You can find bushels of of advice on growing wise.
But there is really only one way to be Sage.
I do not mean the way she squirms, though there is wisdom in the squirming.
A wiggle is nothing but a shimmy with a sense of urgency. If you have been gifted with legs, lungs, and a beating heart, you are duty-bound to dance.
Sage takes this responsibility seriously.
She can do this because she does not take herself seriously.
It is impossible to boogie and think of yourself as Terribly Important at the same time, so Sage makes the wiser choice. She rolls like a breadstick in a bounce house. She cuddles like a blanket filled with butterflies.
She cannot keep still, and she will not apologize.
She will also not apologize for being an “advanced needs cat.” She knows that this term describes everyone from Smudge to Socrates. So what if Sage has feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV)? Well, some of Sage’s favorite people have social anxiety, or theatrical cowlicks, or sensitive skin, or a total refusal to use the litter box. The needs are different, but the neediness is our family resemblance.
This is easy to forget if you are wise … but not if you are Sage.
She will also not apologize for being “hopeless.” Hopeless is just the syllabus for getting saved.
It is Tabby’s Place’s stated mission to rescue “cats from hopeless situations.” It is Sage’s personal mission to return the favor. That is why she sprinkles the full canister of love on you, the first time she meets you. That is why she stares at you until you feel warm inside. That is why she can’t stand still.
Sage will definitely not apologize for that.
Let the stoics stand still to have their portraits painted. Sage would rather somersault in your arms, like a purring dolphin whose ocean is everywhere.
She is the rhythm of life, pressing her cheek to your cheek until you feel the beat. She would rather be an acrobat than Aristotle. She will make you giggle and juggle and wiggle back into that happy place that will always welcome you back, no matter how long you’ve been gone. It is not far from any of us, but you can only get there one way.
Sage knows the way.
When life gets tight, like those leopard leggings you should not have put in the dryer, squirming is more than mere fun. Squirming is wisdom. Squirming is survival.
Squirming is staying alive when “conventional wisdom” says to lay down and give up. The weary world would not wager much hope on a stray brown tabby infected with FIV. That is because they have so little hope to spend. They would have more if they took themselves less seriously.
But not everyone is Sage.
Not yet, anyway. Sage is working on that. Sage is working on making this whole shy world dance.
And she is starting where the sages always do: with the ones the world does not call “wise.”
We probably don’t want to know the names the world would give to Chester. We hear the sharp gasps when someone sees him for the first time.
Chester is enrobed in bald patches as pebbled as cobblestone. A rare autoimmune disease, exfoliative dermatitis, leaves him leathery and bare. Most casting directors would assign him the role of “monster.” Most hands would recoil, wary of touching a cat whose needs are so naked.
But, just beneath the surface, Chester is as tender and downy as a plush teddy bear.
Given the chance, he will rub your legs with all the softness of his soul. He wants to be pet and sung to as though he is your sunshine. He wants you to admire him as utterly adorable. He wants to snuzzle your shins, lean into your lap, and be like every other cat.
Sage sees no reason Chester shouldn’t have what he wants.
After all, he’s just another advanced needs cat. Like Sage. Like you. Like me.
Where solemn hands might flinch, Sage shimmies right in. She does not merely cohabit with Chester. She does not graze him in passing, a half-hearted touch that could have been a coincidence.
She leaves no question that her love is open-eyed and entire.
She leans in. She kisses his head and keeps kissing. She rubs her face all over his face, perfection and imperfection blurring in a cloud of hair, no-hair, and purrs that forget the difference.
She blesses his bald places with complete acceptance.
For once, she doesn’t squirm.
If you congratulate Sage for all of this, she will not understand. (She will accept your congratulatory salmon nuggets nevertheless.)
What’s the big deal? Chester is like every other cat. Chester is like the President of Harvard, and the street-sweepers of Kolkata, and your Great Aunt Lurlene, and the child who just gave a seagull the last of his crackers and cheese.
Chester is an “advanced needs cat” like the rest of us.
How can we possibly keep still in his presence?
Kisses and dancing are the only appropriate response.
This may confuse the wise, but not the Sage.