I have made a considerable mistake this year, one that will inevitably leave me feeling much better by year’s end, and very likely frustrated until then.

I have done that stupid thing I do in regularity wherein I call down a Lesson from the Universe onto my head. When I made this declaration at the top of the year, it felt foolproof. The shenanigans began immediately and I feel begrudgingly certain I heard the tinkling of the Universe laughing at me in utter disbelief at my calculated misstep. And so here I am, gritting my teeth and reminding myself I asked for this in a year I have declared, “The Great Pause.”

It does not mean to quit my responsibilities, but rather to give space to make my life sustainable. A few examples, that I would Pause

• before eating.
• before saying “yes” or “no.”
• before a song.
• before a show. And after.
• before bed.
• before getting out of bed.
• mid activity when another task threatens to interrupt.
• before beginning a new task, and after it is complete.
• to hear what someone is saying.
• for water.
• on beautiful scenery.

It is to say, “Let me think about that,” or “I will consider it.” It is to exercise patience and restraint, but not at the expense of Joy or enthusiasm.

Its origins are simple. Early last December I went under the knife for a surgery that would take 6-12 weeks to recover. I was unable, and in fact commanded not to, lift more than 5 pounds for 6 weeks. I could not run. I could not do my regular yoga practice, and to my surprise, I could not even sit up for long stretches of time. I could not do basic chores or tasks. But, I could walk, and I did so constantly. I could also gently stretch, read, write, listen to music, and mosey about the house and our small patch of woods in small slow strides at a meditative pace. That’s to say, I could think. That’s to say I could finally think. For the past year and several months, I had a fog so thick across my skull that I could barely complete a simple task without succumbing to mental and physical exhaustion from the effort. I pressed on. I completed my work. I piled on more work. I told myself I am just being lazy. Maybe I was depressed. Maybe it was perimenopause. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe it was sugar, or not enough yoga, or not enough sleep, or not enough of whatever due to a late afternoon symptom the algorithm was choosing for me. After surgery, and it was not right away, the fog lifted. I would like to credit the mishmash of an oversized fibroid-riddled uterus being removed as the culprit, but it wasn’t that simple. Because as I traversed the long stretch of December, not only did I watch as my incisions slowly mended themselves, but the stillness gave a full platform to watch my brain do the same. I felt calmer, able to navigate my own thoughts– happy. The surgery was a necessity for a physically and emotionally painful part of my life now over. The recovery was a necessity for a mentally and emotionally painful part of my recent life: I was burnt out, and it wasn’t over yet.

On New Year’s Day, my favorite holiday of the year, I created the above curriculum, prescribing the troublesome areas I thought might relieve the strain on my life. It would not be more bubble baths and chocolate. For someone who is conditioned to overcommit and overachieve, undoing the damage of burnout isn’t solved by piling on more “You should just”s; rather, it requires unwinding, restraint, and this unfathomable word “No” that I am completely convinced will lose me all of my work, friends, and self respect. It requires building a small emotional moat around me filled with time, quiet, space, and– with a little luck– boredom. It also requires thinking clearly about my priorities and commitments, and deciding which ones are important to me– writing, creativity– and guarding them as fiercely for myself as I would for someone else. That’s to say, it is to treat myself as kindly as I treat others, rather than giving myself the scraps. In this way, I am putting on my oxygen mask first so that I can assist others with theirs without passing out or… well, burning out.

Simple, right? So damn simple. And then walks in the Fox. Or maybe the Cat.

In the last decade, I’ve adopted an animal at the top of the year, usually New Year’s Day. It’s an animal that is obvious and reveals itself to me plainly, and often in person. For instance, the first year I began this, a kettle of vultures kept finding its way into my Nashville yard. Over and over again I’d drive home from work, and there they would be– unhurried, somber, and occupied with the task at hand. Soon, they began following me around the city– to my boss’s house where I was a nanny, outside restaurants. Then, they began following me on tour, across state lines and back again. Their presence, or maybe my presence of mind, made them unavoidable. So, I adopted them. I was going through a divorce at the time, figuring out the beginning of my life with my new-at-the-time Someone, living in a straddled ambiguous state of deterioration and rebuilding. The vultures became my visualization of a clean up crew, a necessary presence of death in the midst of life, and even kind of just a cute thing to watch. They have acidic, sturdy stomachs and a purpose to push forward in the darkest of places. Quite a mascot. I found their existence a metaphor and a coping mechanism, and I held tight to my love of them through the duration of my transition, all the way to a year later when I was selling everything I owned and moving into a tiny camper with my dog, my Someone, and the open road for years uncertain to come.

From there, Coyote took over, a mischievous creature of adventure, creation, and the unexpected. This trickster kept itself as my animal companion for a couple of years, until others came along. It was as if once I learned the lesson, a new lesson waited, and a guide to teach it to me. I’ve become more regimented in my predictions and seeking, making January 1st an arbitrary turnover for “my” new animal. Last year, the Carolina Wren quite literally was banging on my front door, tapping the glass to get inside on New Year’s Day. It was an animal that taught me about survival, using my voice, and nesting closer to people. For the circumstances of waning health, a too-full schedule, and an authoritarian government implementing itself in my wild and free country, Wren was a great teacher and companion. Wren also wore me out.

