‘When you feel safe at home you can go to any other place on earth and never forget where you really belong, nor be separated from the love that will protect the most important part of you wherever you are and whatever happens to you.’
(Adrian Plass)
Recently I took on two rescue cats. I wasn’t going to do this. Not yet, anyway. I’d only recently lost my beautiful Chloe cat and I still miss her, and her sweet nature around the place. However, Faith and Fergus had a bit of a rough start to their lives. They deserved a better life and for their sake, if not my own, it seemed only right to bring them into my house and give them a home.
It isn’t easy. They’re easily scared and will run away if you approach them from the wrong angle. On the first few days, the wrong angle seemed to be defined as ‘don’t come near us or we will run off.’ Equally, they didn’t come to be fussed over or try and get anywhere near me in the way that previous cats have done. Instead, they took up residence behind the sofa in a way that was reminiscent of how I’ve watched Dr Who, or Six Nations matches or World Cup Cricket matches or the Ashes. Or frankly, any sporting occasion when England feature.
In fact these cats hid anywhere they could. My friend Tom told me not to measure success in terms of days but weeks and maybe even months. I listened and determined to be patient.
And then at the weekend, Faith escaped out of the patio door and ran down the garden before I could do much about it. My heart sank and continued to sink as the hours went by. I found her but in a place I could hardly reach her, let alone persuade her out. My only hope was that she would find her own way home. I held onto that, refusing to think of the alternative.
Twelve hours later, a special cat trap borrowed and set up and I was still no closer to retrieving her. Fergus meanwhile, was explaining why He Was Stressed And Needed More Biscuits to Treat Himself With. I’d given in to him and had put biscuits out. As I did so, I saw in the darkness outside the door, two bright green eyes staring back at me. Hardly daring even to breathe, I ushered a protesting Fergus (But They’re My Biscuits And I Have An Important Meeting With Them) out of the dining room and opened the patio door. Faith ran away and was nowhere to be seen. And then she appeared again, on top of my shed. As I sat and watched, hardly daring to breathe, she dropped down and walked nonchalantly into the house as if nothing was wrong. And made for the biscuit dish.
Somehow, after less than a fortnight, Faith seems to understand that Home is where the Biscuits are. There’s a long way to go for both of them, but this morning, I found them both sleeping on the landing – a very open place where there’s nowhere to run and hide. I’m taking it as a sign that they’re beginning to feel this might be a safe place. Home hasn’t always been safe for them. Home isn’t always safe for us. Home isn’t always a physical place but it is the place where we feel safe to be ourselves.
When we leave the place where we feel safe, it can leave us feeling very scared and vulnerable. And yet, when we know where we come from, either literally or figuratively, and – more importantly – know we can go back there and be safe with those we love, it can make a sad or frightening experience appear less overwhelming. Belonging matters. Isolation and loneliness can make the business of living unbearable.
Home is where the biscuits are. Where you can sit on the windowsill and watch the world go by without being threatened by it. Where you can chase each other round and round and up and down the stairs without being shouted at.
But home needs to be somewhere you know where you belong, to know you can return there and be accepted you just as you are, to be welcomed and loved. And forgiven. However long you’ve been away.
Tractorgirl66 