Being in a maze can be maddening, if you’re a mouse.
Being in a maze can be liberating, if you’re a seeker.
Mazee is no mouse.
She’s not entirely sure she’s a cat, either. And frankly, she’s got me half-convinced she’s right.
With her primly pursed mouth and her gossamer halo of hair, Mazee minces through the lobby in dismay. Oh no no, her eyes worry all over. This is all wrong. No. Mais non.
She closes her searching eyes, squeezes them tight, then flings the shades open in hope…but no.
Still, she’s surrounded by cats.
And Mazee…well, she’s an whole ‘nother* species from the beasts besetting her on every side.
It’s not just that our soft-furred, sunset-shaded senior is more beautiful than the other cats (though she is, and she knows). It’s not just that she possesses more decorum and propriety and politesse (though she does, and she knows). It’s not even that she’s Vivaldi and all these other noodleheads are Nickelback (though she is, and they are, and heavens to Murgatroyd, does she know).
It’s simply that Mazee Rosenberg is not a cat.
NOT. A. CAT.
A feminine, friendly fireball wrapped in peach-pink puff, Mazee came by her convictions honestly. She was the longtime only companion of a kindhearted human. This human did a fine job of convincing Mazee that Mazee was the first and last of her kind, the original of her species, anything but common.
Mazee, for her part, is doing a fine job of convincing us of the same. Can anything this sweet, this beautiful, this ethereal-awesome be the same species as…well, anything else?
So, when her dear human became too ill and frail to keep Mazee, Mazee was left with an identity that didn’t suit her new surroundings.
Whereas: Mazee Rosenberg is not a cat.
Therefore be it resolved: Mazee Rosenberg does not belong in a cat sanctuary.
And so our otherworldly seraph strolls the labyrinth.
She’s not after cheese (though a nice Brie would suit her just fine as she endures this indignity). She’s not after an exit, exactly.
She’s after that certain serenity that all searchers find, or are found by, in the end.
Long before mazes were made for mice, they made fine workshops for saints. Without a hint of haste, holy folks, and folks who knew they weren’t yet quite whole, would mindfully make their way through loops and paths, circles and swirls.
Ever inward. Ever onward. Deeper into the mystery. Deeper into the calm.
The labyrinth people** were way ahead of the “mindfulness” trend. Moving their feet, calmly, purposefully, peacefully, would still their minds, center their souls, unravel their knots.
Was it the walking? Was it the guaranteed “success” of reaching the end of the maze?
Is there really an end of the maze?
Perhaps not, at least not this side of the eternal. But there is an end to Mazee’s wandering — which is a good thing, since few monks punctuated their soul-strolls by beating other friars upon the noggins while screaming EEEEEYAAHHHH!!, although Mazee does precisely that to her noodlehead neighbors.
Mazee, all hyperthyroidism and species-superiority and old age and all, has a home.
Seek, stroll, and ye shall find…or, better yet, be found.
*”Whole ‘nother” = precise opposite of “same exact.” Now you know.
**Not to be confused with the Labyrinth people, although they are entirely awesome, and Mazee approves of them 600,000%, and maybe that‘s her species after all?