Cats Are Japanese (In a Manner of Speaking)

On "ma," silence, and why your cat understands something you don't

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.