I watch the cats. They are torn between the possibility of some time of affection with me and the desire for unrestrained play and interaction with each other. They move back and forth between these two possibilities during this early-morning hour when I'm sitting to read, write, meditate and pray. And they do it so un-selfconsciously, so freely, completely and utterly in the moment.

The time they spend with me seems a symbol of their domestication; they leave this quiet bliss, even if for a few minutes, to return to the wild, engaging the original feline instinct for hunting and chasing. One minute one may be curled beside or on me, purring, squirming, delighting in being petted or in kneading my face or neck, eyes half-closed, the next minute leaping upon his brother, mouth agape, engaging in mock battle, or stalking the other around corners, over furniture, in this updated jungle of my condo.

Now that I think about it, they swing between these extremes even with each other: I observe them sleeping, arms wrapped around each other, then one will be grooming the other, then they will battle about who gets to groom whom, which segues into each trying to force the other to hold still to be groomed, which soon results in a race around the condo, flying over furniture or grappling together on the floor. Then, just as suddenly, it's back to grooming and edging back into a nap. Affection, aggression, play, all in under two minutes.

Are we all this same balance of domestication and wildness? Are we seekers of affection, security and acceptance on one hand, while on the other hand at any moment ready to cut loose and indulge our need for unfettered, random, frenzied aggression? 

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.