I am in cat heaven, nurturing the mourning.
Maybe I should start by telling you that I am a dog person. I have a cat, but I just relate to dogs better. I love my cat, even though he is an old, cranky, sick, biting/scratching, arrogant little cuss. We bonded over his poor behavior and now we are stuck with each other. (Only a dog person would be dumb enough to adopt him, I learned belatedly.) I re-named him Enoch, he may be tired—it’s a lot to stand up to, being a healing/clearing angel and all. We call him Nucky. People don’t get it. My husband and gay friend (female) call him Nooky.
So this semi-cat person, finds herself among a myriad of felines.
A dear friend’s significant other died, they were together nine years. My friend is a cat advocate. She owns a non-profit cat foundation that promotes the health, neutering and spaying of feral cats in warm climates. Sometimes the kitties are injured, or too cute, or whatever, and they end up being re-homed or un-homed and well, my friend has numerous cats. Like twelve. It’s hard to get a head count. And I can’t count the legs (one has three) or tails, two have none.
The news of John’s death was devastating, so I flew to Florida as soon as I could. My fear, a cat allergy. (My cat is a low-allergen breed.) My primary goals were to console my friend and survive Catville. When I entered the house, I was surprised. It didn’t smell like pets; there were hardwood floors and leather furniture and even after this terrible event, it was clean. Very clean.
I entered cautiously, thinking about my cat that swipes at your bare feet. No cats. Hmmm. I might survive. Wait, did a black cat just run by? Yes, it was Jaxson, aka Black Jack. I settled in and my time was absorbed by memorial arrangements, organizing, people, family, sadness and phone calls. I felt busy but every morning I would rise early and look at the lounging cats, usually four or five that were catching morning sun on the screened-in porch—I was lucky enough to catch sight of the elusive Flash.
This morning, after stretching, grounding and connecting with Source, I offered myself in service like I do everyday. No one had asked me about messages from the other side or to pray with them, this isn’t an overly spiritual environment. I can tell that some know about my work; and when asked, I mentioned meditation and clearing negative energy, not much about readings or talking to ethereal beings.
Things are comfortable for me. It is pleasant here, but I wonder how does a Lightworker that does what I do work in a situation like this? And that makes me think of all the places in the world where covert Lightworkers are dealing with pressure, resistance, anger or crime. We each use energy to hold Light and to be Light, how do we replenish if we are working in secret? I often tell people that my work is a lifestyle because frequencies are earned by holding them consistently. It’s not like diving to the bottom of a pool or jumping high into the air then coming back to report what you saw/heard/felt. My work is done through dedication and consistency. Morning meditations, constant awareness of thought and surroundings help me hold my frequency.
There are so many people doing their version of Lightwork all over the world. I am thinking about how we all network, and that maybe there are other things that happen when we anchor to the core of Earth. And possibly, that we need to be in certain locations to do this work. At that thought I ground more, connect more, concentrate harder to do what my guides told me, what they always tell me: Be your Pillar of Light.
My mind is on grief, losing a loved one and having to change everything because of the loss. I can see that my friend will be fine, and I tell her that. But how long will it take for her to feel it? Living a life of Lightwork helps one to see the other side, where the dead go and how they help us from there; but we are still in this human experience. We still get attached to the physical form of someone, wanting to be held or lie beside them. I can feel John doing what he can, and the slow slipping of humanness into soul where he will think less of Earthly things and more of how we love each other.
Maybe my service is to witness cats, like the one that lives in the backyard, Pistol Pete. I did feel spiritually significant when I was able to pet John’s cat Reggie. (He hissed after, I have renamed him ‘Nucky’s Cousin’.) I haven’t sneezed once. My throat is not sore; my eyes do not itch. I am not insane with mucus excretion. Three-legged Smoke slept by me. Pixie let me touch her. Stroke-survivor Caboodles showed herself, a rarity. Nosey-no-tailed Toby talked me into feeding him; it was the wrong food, thanks Bob-Cat (nice nickname, right?).
Forty-nine year old John, who worked out and ate healthy, died of heart failure in his sleep. There’s not enough spiritual blood in my body to stave off my fear of losing a loved one. But I am in service to the Divine Light of the I Am Presence. It is my life’s work and if I have to go to Florida to help a friend and her cats, so be it. For the many that do what I do in much harder circumstances, I send up a prayer that you be blessed through Divine channels, thank you and Amen.
The unmentioned cats are: Chopper, John’s black cat. Driveway squatters: Molly, Mr. Whitefoot and Roxy. No one has ever touched Mr. Whitefoot.
With gratitude,
Holly
If you are so inclined, donations can be made to:
Castaway Cats, Inc.
PO Box 291
Panama City, FL 32402
