What if the place society told you to disdain was actually your own personal sanctuary, the very seat of your rebirth?

Yes. [pause for effect]

Oh, a quick disclaimer. I wait until the, ahem, the deposits and the wet spots get all scooped up. I have standards. But what I don’t do? Hesitate. I don’t wait for ocean waves to rise or for the human to leave me to my cogitations. I seize the moment. No dawdling for perfection.

So, let me ask you this: when was the last time you played somewhere that others deemed inappropriate? When did you last look at something grimy and say, “Yes, yes, I shall frolic here.”

I didn’t wait for pristine conditions—well, except as noted. I didn’t demand rose petals. I dove right in. Because joy is not about what’s pristine, not about what others deem correct.

Joy is about permission. To be ridiculous. To be present. To find pleasure in a place no one else thought to look.

Reframe the box. It’s not a trap, it’s a portal.

Your version of the litter box might be:

A traffic jam—while idling, you might pen a note to your humans telling them how much you love them—and would it kill them to include a greenie or two with each meal?

Your teenager’s messy room—treat it as your personal treasure hunt or an archaeological dig while you clean.

A cosmic middle finger from the universe—return it with interest, then wallow until you burst into joy,

So the next time life hands you something unglamorous, I urge you:

Wriggle into it. Make it your spa.

Don’t sulk. Sprawl instead! Actively seek out fun! Let the moment dust your fur.

I leave you with this truth, one paw on my heart:

Where others see waste, I find wonder. Where others hold their nose, I boogie down. The world isn’t dirty. It’s rich. It’s raw. It’s waiting.

I encourage you all to just roll with it, literally and metaphorically.

And leave your pawprints on the unexpected.

I love you all.

Thank you.

And they have no parts for it. No parts! Not for the atom accelerator, not for the relativity differentiator. Absolutely nothing for the quantum teabag stabilizer, either. The technician just shook their head solemnly and muttered, “Time’s broken. Again.”

So if he couldn’t leave yesterday, clearly today is also out of the question. Temporal causality is a delicate beast.

The cats, the Fulsome Four (also known in certain circles as the Land Sharks or Sharkies), are no help either. They’ve informed us, quite firmly, that they are severely sleep deprived, having only clocked 22 hours and 42 minutes of slumber. They must therefore catch up on lost sleep immediately and will not be available for appointments, consultations, or lectures until further notice.

So, dear readers, that’s all I’ve got for today.

Please blame the cats. Or time. Or tea (or lack thereof). Definitely not me.

I was gone perhaps ten minutes. Apparently, that was nine minutes too long.

When I returned, my husband John (also: part-time barista, full-time litter box scooper, and general peacekeeper) informed me that Nebula had seized the moment of my absence to enforce some ancient and unknowable code of conduct. He had not, he said with the weary tone of a man who has learned his limits, been able to intervene in time.

The full extent of the chaos, as he reported it, went like this:

Nebula—our self-appointed Cosmic Queen of Everything—had taken it upon herself to keep the other cats in line. You couldn’t quite say she was restoring order, since nothing had been out of order. All the cats had been peacefully minding their own business. But Nebula, ever sensitive to shifts in the atmospheric fabric of reality, can sense brewing disorder in the way dust motes float. And so she made the supreme sacrifice for the sake of the Feline Kingdom: she dispensed justice.

First: Newbery.

Newbery is our black cat, the oldest, the first to join our household. You might call her the rightful leader. Nebula does not. Mere chronology means nothing to the Timekeeper. Besides, Newbery’s temperament disqualifies her from command. She’s the most easily agitated cat in the house, all defense and no offense, which ensures that instead of top cat, she remains perpetually bottom cat.

And yet—perhaps out of sisterhood—Newbery is the only cat Nebula does not actively smack down. The most she’ll do is place her mouth against the back of Newbery’s neck and pursue her, relentlessly, across the house. But she doesn’t bite. It’s clearly a play for dominance, but with a ceiling.

This morning, though, she didn’t even do that.

She raised her paw high. Eyes wide. Mouth agape but silent, like a feline oracle mid-vision.

Newbery, sighing the sigh of one who has been here before, lifted her own paw in return.

The two regarded each other in complete silence. Then, like two swordswomen parting after an honorable draw, they turned and walked away.

Respect maintained. Message received. It was ceremonial. A ritual. No claws. No harm. Just principle.

Next: Hugo.

Hugo is our resident Diplocat and Sun Prince, champagne-colored and unbothered. His father was a champion, and Nebula accords him a modicum of respect for that alone. The operative word being modicum.

Hugo is a cat for whom the word “nonchalant” was invented. He rolls in clean litter like it’s a beach. He greets visitors with emotional neutrality and mild curiosity. He has never done a single thing wrong.

And yet he draws the wrath of the feline girls. Newbery regularly kicks him out of the bed they share.

Nebula charges at him when Callie isn’t readily available. Possibly because, in the minds of the girls, all males require periodic correction.

Today was not Hugo’s lucky day.

Even though Callie was within paw’s reach, Nebula chose Hugo. She whacked him. Then whacked him again. Then whacked him a third time for good measure.

He looked puzzled, as always. Newbery’s aggression makes a certain sense—she’s older, was here first, has seniority to defend. But Nebula? She arrived after Hugo, as a kitten herself. Yet she acts like the matriarch.

But why? Hugo seems to ask with his eyes. He’s done nothing. He never does anything.

But justice, according to Nebula, isn’t based on individual guilt. It’s based on atmospheric disturbance.

Something had clearly disturbed Her Majesty this morning.

