Perhaps this Perhaps this is it. Just this. IT being the purpose, the meaning, the point of it all. ALL being life, existence, Dasein, Being-in-the-World. Feeding this cat; cleaning the litter box, trimming her nails. It’s not a lot she asks, except that I rise before my time to fetch breakfast. Six thirty, six fifteen, six.... She subtly hints by stomping about like an elephant, knocking stuff off the table: keys, papers, eyeglasses. Just in case I died in my sleep and have thus forgotten. I don’t always love her; sometimes I don’t even like her— mostly at six in the morning. But for all anyone knows she is a holy soul. In fact, I’m quite convinced of it; and also that this is my mission: to feed, to clean, to trim. And provide cardboard boxes and paper bags to dive in. It’s little enough. Maybe her whole life is little: naps on the radiator, a basket on top of the fridge, a m ad dash through the house at 3 am; staring contests with the dog, a paw i
Meditations from Hillesum Farm in Ontario, Canada