Letting Love All the Way In

Tippy sleeps on my face.

Not beside me.

Not politely curled at the foot of the bed like some considerate little woodland creature.

On. My. Face.

There is loud purring. There is kneading. There is an entire cat body attempting to get as physically close to my head as the laws of nature will allow.

And every now and then, there is a cat butt planted firmly on my left cheek.

This is not, in case you were wondering, my preferred sleeping position.

For a long time, it frustrated me.

What the hell, Tippy? Leave me alone. I need to sleep.

I would move him. He would come back.

I would roll over. He would reposition.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, Tippy decided that my face was prime real estate.

But lately, I have been learning about stillness.

Not simply slowing down, but allowing myself enough quiet inside to notice what is underneath my first reaction. To feel something without immediately needing to fix it, move it, explain it, or make it go away.

And one night, underneath the irritation, I found something else.

I found Tippy's story.

This is the feral cat who wouldn't let me touch him for five years.

The cat who wouldn't come inside the house for seven.

The cat who sat at a distance.

Who watched.

Who waited.

Who needed to decide for himself whether I could be trusted.

For years, I loved him without asking him to love me back in the way I wanted.

I fed him. Talked to him. Cared for him. Let him have his distance.

And little by little, Tippy learned something.

Love is safe.

He learned that he could come closer.

That a hand reaching toward him wasn't something he needed to fear.

That home could mean shelter rather than confinement.

That being loved didn't require him to surrender who he was.

And eventually, he learned not only how to receive love.

He learned how to give it.

Which brings us back to the cat butt on my cheek.

Because suddenly I understood what I was experiencing differently.

The cat who once needed several feet between us now apparently considers several millimeters excessive.

The boy who wouldn't let me touch him now wants his entire body pressed against mine.

The cat who spent years watching me from a safe distance sleeps with his face beside mine, purring so loudly I am fairly certain the mattress vibrates.

He feels safe.

With me.

And all of this love I spent years offering him is coming back.

I had just been too irritated to recognize it.

What Tippy Is Teaching Me

For much of my life, I have thought about love as something we give.

We love our families. Our animals. Our friends. The land. The garden. The world.

We care for things.

Protect things.

Feed things.

Tend things.

Love, love, love.

But I am beginning to understand that giving love is only half of the relationship.

We also have to learn how to receive it.

And receiving may be harder than it sounds.

Because love doesn't always arrive in the form we expect.

Sometimes it is beautiful and obvious.

Sometimes it is sunshine on your face.

Rain on the garden.

A friend calling at exactly the right moment.

A dog leaning against your leg.

And sometimes love arrives at two o'clock in the morning, purring loudly and putting its butt on your face.

The question becomes:

Can I recognize love even when it doesn't arrive the way I would have chosen?

Tippy spent years learning to receive the love I was offering him.

And now, perhaps, he is teaching me the very same thing.

To stop resisting.

To soften.

To notice.

To let love come closer.

All the way closer.

Apparently, ridiculously closer.

I spent years teaching Tippy that love was safe.

I never imagined that one day he would teach me how to receive it.

You May Be Wondering…

What does it actually mean to receive love?

I don't think receiving love means we have to accept every behavior, ignore our own needs, or allow anyone—human or feline—to trample our boundaries.

Sometimes a cat really does need to be relocated off your airway.

Receiving love is something quieter.

It is allowing ourselves to notice the affection, care, beauty, kindness, companionship, and connection that are already moving toward us.

It is letting a compliment land instead of immediately brushing it away.

It is allowing someone to help us.

It is sitting long enough to feel the sun warming our skin.

It is noticing the animal beside us and understanding that their presence is not ordinary simply because it happens every day.

Perhaps gratitude is part of this.

Perhaps gratitude is one of the ways we learn to receive the love that has been surrounding us all along.

The more I slow down, the more I see it.

Love has been everywhere.

I have spent much of my life reaching outward to offer it.

Now I am learning to open my hands and let some of it come back.

And tonight, when Tippy climbs into bed, turns three circles, cranks the purring up to industrial strength, and presses himself against my face, I will probably smile.

I may still move his butt.

But I will know what he is telling me.

I trust you.

I am safe here.

I love you too.

And this time, I am receiving it.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.