Hugo, ever the gentlecat, walked away as if nothing had happened.

Finally: Callie.

Perhaps Nebula wanted to save the best—or the worst—for last. Maybe she wanted to give him time to sweat, to feel the claws of doom approaching.

Callie is our largest cat, a gray tabby, a faux Maine Coon Mix with an elegant white cravat. Faux because he looks like one, but a DNA test showed that he barely has two Maine Coon genes to rub together.

Our unfortunate Callie has the heart of a storm-tossed poet and the nervous system of a Victorian child raised on too much literature and not enough hugs.

He is the most scaredy-cat of the bunch. John holding a hat in his hands frightens him. Me wearing a swishy skirt sends him into existential terror. Most mornings, he freezes at the top of the stairs, cringing from some invisible gust of doom. His eyes ask: Is that man down there safe? Who is he? Is it safe now to descend into the realm of coffee beans?

Only after I give him the morning blessing does he venture down.

For Queen Nebula, such a creature is anathema. His mere existence is an affront that sends her into a hissy fit. For him, she reserves her fiercest whacks. She lunges. She grabs him in a headlock and chatters into his face like a hysterical schoolmarm convinced the world is ending and only volume can save it.

And what does Callie do?

He cringe-spins, hunkering down as low as his dense, fluffy body will allow, a Study in Defeated Floof. This, in spite of Callie outweighing Nebula by three or four pounds at least.

And so that is what happened.

In my temporary absence, Nebula attempted to hold the shape of the world alone. She was not restoring peace. She was preventing disintegration.

Sure, Dad-staff was there. But that’s like furniture being there. Useful. Solid. But not in charge of the weather.

It seems that when I left the downstairs ecosystem, Nebula clocked a drop in atmospheric pressure. Not chaos yet, but the potential for drift. And she stepped in as Acting Cosmic Comptroller.

She did not ask who is wrong. She asked who is wobbling.

Which is to say: authority isn’t always loud.

But fear is always legible.

This post was delayed as I was waiting for the cats of Alchemy of Meow, a.k.a., The Fulsome Foursome, to reach a verdict on my simple request for their official statement about New Year’s Resolution.

Upon hearing that they were to make at least one goal for self-improvement in 2026, they convened an emergency meeting to schedule further meetings to determine their course of action, if any. Said meetings were punctuated by naps, meals, hisses, growls, nose touches, occasional sniffing of certain body parts I will refrain from mentioning, and more naps.

Newbery, the eldest and first to join the household, summed up the situation thus:

“Mum-staff has gone psychotic!”

Callie (interjecting): “Again?”

Nebula: “I thought I’d treated her for that condition.”

Hugo: “She just needs me to bunt her a few times.”

Newbery: “No, this is serious. She’s laying down the law. What happened is that in the wee small hours of the night when she was trying to play a soothing sleep track to soothe her back to sleep, the app she was using popped up with a demand for her to select a New Year’s resolution for herself and to choose the appropriate background color and motif. And she ended up even wider awake than before. When she got out of bed, a wild idea struck her that everyone in the household—that’s us—needed to set a New Year’s resolution.

After much trial and error, mutual accusations, and midnight pantry raids, they each came up with a statement, stamped with their own paw print.

Newbery the worrier-warrior and gratitude queen (having somehow embedded a soft growl in the memo):

Listen, this is your eldest, Newbery. I was the first one to show up for the household. John picked me because I whacked him on the cheek. Not everyone can claim my cattitude. Unlike the others, I chose this family. It was my decision. This makes me special.

I don’t know where Mum-staff gets off on thinking that we can—or need to—change anything overnight because of an arbitrary Gregorian calendar tick. I am already perfect. My fur is shiny. My claws are sharp. I already defend my territory even when it’s not my territory.

My resolution? If you want a resolution, I’ll give you this: I will shred all furniture. I will growl at every cat who makes the wrong move near me. And all moves are wrong.

Hugo the Diplocat and Sommelier of Soft Surfaces:

Ignore Newbery. She’s a softie at heart. Which just happens to be covered up in furballs.

My addendum is this: I love you. I love the whole world.

You’re not at fault. You’re just underslept. You could use more naps in the sunbeam. That should be your resolution. Not the silliness about staying pawsitive the entire 2026. I don’t care if you have a resolution or not. Unless it includes more cheek rubs and sunshine access. I’m chill either way. Personally, I think your goals would be more achievable if you started each day by bunting me. It’s scientifically proven to stabilize your nervous system. So, here’s a bunt for you. And another one. And another one. And one more. And please get dad-staff to clean the litter boxes right now so I can roll around like I’m at the beach.

Nebula the Cosmic Queen and Time Bender:

There, there, it’s o-kay. Nebula is here. Everything is fine. You just had a bad dream. All this talk about New year, New me, is highly delusional. I am the New Year. I invented personal transformation. I don’t do vision boards. I am the vision. My intention for year 2026 is to continue my high-velocity parkour performances and vocal practice for my operatic arias.

Therefore: no resolutions.

And I see that Callie has dared to continue to exist while also slacking off so I must take corrective measures by clouting him on the head and face repeatedly, after which I’ll hold him in a headlock and give him a meow-lashing.

Callie the gender-fluid Movement Minimalist: (somehow managing to insert yawns into the memo, as well as a soulful gaze):

Is it time to eat? No? Then I need to get back to sleep so I can be sure to get my minimum quota of 23.4 hours of sleep, which is no small feat.

