It was Matisse’s first birthday this weekend. He’s warmed up a bit more in recent weeks. No longer just stays in his corner of the living room. His domain has expanded to the sofa, the bed (which I now have to cordon off when I’m not sleeping so he doesn’t just stay there all day) and, after a couple baths, he’s even started wandering into the bathroom of own volition. On Saturday I heard him bark for the first time, at a couple men who were walking directly toward my window on their way to a neighbor’s unit. My home is becoming his home. Our home.
The way he’s inhabiting the space – it makes me think of the way I’m learning the new novel. There are still areas I’ve only glimpsed in passing, on my way to more familiar resting places. Sometimes strange noises come out of those undiscovered rooms. Sometimes it’s only when everything else is calm and quiet that we can approach them.
Calm and quiet. Stillness, too. Matisse won’t eat unless I’m on the sofa reading, or at my desk typing. I think he’s trying to tell me something. I think I’ll go draw the blinds now, and turn on a lamp, and make some tea. And sit and write some more.