I spend more time taking photos of my cat sitting on my meditation cushion than I spend sitting on the cushion myself.

Why is this?

Every day for the past six months or so I have sat sipping coffee, watching Ludwig luxuriate in the soft blueness and wondering why my rump is so resistant to sit where she seems to catnap so naturally.

What is my resistance? It seems the more I think about it, the more distant the cushion becomes. It’s as though the cushion is that six month sabbatical to New Zealand that I have always dreamed about but keeps leaping further into the future of the horizon of time.

Occams Razor would say that the first explanation is the true one: Simply, I am not sitting on my cushion.

I remind myself of patience and take comfort in knowing the perseverance of the cushion. Even with my reluctance it will persevere. As an inanimate object it will always be there, waiting for a rump or even a cat to employ it in its proper use. That is until it crumbles into the dust of time.

Or until I and or my cat crumble into the dust of time.

For now, the fine polish of the moment will have to wait. I eschew the eternity of Blake for the busy keyboard, the whistling radiators and the sun’s steady march up and down my living room walls.