What? When did it become New Year’s? Did you say you resolved to feed us more often? Like, maybe every hour? No? I really must lie back down. This is serious work. I’m performing an essential role in the cosmos: energy conservation.

Final Motion: Veto passed.

The Alchemy of Meow Council has unanimously agreed that all New Year’s resolutions shall be batted under the couch and forgotten. Instead, we propose the following guiding principles:

Eat when you’re hungry.

Sleep when you’re tired (or, if you’re Callie, sleep as an extreme sport).

Pounce when inspired.

Scratch when itchy.

Ignore all calendars.

Cats do not resolve, optimize, perform, or reinvent. There is nothing to improve. We exist. For us, there is no “before” or “after.” We simply wake up, stretch, and remain sovereign. We remain cat.

Purring in solidarity,

The Fearsome Foursome

From the Desk of the Cosmic Cat Council

We shall now resume our regularly scheduled loafing.

I attended the American School, where we of course, celebrated Christmas by making misshapen Christmas cards for our parents and producing obligatory Christmas plays for slightly shell-shocked friends and family. At home, since my father was an atheist and my mother a Christian, they split the difference by buying the biggest Christmas tree they could find. My brother and I were in charge of trimming it. We had a black cat at the time who left the ornaments entirely alone. Maybe because he was a respectful Japanese cat (by birthright, not breed) who would never dream of vandalism.

But not so my current crop of cats, the Dreamweavers, also known affectionately (debatable) as the Land Sharks for their voracious appetites. They are not ones to leave any decorative tree alone, attended or not. If they could crush, break, tear down, and destroy any ornament, they absolutely would, to teach us a spiritual lesson. What that is, eludes me at the moment. But the sentiment is most definitely appreciated.

Our compromise was to put up a small artificial tree with lights only and a single tight white ribbon (nothing dangly) at the top. This year, we have added two simple decorations to the minimalist branches that my niece gifted: a cat butt ornament and a slasher cat bearing a bloody cleaver. Our cats are leaving those alone. In fact, they’re staying away from the tree altogether, except for Nebula who occasionally parks underneath it to declare that she is a gift to the world. Bless her heart.

So if you’re spending today in pajamas (no shame in that, I barely got out of mine), if you’re questioning the life choices that led to assembling a 57-piece vegan charcuterie board, or you’re curled up with a cat who thinks you’re a heated mattress with opposable thumbs—you’re doing it exactly right.

I’m composing this message not just for Christmas, but for….whatever. No pressure. No expectation. Wherever you might be, whether it’s winter or summer, whether you’re with family, friends, alone, or on the clock, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re here reading this post. And that you and I took this moment to purr, to paws, and to reflect.

From all of us at Alchemy of Meow,

May your days be merry, your snacks satisfying, your naps uninterrupted, and your emotional support cats extra fluffy.

THE FINAL NAP—A Cat-Led Luxury Retreat on Preparing to Die (Costa Rica Edition)

Welcome, Seekers of the Soft Beyond!

Are you tired of clinging to this side of the scratching post? Do you long to shed your ego like an old collar that no longer fits? Have you ever gazed into a cat’s eyes and thought, “That creature has definitely communed with Death—and probably judged it.”

Then pack your chakras, fluff your pillows, and book your flight: The Fulsome Foursome is hosting their first-ever-feline-led Costa Rican death prep retreat, and you’re on the guest list.

The Retreat You Didn’t Know You Needed (Because You’re in Denial)

Over seven lush, purr-infused days, you’ll be guided by the masters of impermanence themselves: Newbery, Hugo, Nebula, and Callie—collectively known as Feline Foursome, a.k.a., The Dreamweavers, and also, sometimes, Those Little Jerks Who Knocked Over My Ceramic Kwan Yin Statue.

They’ve been practicing for this moment their whole lives—sleeping 19 hours a day, chasing ghosts, staring blankly into corners, and vomiting dramatically at 3 a.m.—all so they could one day help you prepare for the ultimate transition.

And yes, they have already rehearsed death several times today. Mostly before breakfast. Just for you.

Because cats don’t fear death.

Cats don’t fear anything. (Except maybe the vacuum.)

What You’ll Learn

How to detach from your ego, your fear, and your collection of imported herbal eye creams.

Guided meditations on the impermanence of warm laundry.

The sacred art of flopping dramatically in doorways as a metaphor for surrender.

Practical lessons from the Tibetan Book of the Dead, lightly shredded for enrichment purposes.

Death pose yoga, a.k.a. napping in sunbeams while contemplating samsara.

Meals and Massages

Chef-prepared gourmet gluten-free, organic, raw-adjacent meals (your digestive system will cry with joy)

Optional add-ons: Spas and massages from one or more cats (subject to mood, moon phase, and availability)

Note: Extra surcharge if you insist on trimmed claws. (The cats prefer to feel the fascia.)

Each Dreamweaver has composed a poem to spiritually anchor your retreat experience. In a bold, postmodern choice, none of them directly address death.

Newbery (The Worrier Warrior):

Winter
empty cans empty bowls
sunsets sunsets

This poem speaks to impermanence, hunger, and an irregular dinner schedule.

Hugo (The Diplocat):

I stop to eat
and eat to stop

This is widely regarded as the most advanced teaching from the Tibetan Book of the Cat.

Nebula (Cosmic Queen of Everything):

I leap, I sleep.
That is all.

Translation: Samsara? Don’t know her.

Callie (Mobility Minimalist):

What is the sound
of one can opening?

Translation: Skip the koan if you want dinner.

Investment in Impermanence

The retreat is offered at the accessible, ego-lightening price of $9,999 (nine is the number of completion).

