Take it from Lucy: today’s a good day to ride the ecliptic.
It’s not like you have much choice. Which means you have one choice.
We are not always willing riders. You can have the plushest stroller on the continent, pushed by the sugar-plum fairy through fields of honeysuckle, and the “wrong” cat will still howl and rage.
But sometimes the “right” cat is stuck on the “wrong” ride. Sometimes the earth’s orbit feels like the wrong ride.
As I type these words, missiles fall on Kyiv. A beloved friend faces double bypass surgery. Honey loses weight. Mika misfires and miffs the entire Lobby. Good people talk past each other. We all forget we belong to each other.
We want off. We want a refund. We want to go home.
But we are home. Which means we have one choice.
We can ride the ecliptic wherever it takes us.
Lucy, moonfaced and silver as a starship, would appear to be a victim of others’ choices. Faceless captains had commanded her fate, from street to shelter to searing skin disease. Her neck burned like a supernova, and she tore at herself. Every scratch was a question, every slash a comma in the sentence that would not end.
Pain is the ride with no ticket-holders, yet every seat is full.
When she touched down at Tabby’s Place, Lucy touched every heart. Even with hidden jalapenos under her skin, our grey rider was as sweet as pudding. She had traveled so far across cratered dunes, and all she wanted was a meadow.
Peace and healing are our superpowers at Tabby’s Place — those, and the shameless performance of space operas for a captive feline audience. (I can neither confirm nor deny that Denali is treated to extended Meat Loaf karaoke every Wednesday.)
So we set to work assuring Lucy that her ship had landed on a gentle planet, where pain is overcome and all itching shall cease.
But itching endures as long as we ride this earth.
Lucy, although considerably more comfortable now, will always travel with a duffel bag of medications. Her passport is stamped “Special Needs,” and her journey unfolds accordingly. She is eternally astonished by other cats, awe elbowing anxiety as she seeks to understand mysteries like Shaggy and Juel.
She is home and held, but the ride jostles.
The softest cat the color of dusk will never know the easy life of full sun.
But Lucy has chosen wisely.
Unable to disembark, Lucy leaves despair at the baggage claim. This ride will only allow one carry-on, and wise grey cats save that space for something sweeter than, well, carrying on.
They choose curiosity.
They choose contentment.
They choose to run the circle that soars above circumstances.
They choose to ride the ecliptic.
In astronomical terms, the ecliptic is the grand circle on the celestial sphere, representing the sun’s apparent journey. “Apparent” is essential here — when it comes to sun and mercy, there’s always more than we can glimpse. But against a backdrop of stars, the great light rides across the sky, choosing the one route where it knows it will meet the moon.
That’s when the eclipses, those wry sky-winks, happen.
That’s when the whole angry world, locked on looking down, gazes up and gasps.
That’s when, for just a moment, we remember we’re home, which means we always have a choice.
Lucy can’t choose to be young or itchless, a house cat or a Real Housewife (although she has repeatedly written Bravo to bring the series to Ringoes). But on this bumpy, breathtaking ride, she chooses to be full.
She chooses to melt into cashmere for every soft hand, making every meeting a soft landing.
She chooses to cheer for every meal, every volunteer, every shy star over the solarium.
She is grey gratitude, a glimpse of grace on sooty feet.
She is the girl who would call you outside to count fireflies and meteors.
She is the star who would call you at 3:47pm on a Thursday just to say, “I’m grateful you’re in my life. Just wanted to say that.”
She is the girl who glimpses everything ghastly and says, “an adventure! An odyssey! What a story we’ll have to tell!”
She is the moon who has been eclipsed by agony, yet rises again to reflect the mercy that still shines.
There is so much mercy.
And if tomorrow, the sun turns to seaweed and Lucy’s neck wound roars like the Hulk, ripping holes in the velvet sky of her skin, she will choose to ride on.
The choice is, and isn’t, ours.
But we belong to each other, and to Lucy, against a backdrop of stars.
Some of the best days of our lives haven’t happened yet – you have to keep going. Lucy, so glad you landed at Tabby’s Place. We will all keep going together.