The bar is low.
You might say it’s somewhere in the ballpark of 9″ high.
For reference, this is 6.5 Oreos, 1/8th of a Jimmy Fallon, or the height of an average cat.
(Correction: “Stratosphere” is the height of an average cat in lengths of “ego,” their preferred unit of measurement. Also, “average” is an invalid adjective when one is speaking of cats.)
Accordingly, 9″ is the height of an average cat door.
If Tabby’s Place is the portal to another universe, it’s a realm accessed only by the low and the light: low to the ground, light on their feet. Low enough to rise above, light enough to take oneself unseriously.
It’s a starfield seen only by the shortest shortcakes.
It’s a nebula known only by niblets.
It’s a dance party whose entrance fee is a round of limbo, lined by a Soul Train of cats chanting, “how low can you go?”
Taylor Ham is, by ordinary units of measurement, an average cat. Taylor can fit through the flaps between suite and solarium. Taylor can cruise the ramps without crashing like a Chevrolet through cardboard. Taylor fits in a lap like a muffin in a teacup.
Taylor would like to demonstrate that an anchovy muffin would fit in his maw like the moon in the sky.
But, even muffinless, you fit into Taylor Ham’s day.
Taylor descends to dote on you, dollop you with devotion, and drop all potential deeds of derring-do, just to be with you. Taylor stands tall by going small, shapeshifting like a sausage (also acceptable muffin-building material) until he’s outfitted for the heart in front of him.
Taylor does not need to be elegant for this task.
Taylor’s pancreas is squonky, and his history is hiccuppy. Taylor’s face has never been cupped by an adopter squealing “Thou art my Dream MooshMuffin!”
But Taylor’s calling is clear, because you are here.
Taylor does not need to ham it up. Taylor does not need to be the Access Hollywood cat, the Broadway cat, off doing Big Things and making a Big Impact. Taylor does not need to make the loudest cannonball in the pool.
Taylor does not need to command kingdoms and chariots and flying saucers. Taylor is in complete command of his littleness.
Taylor does not need to prove that he is gigantic in order to know that he is Gift.
Taylor is comfortable fitting in the pocket of the person who is presently present. (Taylor would accept a Hot Pocket in any flavor.)
Taylor wants to convince you that you, too, are exactly the right size.
Taylor wants you to go little and low and dance the limbo.
Taylor knows that you and I and all the humans and senators in this star-cluster get bungled when we believe we are big. 
We are, after all, here to do important things, are we not? We are here to SAVE LIVES. We are here to LOVE LARGE. We are here to do nothing short of changing the world, building a community of love, dreaming BIG, hustling HARD.
And so we become hard, and high, and mighty, and lost.
We tuck our time under our lapels, worried it will be wasted. We leave little tasks to littler people, bustling off to make waves. We make fools of ourselves making much of ourselves, when all along we could just be ourselves, together.
We think we need to become pole vaulters. In truth, we can crawl. We can wiggle like weary worms. We can be stubby-legged cats.
Only the lowly can find “sanctuary.”
This is a case of limbo where no one is left suspended in midair.
This is our chance to change the world in 9″ increments.
How do you change the world? If you’re Taylor Ham, you cast aside thoughts of glory and even gravy for the priority of presence.
You throw your entire 9″ self into saving the small patch of world you’re given — typically a human trying to hide her wobbliness (which works on other humans, but never cats).
How do you change the world? You scoop the litter box. You hug the cat or the cousin who needs you in this hour. You hold the door for the old man behind you. You tell your needy neighbor that her crocuses are a revelation. You scoop the litter box again. You dispense the mustard-seed moments and the muffins and the tendernesses that fit in teacups.
And you get to dance among the stars.
Here’s a confession, kittens. As I look around our realm, it’s not just the cats who inspire me, calling me to higher heights by way of lovely lows. 
It’s my coworkers, clambering over each other to serve each other and the cats.
It’s our volunteers, volts of energy doing valiant deeds that look like latrine duty.
It’s the most brilliant, elegant, eminent human beings I have known, outdoing each other in taking on the role of a servant, doing little things that need doing, because that’s what love does.
They do not need to be “great” to be glorious.
They do not need to earn their way into this little slice of heaven.
They’re wondrous world-changers whose names the world will never shout.
Leave the shouting to the bleating, bloated braggarts who think that “big” means brash and bronzed.
Leave the medals to the brittle strutters who would fry each other to be “first.”
Leave me here, under the stars, under the limbo bar, under the 9″ cat door, with the “least of these.”
The last shall be first, and the first shall be last, and a little Taylor Ham shall lead them all.