From Down Here

Tobby has a gift for finding the softest place in any room. A folded blanket, a pile of cushions, a corner of the sofa someone has just left. Within minutes, he is there, stretched out, chin resting on something fluffy, perfectly content.

And from there, he watches.

He watches me cook. He watches my husband looking for his keys. He watches the kids come in and out, phones in hand, doors closing. He watches the whole busy life of our house go past him, and he doesn't complain. He doesn't ask for anything. His eyes simply follow us, slow and soft, as if he is keeping us company from a distance.

Sometimes I wonder what we look like to him. All this rushing. All this doing.

One evening, instead of rushing past him, I lay down beside him on the floor.

I don't know why. I was tired, and he looked so peaceful. So I put my head down on the edge of his blanket and looked at my own home from his level.

It was strange how different everything looked. The table legs. The light from the kitchen. Feet passing by. Voices from the next room. Life was happening all around me, and for once, I wasn't managing any of it. No one needed me in that exact moment. The house didn't fall apart. Dinner could wait five minutes.

Tobby sighed and moved a little closer, the way he does. As if to say: See? This is how it's done.

I lay there longer than I meant to. Just watching. Not fixing, not planning, not checking. Just being there while my life went on, quietly, without needing my permission.

I don't do it often. But on the busiest days, I remember that view from down there. And I let myself stop, even for a moment, and simply watch.

When did you last stop and simply watch your own life, without trying to manage it?

With love, from HerWay (and Tobby)

If this story touched you

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