The Difference Between the Cat and Me

Before going to sit in zazen, as I do every evening, I ask those around me and invite each of them to accompany me.
Like every night, I go and sit alone.

For the past few days, however, I’ve been joined by the cat.

He enters through the half-open mosquito net (which he forces me to open slightly or risk tearing it with a swipe of his sharp claw…).

He inhales the incense smoke directly from the stick (!), takes a brief look in the box containing matches, candles, and other odds and ends…then lies down beside me.

For several long minutes…

He seems more motionless than I am, since, while I steal a few furtive glances at him, he remains motionless, at most his breathing can be observed at his side.
When we hear the sound of the neighbor’s chickens flapping their wings, he leaps off and leaves me alone in the cabin.

While, as I picked up the pencil to recount this episode to later fantasized listeners, I had in mind the idea of emphasizing that the difference between the cat and me is that when I hear the neighbor’s chickens, I don’t pounce, arguing my superiority in freedom over my instincts (which is silly anyway, since jumping on a chicken to sink my fangs into its throat isn’t one of them), I realize that the cat is actually superior to me in its adherence to the undulations of the curve of moments.

Moreover, as I pick up the pencil to write these few words, and give in to my impulses, am I really different from it?
As I wonder, the cat enters the shed again. I don’t really know if it has feasted or if it’s coming back empty-handed…

Once again, here it is, lying beside me in its most authentic practice.
The difference between me and the cat is that he doesn’t ask himself all these questions.
In that respect, isn’t he, at least, my master here?

©FJ August 2025
Recueils / Participation/