Bobcat

Good morning beloved reader, and welcome new subscribers!

(Please note I’m sitting outside on our deck as I record this audio narration for you so you may hear some background bird songs.)

Once again gratitude is foremost in my heart — gratitude for you readers, for my privileges, and for the natural world in which we live.

Long-time readers of this Substack, know from reading the book I’ve serialized here, that since 2011, my husband Jamie and I have been living in a decades-old log cabin in the woods of Southern New Hampshire, where we moved after living and working (and saving $$) in New York City for twenty years. If you want to read the whole story, please do check out the book.

In any case, this area where we live is rural, the closest city being Nashua—a 45-minute drive away—which is where I drove to on Monday for an appointment at the dentist for a cleaning. (And as an aside, in another event of synchronicity, Nashua is where one of my younger sisters was accidentally born when my Australian mother and English father moved to this country for 3 years from Australia, when my older sister and I were kids, but that’s another story.)

In my ordinary day on Monday taking care of the mundane by going to the dentist, after about a 15-minute drive, in front of my car, crossing the road, I saw an animal.

It was bigger than a cat, but smaller than an Alsatian dog.

No other cars were on this remote country road, so I slowed to a stop and watched.

The animal paused at the edge of the road and turned to look at me.
I could see it was a bobcat.

Once its head turned towards me, our eyes connected in what felt like a flash of illumination.

This connection lasted maybe 30 seconds, but it was as though time existed outside of the event. Like the connection between our spirits enlivened. It was as though everything outside of this enchanted space between us fell away. Like nothing else existed except for this bobcat and me.

When it turned its head, breaking our gaze, and bounded off into the woods, I felt like a spell had been broken, leaving me breathless and transformed.

A sense of the sacred, on my way to the mundane.

photo taken by Scott Hecker in January 2021, in Temple, NH, where I live

As I am one who loves to contemplate the spiritual perspective of all aspects of life, of course I own a copy of the book, ANIMAL SPEAK: The Spiritual & Magical Powers of Creatures Great and Small by Ted Andrews (Kindle Edition). This is what it says about bobcats:

The bobcat is sometimes called the wild cat. It has a short, bobbed tail from which it gets its name. It also has tufts of hair on its ears and sideburns. …

The bobcat is a solitary animal, and those with it as a totem often find themselves in the same situation. Coming to terms with that—learning to be alone without being lonely, is part of what the bobcat teaches.

When we’re privileged to encounter such wildlife in its natural habitat, it makes me think of the arrogance of our human species in how we believe we’re so entitled to claim this planet earth as only ours. One story I loved hearing from our Buddhist monk friends across the road, was of their consideration to not move into a house that had been given to them, because it was inhabited by mice. They questioned, Who are we to kick out the mice?

Theravadin Buddhist monks take a vow to do no harm—they will not even kill a mosquito.

I adore the fact that our Buddhist monk neighbors take this vow, for one reason, because it makes everyone stop and think, What do I kill unconsciously, without even pausing to think about it?

Another Buddhist lay-friend (i.e. not a monk or nun) says that she focuses on being kind to humans, which is more in-line with my practice as well—I tell all animals in our area, Our home is for humans, and I invite all ants, mice, and any other critters to leave, rather than being killed by ant or mouse traps.

But what a novel perspective: Who are we humans to think that we rule the earth?

In any case, when considering the medicine of the bobcat, I can relate to the love of solitude.

Perhaps I’m partly an introvert as I do recharge my energy from time spent alone, but I identify more as a “Kindrovert,” which is a term coined by

Beth Kempton

in her brilliant book, The Way of the Fearless Writer: (bolding is by me)

…[in] exploring ideas about community, … I noticed that I didn’t identify either as an extrovert or an introvert. I thought about when I am at my most energized and creative, and I realized that it is when I am among a small group of people who, like me, come alive where the outer world meets the inner world—who are both practical and spiritual, challenging and yielding, gentle and strong. …

We kindroverts light up among kindred spirits, buoyed by connecting authentically and nourished by sharing our thoughts with a quiet confidence when the vibe is right.
We ask good questions and really listen to the answers.
We are interested in other people’s ways of life, belief systems, and stories.
We soak up the moments and remember the details.
We often lack confidence, initially, but we can shine with the support of others. A few kind words in our direction can do wonders, and we can step into enormous power in the presence of other kindroverts.
We’d rather make no new friends than make new superficial friends.
We trust deeply and are eminently loyal.

Yep. This resonates. And I love Beth’s encouragement to make up a word if there isn’t one to describe what you want to say.

And this idea of coming alive where the outer world meets the inner world, I intend to explore further and dive in deep. Please do stay tuned.

I’d also love to hear if you, my dear reader, identify as a kindrovert?

And if you’d like to read a further exploration of kindroverts,

Veronika Bond

wrote a gorgeous post called, The Way of the Kindrovert.