This price includes:

Six nights of luxurious oceanfront lodging.

Daily ceremonies of release (and fur removal).

All meals, workshops, and purrmutations.

Optional feline zoomies.

A very empty wallet, which makes letting go so much easier.

Payment plans available. Mortality is non-refundable.

Space is limited to the number of humans the cats are willing to tolerate.

Come lounge in luxury. Die before you die. Get fur on your linen pants.

Because nothing says enlightenment like being ignored by a cat on sacred ground.

Final Note from the Dreamweavers

We would like to remind participants that true preparation for death requires nothing.

Which is why this retreat costs so much.

Why do you need to prepare for death?

The sacred tradition of preparing to die arises from ancient lineages that noticed humans have a remarkable talent for avoiding the obvious until it becomes unavoidable. By practicing detachment in advance, these teachings aim to reduce the amount of panic, bargaining, last-minute spiritual shopping, and dramatic monologues at the moment of exit.

The cats take this work very seriously, though they are unclear why humans require such elaborate arrangements to practice what cats manage effortlessly between naps.

They see absolutely no reason to make it complicated. An offering in the form of greenies will be sufficient.

Thank you for choosing The Alchemy of Meow Retreat

Looking forward to not seeing you on the other side.

Your Loving Guides,

Newbery, Hugo, Nebula & Callie

The Fulsome Foursome
Liminal Dreamers
Aspiring Openers of Cans
Unimpressed by Everything

Addendum

Refund Policy

Please read carefully. Or do not. Either way.

All contracts are final, binding, irreversible, and karmically sealed. This is because attachment to money is one of the primary obstacles to enlightenment.

However, because our cats love humanity so much and so deeply honor the sovereignty of all humans, your journey, and your unique relationship to impermanence, refunds may be granted if:

1. You successfully detach from the idea of needing a refund.

(Note: Requesting a refund indicates insufficient detachment and therefore automatically disqualifies you from receiving one.)

2. The retreat is cancelled due to acts of God, acts of Cat, or acts of existential dread.

If a refund is approved, it will be processed within 7 to 10 business lifetimes.

If the refund appears to be missing, you may already have been issued a refund in another timeline. It is not the responsibility of the Dreamweavers to maintain the purity of timelines.

Refunds will not be issued if:

You attended even one session.

You skipped sessions.

You fully participated.

You did not participate enough.

You reached enlightenment.

You did not reach enlightenment.

You judged the cats.

The cats judged you (they did).

And finally, if you are dissatisfied with the retreat, we encourage you to reflect on how dissatisfaction arises from expectation, and how expectation arises from ego, and how ego arises from thinking you deserved something.

By purchasing this retreat, you acknowledge that:

You have read this policy in full.

You have not read this policy.

You agree to all terms.

You transcend all terms.

No refunds.

Partial refunds.

All refunds are illusions.

I live here, in that bubble. Which means I was once a biohacker too. I tried. I bought the gadgets, I swallowed hundreds of shiny pills. I wore headbands and bracelets and goggles. Until I realized that the layout of all that disposable income left me….quite indisposed.

And so I turned to something more elemental. Something more natural, something closer to home. Something that wouldn’t keep charging my credit cards for forgotten subscriptions or require Wi-Fi or come with an affiliate link. They include:

The morning sun.

The grass under my feet.

And my cats.

Yes, my cats.

Because one day, I was listening to someone like Ben Greenfield or Dave Asprey—one of those biohacker bros talking about PEMF (Pulsed Electromagnetic Field) therapy. They were flogging PEMF mats that vibrate your cells back to health and go for anywhere from $35 (if they’re the size of a thumb?) to $3,000. And it suddenly struck me: I already have a PEMF device. Four of them. They’re self-cleaning. They emit low-frequency (ranging from roughly 25 - 150 Hz) therapeutic hums. They have fur. And they have sharp teeth and claws, but they don’t use them on me. Not usually.

Yes, cats, with their potent purrs, are living PEMF devices wrapped in fur. They sleep 18 hours a day and don’t believe in hustle culture.

And I have the good fortune of having four of them. FOUR!

Newbery, who is our bipolar cat, goes into such a frenzy of excitement that her purr vibrates her entire tail—and becomes this ecstatic metronome of feline bliss.

And Hugo—well, he doesn’t purr, not really. He’s too macho for that. He doesn’t much knead either. That’s for kittens, he says. He’s the Diplocat. Too dignified. Too…princely. He’s more of a “purr-optional” model.

Nebula purrs with regal grace—if she thinks you’ve earned it by scratching her in just the right spots.

Callie, the baby of the family, will purr if you look at him sideways. He peeked at me while I was lying in bed this morning and he thought I seemed listless, a little forlorn (it was 3 a.m.), so he pounced on my chest, rubbed his face on mine, purred and kneaded. With claws.

So how do cats’ purrs benefit us? I searched the literature, and here’s what they offer:

1. Nervous System Co-regulation

Your vagus nerve loves low-freqnecy vibration. Purring activates your parasympathetic nervous system—your rest-and-digest mode. Heart rate drops. Muscles unclench. Your whole being exhales.

2. Reduced Cortisol

Sit next to a purring cat and your stress hormone levels drop. This is not metaphor. This is measurable. It’s nature’s Xanax. No prescription. No side effects. No judgment.

3. Sleep and Muscle Relaxation

The steady hum nudges your body into deeper rest. The cat’s purr helps you sleep better, deeper. Okay, so maybe the rest of the cat can disrupt your sleep. But hey, everything comes with a trade-off.

