There’s a cry the size of Santa’s belly out there this time of year.
To be honest, that heart-cry never ends; it just lights up with the trees and angels and stardust of this season. We catch glimpses of a sweetness we need, only to see the credits roll and be wind-whipped back to reality and the to-do list longer than a CVS receipt.
And so we cry, quietly. All of us.
But make no mistake; we are heard. A voice stronger and sweeter than our own sings over the sorrow, “Comfort, comfort my people.”
And, beyond and despite ourselves, we are comforted.
If ever a cat were the living equivalent of tea and hugs and All Things Cozy, it would be this little cup of comfort, one Wilbur Rosenberg. Gentle as a turtledove, sweeter than a snickerdoodle, Wilbur’s way is the answer to all our aches and anxieties.
He will launch his entire being upon you, snuggling and nuzzling into your lap or neck or shoulders and forcibly loving you for 80+ hours of meditative purring bliss, if you will let him. And you should.
He will flit like a peace dove around the ragings of Rogue and Rufus, unafraid to just keep loving, just keep going, just keep marveling at all that is still good. And life — Wilbur’s life, your life, my life — is so very good.
His way is love. His paths are peace. He points to something greater than himself, although he himself is infinitely great. Snowed by FIV and bounced about by circumstances and confusions, Wilbur still loves life with the stubborn joy of a child. And, the instant you meet, he loves you even more.
If Wilbur could personally restore us all to invincible joy, he would, but he’s just one wondrous, wonky-eyed cat. Still, remember; he is not alone.
You are not alone. Neither am I.
Be comforted, dear kittens. There are outposts and signposts of comfort and joy in all corners. Wilburries are blooming for you, even now.