Life Is a Gift

Well, one of the kittens died.

I know, it was grey and ugly, the product of its homely, drab, tabby-striped, alley-cat, pregnant feral mother that someone dropped off on our property. The morning she gave birth we all looked at one another and said,

Grey is such a drab color, so opposite to the way the Norwegian Artist paints. But even grey, in its own way, is beautiful. Autumnal Reflections by Steve Henderson.

“Great. Four new grey and ugly alley cats that all look like their mother.” And then we found the family a box that we set on the porch where it would be safe, put out food and milk, and guarded the area from the chickens (they’re bullies, you know) while the mother ate.

“Maybe,” I told the Norwegian Artist, “after we feed her for several weeks, she’ll feel safe and warm and wanted.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he responded, and proceeded to coo at one of the kittens. Okay, to be strictly honest he didn’t coo, but he didn’t snarl either. The lifting of his upper right lip could as easily be interpreted as a smile as it could a sneer, but I’ve never known the Norwegian to sneer.

There’s something about motherhood that ennobles animals who are otherwise anything but noble, like this ratty, random cat. Within hours she had commandeered the porch, streaking like a bullet from the box toward any animal that stepped within 10 feet. When Mozart, the Russian Blue patriarch who has benevolently overseen the feline farm for 15 years, padded softly behind the carrier, there was a pronounced thwack as the new mother poofed up, her trebling, trembling tail hitting the ceiling before she hurtled onto the bewildered interloper.

Motherhood — and fatherhood — are beautiful and ennobling things, in the world of humans and in the world of nature itself. Reflection by Steve Henderson

Ten seconds later she was back in the box, licking the grey matters of any dirt they could have picked up in the interval of her absence.

Three of the grey matters were quiet and complacent, the fourth piercingly and unrelentingly strident, which I attributed to its blindly – and I mean this literally – wandering far away from its mother and out of the box, where it yowled and its mother looked concerned, not quite sure of what to do. I kept putting it back, commenting to Tired of Being Youngest, “This one’s going to die if it doesn’t stop wandering away.”

As it happened, it did die, but not because it wandered, but because it just stopped – stopped yowling, stopped striving, by next morning stopped breathing, leading me to wonder if it had been yowling for more reason than just being intrepidly stupid, and if the mother never stirred herself to rescue it because she knew it was better not to.

So small. So innocent. So beautiful even in drab greyness. It lay in my hand, sleeping a deeper, more permanent sleep than its littermates, which it looked just like, but it wasn’t, not anymore.

Tired of Being Youngest wrapped the body in a soft pink cloth, then dug a tiny grave beneath the maple tree, where nobody will inadvertently plant tomatoes. She covered the top with rocks (to discourage the dog), and ended the ceremony by strewing the surface with flowers.

Life is a gloriously mysterious and mystically beautiful gift. Spirit of the Canyon by Steve Henderson, available now as a signed limited edition print.

Yes, it was an ugly, unwanted grey kitten from an uninvited cat, and there are three more that look just like it still in the box. But for a brief moment it was alive, and loud, and outwardly normal – a promise of life enigmatically aborted at the point when it had just begun.

And this promise of life, and then absence of it, awes me – because life is a precious, awesome, mystical and mysterious thing, something I have no power of granting or taking away, but can only mourn, and marvel.

Life is a gift.

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About This Woman Writes

Carolyn Henderson is the marketing manager of Steve Henderson Fine Art. In addition to her This Woman Writes blog, Carolyn writes a regular art column for FineArtNews, an online newsletter for artists and art collectors.
Aside | This entry was posted in Animals, Art, Beauty, blogging, Christian, Culture, Current Events, Daily Life, Encouragement, Family, Growth, Humor, Life, Lifestyle, Motherhood, News, Parenting, Personal, Random, Relationships, religion, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

9 Responses to Life Is a Gift

  1. oldswimmer says:

    I am moved and awed and grateful for this poignant post., Thank you for reflecting agape!

  2. You are most welcome. I am glad that I was able to convey some sense of this agape.

  3. cabinart says:

    Awwww, I just love cats. Lost my sweet girl cat last week – something ate her, I guess. Stuck with just Couch-Wrecker and Loudmouth-the-Hiney-Dragger now. But I love them too. Maybe I should have had children. . .

    Grey is beautiful because it makes the bright colors stand out. In my hair it sort of passes for blond streaks. And it has a million variations. I’d never choose to wear it, but it is useful.

    • Jana — my sympathy on the lost of your sweet kitty. If you lived closer I would have a little present for you.

      Yes, grey does have its own beauty, although I’m vigilant about eliminating it from my hair. I’m waiting for it to take over more so I can have that shocking model grey that’s so popular in Vogue models. Maybe I’ll wind up with that sterling silver that looks so unusual. As you say, there are a million shades of variations of grey. The grubs outside my wall exhibit a goodly number of these variations, and they get cuter every day.

  4. Beautifully written.

  5. As always, your writing is beautiful – funny and poignant at the same time.You make little life into big meaningful life.

    • Thank you, Lillian. You put it very well, because that’s what it is — little life IS big, meaningful life. So often we delude ourselves that it’s the famous, or the rich, or the powerful who make a difference in people’s lives — and in many ways they do, but not a good difference. The difference they make is the fallout on normal people while self-propagating elite acquire more things, more power, more fame, more of whatever it is they’re looking for to fill the emptiness of their souls and their lives.

      But the big differences, the ones that matter, are the daily interactions of human with human — mother with child, husband with wife, friend with friend — and human with God, and these interactions are intrinsically wrapped up in the day to day affairs of regular life.

  6. Pingback: It’s the LIttle Things That Drive You Nuts | Middle Aged Plague by Carolyn Henderson

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