On this in-progress property I call home, a posse of four feral cats hang out at the top of the chicken coop. One chills out in the shed. The initial four were part of the buyers’ contract; we got an unsafe electric stove, an as-is fixer-upper house and anything that moved in the backyard. The movers were a slew of unfixed cats that lived in sheds and wood piles. At first I ignored them as they seemed to coexist with my cats fine and they knew the lay of the sheds and various hideouts better than me. But soon it became apparent if I wanted to keep the population at 4, I would have to trap them and fix them, otherwise we would become a kitten farm
After fixing them they begin conjugating at the top of the chicken coop and I started feeding them. Maybe it was a consolation: I trap you, drive you in a car and they cut you open. The least I can do is leave you kibble. At first the ferals were pretty skittish. I don’t blame them — who wants to befriend the trapper? But soon, the ring leader I call Raingers started flirting with me, matted tail in the air parading around, as I filled his food bowl. And soon he began to let me pet him. Three years later, the ferals are not come-and-sit-in-your-lap kind of cats but they certainly line up at feeding time for petting.
In this new year, I have been thinking about befriending my own feral tendencies, those attributes that are impulsive and hold me back as well as those that are wildly creative and serving. The feral part I often notice is my quick-to-action tendency. The part of me that looks at something that I don’t understand and skitters off instead of staying long enough to get a feel for it. Or the part that feels threatened and reacts with a hiss or even a scratch. Or the playful part that bats around a paintbrush with wild abandon.
How do we recognize our fearful feral parts? We might feel uncomfortable in an interaction and feel the impulse to move away or react defensively, claws up. And if we take either of those actions, how do we feel about it later?
Can we take a moment to interrupt our impulsive self for just a second, instead of moving directly into the reactive state, just standing still. Impulse does not necessarily come from a state of guidance. Impulse is quick and usually moves directly to action. When the ferals are scared they climb the fence and run away or if trapped in a trap (sorry guys), they hiss and threaten with their claws. This is impulsive. In the same way, if we are feeling cornered in the grocery store by someone who doesn’t feel right, we take out our claws or get out. It is impulsive and has potential to keep us safe.
What I notice is when the ferals are feeling fearful, there is nothing I can do to tame it or change it. They are not cats who feel fear, they are fear. The sweet, kind Raingers can turn into the fast running or his claws up when feeling reactive. And when we are in danger — the car is moving fast, jumping out of the way or running is important for safety. But is that response necessary when someone doesn’t email us back or may have a tone that doesn’t feel quite right?
It is easy to want to dismiss parts of ourselves or the actions we take and later judge them as something inside us that is flawed. But maybe as I see these lovely cats, fierce and vulnerable, maybe I can summon gentleness in approaching those parts of myself. Rather than judging it, maybe find ways to notice my reactions and ask for the teaching in those reactions.
The characteristic of the ferals that feels important to stay in touch with is that part of ourselves that can endure, adapt and is not self-conscious about matty-hair. They find places to sleep in 10-degree nights, and find cars to get under when the monsoons bless the neighborhood. They are able to survive on whatever is around and learn which dog chases and what dog doesn’t care. This is the part of them that senses and feels what is happening and responds from a place of a cool cat. And as the sun sets and they wait for their nightly feeding, they lick themselves, hang out and just stay connected to their essence of catness.
So what parts of our feral selves that we meet might we want to tame? And what parts might we want to leave unattended, to range and rummage through all sorts of creative weather?