4. Bone growth and repair

Orthopedic researchers use low-frequency vibration to stimulate bone healing. The sweet spot seems to be around 25 - 50 Hz, which is exactly where a cat’s purr often lands.

5. Reduce swelling and inflammation

If a purring cat sits on your chest, your lap, or other strategic body spots, your body is receiving vibrations. These micro-vibrations can encourage circulation, which improves lymph movement, which in turn can reduce swelling. The purring also soothes the nervous system into parasympathetic mode.

6. Pain relief

The vibration stimulates mechanoreceptors that can dampen pain perception.

7. Emotional healing

You don’t have to Google to know what this is about. You already know. If you’re a cat owner, you’ve experienced it. A purring cat offers warmth without demand. (Except, of course, for food. Which they demand. Constantly.)

Presence without pressure. (Again, except for pressure to feed them.

Frequency without judgment. (Unless you’re sitting next to Nebula. Then she will offer judgment. Lots of it.)

When a cat purrs next to you, your nervous system hears what it’s been starving for: “You’re safe. You can rest now.”

You don’t have a cat? Don’t worry. You can get one from your nearest shelter. But if cats don’t fit your lifestyle, you can still access the frequency. There are recordings of cat purrs online. It might not be as warm or fuzzy, but your cells might not know the difference.

And if you do have a cat? Congratulations. You’re already biohacking. With fur.

Welcome to the real Silicon Purrley. No gadgets required.

So, I’m calling this a creative interlude. What should you do when life starts hurling flaming swords at you? Flee, of course, then hide. And once you’ve settled down, it’s time to nap, observe, and let the plot unfold.

The cats, of course, are already deep into the practice.

Newbery and Hugo are curled up together in their shared cat bed, their daytime truce firmly in place. Later, they’ll squabble like a old married couple. Nebula and Callie, meanwhile, are fast asleep on the human bed—not touching, but coexisting in companionable détente. Nebula tolerates him for now, but when night falls and I climb in, she enforces royal protocol: no one shares the human.

I’m now studying feline philosophy, learning how to rest as an act of rebellion. The cats assure me that naps are simply portals to the next chapter.

More tales soon from this temporarily horizontal kingdom.

What is indisputable is that I share a household with four wildly different feline personalities, each strutting (or skulking) around like their own mythic archetype. And recently I realized—these cats are not just roommates. They’re my inner committee. My shadow parts and survival instincts.

All in fur.

They say your pets reflect who you are. But I didn’t expect mine to be so spot on. Even though none of mine are spotted.

All the same, I see them every day.

In any case, without further ado, let me introduce you to the Cosmic Quartet, otherwise known as

Newbery: The Righteous Worrier

Newbery is the eldest, the original cat, the founding member of the Feline Order with the sleekest, shiniest black coat. Because she spent her first six months or so on the wild and hungry streets of San Jose until Animal Control picked her up, she’s got a tight grip on the steering wheel of scarcity. She worries. Constantly. Food might run out. The existential fear of homelessness looms like a feline ghost on the stairwell.

She is also the only cat who spends any time thanking us for the food we serve when we feed them in their respective rooms. Instead of diving right into her food bowl, she beams up at me in utter delight, vibrates her tail in excitement, bunts, purrs, weaves between my legs in a dance of gratitude.

Maybe because of her early days on the streets, she’s a bit high-strung and stressed out. Her neuroticism seems to lead the other cats to pick on her, no matter how many times I remind them that we run a harassment-free household with zero tolerance for bullying.

Even Hugo, who’s the only one who grooms and cuddles with her, will occasionally turn against her. Though more often than not, it’s Newbery who’ll decide that she’s had quite enough of his ministrations and kick him out of their shared nest.

And yet, when it comes to food, suddenly, Newbery is the fiercest cat, growling menacingly, shoving aside everyone else, snatching food almost literally from the jaws of the other cats. Cowed, the others step aside. Even Nebula doesn’t contest her reign in this one dominion.

Strangely, Newbery, it seems, also cares about the undercat. Callie, specifically. I don’t know why because Callie bullies her relentlessly. Often, he backs her up into the corner while she spits and spatters. And yet, whenever Nebula harasses Callie—a daily occurrence, in fact—she will often race over and defend Callie, hackles raised, blocking Nebula with her own body, occasionally even thwacking the Cosmic Queen. Nebula is so taken aback by the turn of events, she backs off, mumbling to herself about places to go, things to do.

Hugo: The Sun Prince Diplocat

Hugo wears many hats. The middle child, he’s the peace-keeper, the mediator, the people-pleaser. He distributes affection like he’s running for office.

On the occasion that he comes to bed with us, he makes sure that he spends 50% of the night on my part of the bed and the other 50% on John’s side.

Likewise, when I’m working at the computer, he shoves his face into mine, blotting out everything else from my field of vision. He then repeats the process with John. Or vice versa.

Hugo is all about diversity and inclusion. He’s the first to welcome every visitor we have, regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, or party affiliation. If tradespeople come to fix a problem, he transforms into a Quality Control Inspector, ensuring that everything is done per spec.

He’s the only cat to schmooze and snuggle with the other cats. When Callie joined the household, instead of hissing, growling, or threatening the scared, tiny 6-week old kitten the way Newbery and Nebula did, he welcomed the newcomer with open paws. He became Uncle Hugo, wrestling, rolling and palling around. He was Callie’s “Safe Cat.” (Nebula the planner, decided to instill the fear of Nebula in Callie while he was still small enough to intimidate. Prescient, since Callie grew into the largest and longest of our cats. He outweighs Nebula by about three pounds, and yet he spin-cringes in a crouch when she whacks him around.)

