Every night, all night, my Siamese cat LingDao sleeps under the covers wrapped in my arms. I hold her as a child would a teddybear—tight, close to the chest. I’m a side sleeper, and when I turn every few hours, she comes along. Together, we make the transition. Together, heart presses heart.
If LingDao had her way, she’d be in my arms every waking hour too. As a kitten, she insisted on it. More precisely, she insisted that I wear her around my neck like a scarf. She’d drape my shoulders for hours, purring in one ear, watching as I typed away on my laptop.
As she grew from kitten to cat, this particular arrangement became too much for my neck (though she still tries to find her way back there, more than ten years later). Now, I pick her up throughout the day. I hold her and talk to her and console her. I let her sit in my lap while meditating and lay on my chest while reading. I stare into her wide, blue, shroom-trippy eyes. She follows me everywhere. She wails when I leave.
More than anything in this world—the best, most ridiculously priced cat food included—LingDao wants warmth, contact, containment. More than anything, anything at all, she longs to feel held, cared for, and safe.
I love that I can give her that. I wish I could give everyone that. I wish I could give that to me.
Yes, yes, yes. I have a partner. I have a loving, caring relationship with him and my parents. But there’s a particular feeling that everything is and will be okay—that someone older and wiser is taking care, keeping watch, figuring it out.
I don’t know that feeling, anymore. I haven’t for as long as I remember.
No matter who you are—no matter how young or old or left or right, no matter how rich or poor or black or white—I know a thing about us. I know a thing that connects.
In our deepest hearts, we want to feel safe. In our deepest hearts, we want to be held. In our deepest hearts, we want to be told and we want to know, “It’s alright, dear. I promise. It’s okay, dear. I’ve got you.”
Without worry or dread. Without troubled thoughts or fear. Just here, held close a while. Just here, heart pressing heart.
There’s a second part to this—one that I’m not sure we all share but like to believe so I’ll say it:
In our deepest hearts, we want others to feel cared for too. We want others to feel seen and safe—even or especially if we don’t feel that ourselves. Even or especially if we long for that feeling but can’t seem to find it.
This second part comes easy for some parents towards children…and some children towards parents…and some people towards others they hold near and dear. If that’s your only entry, well, it’s something. Take it.
But I’d like to believe we feel this for each other as humans. When we get quiet and still. When we touch into what’s real. When we notice each other. Person to person. Heart to heart.
And yet…
Whether or not that second part is true—whether we’re seeking serenity for others or only ourselves—what we actually do often gets in the way. What we actually do often causes the opposite.
There’s pure, heart-sourced longing. And there are ways of going about it.
Big ways. Small ways. Ways that are helpful. Ways that are not. Ways that bring anything but what we’re truly after. Ways that bring anything but feeling safe, easeful, and peaceful.
Sometimes knowingly but often unknowingly, we do all kinds of things that some part of us believes will get us that feeling. That some part of us believes will make us feel seen, heard, cared for, and safe.
Problem is, many of these things don’t work. Many of these things are and do the exact opposite of “taking care.” Many of these things hurt, destroy, and extinguish.
Unskillful habits live here. So does addiction. To alcohol and other drugs. To crap food and too much food. To shopping and scrolling and blaming and complaining. To anger and excuses and distraction. To gossiping and hating and hate commenting and reading hate commenting. To busyness and overwork and external validation and crazy making and confusion. To beliefs and opinions and being right. To ego and identity and acronyms and ism’s. To demarcating the Other. To being the Other. To filling all space. To declaring THIS is the way it is.
The details change. The drive’s the same: See me. Hear me. Save me. LOVE ME.
Except, what we’re doing doesn’t work. Except, what we’re doing—if not always, a whole lot of the time—does the opposite.
To escape this—to stop doing what we’re doing when what we’re doing doesn’t work—requires separation. Meaning, it requires separating how we want to feel from how we’re going about it.
Here’s what I mean (and what works for me), in four steps. Plus, more on that cat.