50 – The Anchor Is Movement

10/17/22

I’ll never forget the day that my cat Lake entered my life. 

We were in the final few days of 2018, and my family and I had gone into rural Kentucky for New Years – 

it was cold and the lake was frozen over
and we were the only overt signs of life.

It was simple and quiet and lovely.

One afternoon, my mom and I decided to go on a walk,
and as we circled the lake,
frosted leaves crunching with each step we took,
a small, black kitten came scurrying out of the forest.

His fur was dull and dirty,
his eyes were wide and playful,
and he immediately took to us like he had been waiting for our arrival.

He followed us for the entirety of our walk,
sometimes pausing to peruse through a pile of garbage,
sometimes running ahead in curiosity
but always making his way back.

When we got to the cabin where we were staying,
no one could agree on what to do with him.

I was all-in. My mom was not. My step-dad was not. My boyfriend at the time was not.

Finally, we arrived at a compromise of sorts. We were supposed to leave the next morning, and I confidently said, “If this kitten is still on our front porch in the morning, I’m bringing him back to Nashville.” This seemed to pacify everyone because they seemed sure that he would be gone. He was a cat, he was surviving just fine, and he would be warmer in the woods than on the porch.

I’ll never forget waking up, running to the front door, and seeing his tiny body curled up on the mat in front of the door. Just waiting.

You see, Lake brought forward a feeling in me that I had only felt a few times before. From the moment he came running towards me and my mom, I couldn’t help knowing that he was for me. It just made sense. At the time, I didn’t have words to describe it to anyone else, but it was as if I recognized him. I’ve felt this way every day since.

I’ve come to recognize these moments more easily in recent years. In fact, I think that life really works like this. 

You’re walking along, taking steps that might seem aimless. Might seem fruitless. Might seem inconsequential. 

And then, without a single way for you to control when or how or why, something that is for you comes running out of the woods. Like it had been waiting for you. 

You have to be willing to walk without the guarantee that anything else will come out of it. That’s the only way to keep going, to persist each day – the walk alone has to be worth it.

Eventually, though, the things that are for you will show up along the way. 

The anchor is that you’re moving – not how far or how fast.
The anchor is movement. 

Lightly,
Leah