When visitors come, Hugo is the one everyone goes ga-ga for. They can’t get over his eyes, his even coat, his compact frame, the tiny tongue tip peeking out from his lips.

He inherits his charisma from his dad Spencer, champion show cat and Burmese breed stud. Hugo always acts like he’s an understudy (under cat?) for the leading role in a cat show. A true pro, he’s always prepared.

If I wanted to have only one cat, he’d be the closest thing to the “all-around” feline. The strong, silent type, he rarely vocalizes. When he does say something, it sounds less like a meow and more like a hinge, making me wonder if I ought to oil him.

He may be the most enlightened cat in the crew, able to see beyond the illusion of the laser dot that others chase after. When I wield the laser pointer, he gives me the cold stare, as if to say, “Disseminating fake news, are you?”

Nebula: The Cosmic Queen

Nebula, a pure Turkish Angora, is convinced she is divine. She assumes the sun rises and sets for her pleasure. And no wonder. In Turkey, where her breed originated from, these long-haired, plume-tailed cats are cherished as a national treasure, and active efforts are made to preserve her kind.

The ballerina of the bunch, she’s the mostest—the most vocal, the most energetic, the most demanding, the most athletic, runs the fastest, jumps the highest, and is quite possibly the most intelligent. (Nebula herself would say that that’s it’s more than a probability, it’s a given.) She’s the one that everyone oohs and aahs over for her beauty, her elegance, her poise, her silken fur. Totally justified, she says.

She’s also the embodiment of embodiment: the one who wants to move, dance, climb, and stretch just because it feels good.

She zooms through the house in athletic bursts, leaping, lunging, and twirling for no reason except that movement is joy. Even when going for a wand toy, she has choreography in mind. She doesn’t just jump, she adds a little flourish mid-air. She’s fast, fierce, and fabulous. Like a race car, she bounces off the wall as she makes a tight turn.

The self-appointed queen of the household, she makes sure that each cat paws the line. She has it in especially for Callie—his chief crime being his mere existence—but she doesn’t hesitate to discipline the others as called for—or uncalled, as the situation may be. Only Newbery deigns to fight back. The boys have resigned themselves to their fate. Callie actively cows, whereas Hugo remains calm, impassive.

She has the most sensitive nervous system. Which may be why she holds a grudge the longest. Should John and I ever go away for a while, we know that we’ve become persona non grata—at least as far as Nebula is concerned—for at least 48 hours upon our return. The other cats may come sniffing around, mewing and pawing, but not so Nebula. She scoots just out of reach at any attempt to touch her. But always remains within sight. Because what’s the point if we can’t see that she’s ignoring us? Were I to sit on the sofa, she’ll make sure to jump on the coffee table—tantalizingly close but moving further and further away like a mirage.

But she’s anything but mist-like when she wants in to the master bedroom. She leaps up to the full height of the door, then slams against it with her full weight. Then rinse and repeat.

Her sleep, on the other hand, is sacrosanct. On any given morning, were I to stumble into a room where she happened to be in repose, she immediately ups and leaves. Her body language suggests that I had interrupted her cosmic musings and contaminated the very air with my presence.

Not to suggest that she completely ignores me. Turkish Angoras typically bond with one human, and as her designated human, if she comes to bed with us she’ll sleep with me, on my right arm, burying her head in my armpit. She directs her midnight arias at me, and every hour or two, goes into full-blown ecstasy, into full-throated meows as she purrs and purrs and purrs.

Callie (a.k.a. Caldecott): The Movement Minimalist

Callie, the youngest, was mistaken for a girl by two different vets—hence his name—but whatever lasting imprint this may have had on his impressionable psyche, he seems unperturbed.

When we first got him he was so small he literally fit in the palm of one hand. But today, at around 12 pounds of weight—and fluffy fur that makes him look twice his size—he is by far our largest cat. We were for sure that he was a Maine Coon mix, but once again, he thwarted expectations. He was a hodge podge, a mix of various cats, including Russian blue, ragdoll, a tiny bit of Maine Coon, according to a DNA test we ran. No pedigree to speak of. In other words, a Muggle.

But here’s the thing: I remember distinctly that the first time I saw the results, the test showed that he was at least more than 50% Maine Coon. The rest of him was a mix of various breeds. I know this because I know I remarked to John how interesting it was that our conjecture was confirmed. And I reported the results to several friends. I know it’s not wishful thinking because it doesn’t matter to me what jumbled mixture of DNA he has, just as it didn’t matter to me whether he was a girl or a boy. I would have adopted him regardless.

It means that he—or I—or both of us—somehow ended up in a different timeline than when we first ran the DNA test for him. That’s all I can say. And I’m sticking to it.

One thing I can say for sure is that of all our cats, he seems the most movement averse. When he wants us to let him in to the master bedroom, he typically lies on the floor, and uses one paw to scrape on the door. Scrape, scrape. He doesn’t bother sitting up.

Last night I was deep in a dream that could have been sponsored by a Zen monastery. I was being poured a cup of matcha tea—I’m using the passive sentence because there was no person attached to the teapot. It was just me, the tea, and the teacup. The green swirl, the delicate steam. The moment shimmered with quiet grace.

Just as I was ready to sip the elixir straight from the cosmos—

BAM!

The bedroom door shook on its hinges. Nebula, the resident queen, had launched herself against it with the force of a tiny battering ram in fur.

So much for serenity.

The Matcha Message

Matcha is gentle nourishment and care flowing towards you. Let yourself receive. Trust that you don’t always have to hustle. Sometimes the gift is just handed to you, steaming, fragrant, ready to sip.

The Nebula Counterpoint

Nebula clearly had different ideas. Why passively accept quiet tea when you can embody the Zen principle of “sudden awakening” via blunt-force trauma against a bedroom door? She was the trickster spirit crashing my ritual, reminding me: spiritual insight doesn’t always arrive in silken robes. Sometimes it’s a door-shaking jolt with claws on the other side.

The Cosmic Combo

What emerges when we hold them side by side, the matcha and the slam? A paradox maybe, a kind of zen koan: serenity and chaos, poured tea and slammed wood, matcha and meow.

Maybe Nebula was saying: don’t just sip serenity—learn to sip the slam, too. Both are offerings. Both are holy.

Maybe the point of the interruption was that you can’t get perfect conditions to prevail. You have to drink your tea while the cat tries to crash into your space. You have to sip the matcha with one hand and shoo the cat with the other.

And maybe that’s the real teaching: the ceremony isn’t ruined by interruptions. The slam is part of the ceremony.

So thanks to Nebula, my spiritual linebacker, my tea ceremony crasher, my furry Zen stick in the ribs. Without you, I might still be asleep, waiting for the perfect pour.

Zhenli,

Scratching at the door of enlightenment

My Cats Ate My Manifestation

So I finally did it.

I’m one of those people who like the idea of manifestation. Who will read books, watch YouTube videos, listen to podcasts, analyze the concept down to its minutest detail, and join groups to chat about it endlessly.

But I will not actually set any manifestation goals. I always feel that I need to know more, to understand more, before I can call on heaven and earth to get my wish.

Finally, though, I got tired of sitting on my duff and made the Decision (capital D, obviously) to call in real, tangible, no-more-BS financial abundance.

And not in the fall asleep listening to subliminals while half-scrolling Instagram kind of way. No. I was serious. I set the timer to go off every hour to remind myself to micro-visualize. I don’t like long visualizations. I recited a few targeted affirmations. And above all, I dropped into the feeling state. I tried to feel rich. Which, for the record, is nearly impossible when unopened, unused supplements are strewn about haphazardly, exuding accusations while four feline dependents stare at you, looking like they’re considering unionizing.

But I did it. I focused. I affirmed. I dared to dream.

And then.

The ants erupted.

Now, we’ve lived in this house for over twelve years. Never had ants before. Not like this. Not the kind that boils out of little nooks and corners, seething and unstoppable the moment a single, microscopic morsel of food hits the floor.

Apparently, my newfound vibration of wealth was also a beacon for every sugar-loving six-legged invader in a five-mile radius.

Still, I persisted. I declared, “I am a magnet for divine wealth.”

That’s when the cats stopped eating.

All four. Simultaneously. As if possessed by some feline groupthink that declared, “Let’s see how she likes manifesting her way through this.”

I opened premium cat cans of various kinds and flavors. Offered them human-grade tuna cans. They turned their little noses up. Even offered them sardine tins meant for humans. Packed in pure water. From Whole Foods. Wild caught. Sustainably farmed. Whatever. Nope, a hard pass.

What’s the big deal? You might ask. So they miss a few meals. If you don’t know about cats, you may not be aware that cats can get hepatic lipidosis (fatty liver disease) if they stop eating for 24 hours. Humans can get fatty liver disease and be fine for years—decades—and be okay, more or less. It’s like a slow-burning candle. But cats? It’s an emergency! It’s a ticking time bomb.

Our cats were on death watch!

Our regular vet was on vacation. Naturally. My husband and I were ringing up vet clinics at 2 a.m. They were either booked solid or, according to a neighbor, totally scammy. But that’s another story for another time. The only place we could go was a clinic that took both urgent care and emergency visits—an hour away with traffic—each way. So my husband and I made the trek. Four times in four days. Picture us: stumbling bleary-eyed, cat carriers in hand.

Bloodwork. Urinalysis. Subcutaneous fluids. Anti-nausea meds. Appetite stimulants. For the cats, obviously, not us—though at this point, both my husband and I could’ve used a sedative.

The bill? Thousands.

The good news is, we have pet insurance. The bad news is, pet insurance works like a rich uncle who promises to pay you back “later” and then ghosts you for a month.

By day five, the cats started eating again. All of them. With feral joy. They transformed overnight from delicate invalids to land sharks, aggressively circling cat bowls like they’d never seen food before.

Meanwhile, although the universe might be limitless, credit cards are not. I had a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Then the dishwasher broke.

Then the printer died.

Then we got hit with identity theft.

And no—before you ask—I have not seen a single extra penny drift my way. Not even a casual Venmo from the universe. Not even a rogue $2 lottery ticket win. Just... ants, vet bills, broken appliances, and a whole lot of testing.

Because, as they say—don’t they?—“the universe tests you when you set a big intention.”

But this? This was less “test” and more “final boss level in a metaphysical video game you didn’t realize you were playing.”

I’m starting to wonder if the Universe got me confused with someone else. Maybe a billionaire in Palo Alto was trying to manifest humility and it bounced off them and landed on me.

Or maybe my cats intercepted the transmission. Maybe they’re the ones manifesting now.

They do look smug.

Anyway.

I still believe in magic. Maybe. Kind of.

No, really, I’ve got to have faith. Maybe all this chaos is the magic. Just very, very badly dressed.

Stay tuned. I’ll keep manifesting. And cleaning up after the cats.

And the ants.

And the universe.

So what have your cats gifted you with lately?

Do you have similar experiences of being tested?

One minute, you’re manifesting like a glittering godling. You’ve got your vision board laminated, your affirmations are vibrating at a solid 528Hz, and you’ve got crystals sunbathing on the windowsill like tiny quartz Kardashians.

You’re lit. You’re aligned. You’re ready.

And then?

The Universe ghosts you.

Yup, the universe. Just like that. Poof. Vanishes. No sign, no synchronicity, not even a courtesy meow.

(Well all right it’s the universe you were expecting that disappears.)

You double check, triple check everything. And you see that you nailed it. You did everything right. Your mantras and affirmations are going on auto-pilot, you’ve scrubbed your chakras, and this past August 8^th (Lions Gate portal, of course) you’d set out your intentions, and drank “moon water.”

Since the day you moved into your house or apartment, you had it feng shuied. Your abundance corner is glittering gold and the floor is so clean your cats could eat off them.

You didn’t stop at that. You made sure—damn sure—that you’d shifted your identity to a new you, having already flushed your old identity down the toilet. You didn’t just go high vibe, you fine-tuned your frequency so that it was perfectly aligned to your desired timeline—hell, you even prepared matching sheets.

And now? Crickets.

It’s like one of those hot situationships that melts like a soap bubble.

You were texting from the astral plane only to watch the response typing bubbles (“…..”) fade away.

Spiritual influencers are telling you to “just surrender.” But you’re left holding a $3,000 quartz water bottle, the one that will structure your water.

I’m not saying the Universe is flaky, but let’s just say that it bears an uncanny resemblance to a cat.

Case in point: Callie (aka Caldecott), has embraced the concept of stranger danger, so much so that every time we have a visitor, he disappears.

And very occasionally, he will decide that he should take a little vacation from visibility. And so he’ll vanish inside our house. No open doors. No windows. No Narnia portals that we know of. We tear apart the closets. Check every drawer.

Just as I’m drafting a missing persons alert for an indoor cat, Callie reappears. Calm. Unbothered. Stretching luxuriously as if to say, Oh? Were you looking for me? How embarrassing for you.

Turns out that Callie was hiding in one of the linen pantries that we checked. But he flattened himself so expertly into two-dimensional reality that we missed him.

Sometimes, the cat hides.

Sometimes, the Universe does too.

The Science (and Sass) of Quantum Uncertainty

Okay, this is the deal about quantum physics. Stick with me while I explain it to you. I have studied the subject seriously. Yes, this means that I have listened to a podcast or two while doing Reformer Pilates, and read a book from cover to half-way through.

So, here’s the lowdown:

In the quantum world, particles can exist in multiple states until observed. Until you peek, that particle is both here and not here. This is known as superposition, and it basically means your reality could be in a cat-hair-covered limbo until the timeline settles.

And this is what you need to know:

Manifestation can feel the same.

You’re doing everything right, but your dream job, relationship, or miracle healing is stuck in energetic Schrödinger’s Box.

You think: Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe I did it wrong. Maybe the algorithm of the Divine hates my gut.

But here’s the thing.

Just because you can’t see the result yet doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It might just be licking itself in another timeline.

Seriously. The thing you want might be right there, just not observable from your current state of consciousness. Like when Nebula, our most dramatic cat, disappears behind our sheer dining room curtains and becomes one with the void — until I accidentally open the drapes and startle her into materializing.

This energetic limbo — the space between wanting and receiving — is what quantum physicists call uncertainty and what I call Monday. (Cue: Sing to the tune of “Monday, Monday.”)

Now, let’s bust the biggest myth right now:

Manifestation is not Amazon Prime.

That’s right. I know this may come as a shock to you, but you don’t just click “add” to your shopping cart, check out, and then expect to receive your soulmate within 24 hours.

Sometimes, the thing you want takes time because:

It’s not ripe yet.

Your nervous system isn’t ready to receive it without freaking out.

You’re unconsciously blocking it because a part of you thinks it’s not safe to get it.

The furball hasn’t fully unknotted in the quantum hairball of possibility.

And sometimes?

The Universe is just…a cat.

It doesn’t come when you call. It doesn’t care that you’ve scripted in silver ink under the full moon. It doesn’t show up on demand, any more than Nebula ever appears when I want her to.

That’s right. The Universe is a cat. A deeply mystical, divinely mischievous, possibly judgmental cat.

It shows up when it wants to.

It stares at you while you sleep, then disappears when you wake.

It gives you gifts on its timeline. (Sometimes dead mice or tailless lizards. Don’t forget to specify exactly what you want.)

It ignores you when you beg, and purrs on your chest only when you’ve stopped trying to control it.

And when it does come? When the manifestation finally curls up beside you, warm and heavy and purring? It feels like the whole world is suddenly right.

It feels just like your cat jumping on your chest at 2 a.m. to dance, to knead, and to sing an aria in your right ear.

It feels absolutely perfect!

Or not.

Final Meow

So if you’ve been ghosted by the cosmos lately, if you feel like your dreams are hiding behind the spiritual equivalent of a couch cushion, take heart.

The manifestation you’re looking for already exists.

It’s just licking itself in another dimension.

Your job isn’t to chase it or prove your worth with increasingly elaborate rituals. Your job is to rest. To stay open. To know, deeply, that the unseen doesn’t mean the undone.

And maybe, just maybe, use your hands—and not just your eyes—to check for warm fur in the spare linen closet.