When I woke up New Year’s Day, I’d already begun The Great Pause. And I was certain I already knew my animal, too. I glazed my eyes across the grey squirrel. I missed the Great Horned Owl my Someone saw on our staggered walks down the path. I averted my gaze from the crows overhead. Because I was looking for Fox. I’d already picked the perfect journal cover, fit with an illustration of a fox, and was sure that after a month of rest that what I really needed was some elusive, isolated movements in faraway woods, some cunning planning to avoid the overwrought mess I’d made the year before, and also a sly way of slipping out of obligations without anyone feeling offended.

I saw tiny footprints in the snow of our driveway.

Fox, I thought, but they were too small, too meandering. I knew they belonged to a cat. I’ve seen a little grey one wandering about the property for well over two years. But I didn’t want Cat to be my animal. I wanted Fox. I wouldn’t even know what to do with Cat. I continued walking, at least a three mile trek out and back, looking for signs of Fox, and found none. I went to my studio and bound my journal with Fox on it, without confirmation, but consoled myself that by declaring The Great Pause, it would make sense that my animal hadn’t appeared right away. The second day, I tried again, this time walking with my Someone.

“Look at those!” I pointed to the snow, “Fox tracks.”

My Someone agreed, but I saw his skepticism, and I felt dishonest, so I followed up with a mutter, “…or maybe they are a cat?” But we were well into the woods by then, I coaxed. Why would a cat be out this far? On our way back again, I found a small borough. “Fox,” I said, matter-of-fact. But it was clearly Chipmunk.

When we returned, annoyed and determined, I called it. I began writing, and had just laid my pen down to declare the Year of the Fox when a black mass appeared less than a foot from my studio window I was leaning against to write. I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat, and stared eye to gleaming green eye with a black cat. I’d never seen it before (and not since), but it paused, took its smug time looking back, flicked its tail, and meandered down my driveway.

So, The Great Pause. No losing my cool. No rushing the process. No rash decisions. No hammering a Fox into a Cat shaped frame. It is the Year of the Cat. I checked my woo-woo animal oracle cards, consulted the internet, and assessed my own bias of the creature. What returned to me was this– that cats are known to walk between two worlds. They are guardians of energy, protectors of spirit, independent and intuitive. And, annoyingly, they take great care of themselves. Not in the elusive out-of-sight way of Fox. Cat blatantly takes care of herself no matter who is watching, and insists upon her needs to the eye roll of others. She knows what I didn’t know. That to honor personal well being and treat self with respect, one gives themselves the luxury of time. Cat never doesn’t have time to take care of herself. And she gives no shits if anyone judges her for it.

The Great Paws.

Naturally, I fought it. My second mistake was telling my Someone. So now when he sees a cat, he is quick to point it out, to remind me of my oath of caring for myself. He pointed at one peaking from behind a friend’s woodpile, just as I was about to offer up time that I did not have. He found one walking across the driveway as I was about to relinquish my time for writing to do a sporadic clean of the house.

One particular evening, we were having dinner with friends to talk about a new project. We’d just gotten home from tour, had already delayed the dinner twice, and barely squeezed in the time again. We were overworked, and it was only February. The project was exciting, and our friend’s enthusiasm was contagious. Our role would be something beyond our comfort zone– not a problem– but also potentially out of our technical ability. But still the conversation rolled forward. Internally, though I wanted more than anything to say “Yes,” my brain was screaming “No.” Not because I didn’t love the idea, but because I could sense that this commitment would mean that I would sacrifice time from some writing I was, until then, fiercely protecting. My Someone seemed to hold no reservations, and I suddenly felt less trusting of my intuition. I internally conferred, telling the wildly flailing “NO” voice to quit being so hysterical, when at once our friend’s cat charged toward me and leapt into my lap. Perhaps my friend would be less than happy to know that his cat created a small mutiny of his wishes, but I had my answer.

My Someone and I took several days to think it over, check the calendar, make it work. When we leaned into “just say yes,” I thought of the cat. I knew this was a big send of a sign, and to ignore it would be to cut myself off from the magic of Listening. This was a test.

In the end, we made a smaller commitment, one agreeable for us all, and one I felt confident that Cat could not only comply with, but would appreciate. We now go forth on this project with joy, not begrudging, with the luxury of time.

I was getting used to this. I was figuring out how to be Cat.

And then Fox showed up.

My friend Bryan is an excellent source for all things spiritual. He will wander in the depths of woo-woo and speculate about the appearance of a hawk on a branch with me for miles of time, and I am deeply indebted to him as someone who validates my speculation of Magic in the ordinary. So when I told him about my Fox/Cat misdirection at the top of the year, he became suspicious.

“But Fox,” he started, and I thought I know, I know, I know.

Fox is a trickster. Same at Coyote, he is elusive and will misdirect for the sake of seeing what creative muck can come of it. I tried to assure Bryan that– well, yes, we’re on the same page. But really, truly, the misdirection from Fox was to get to Cat. That’s where that little devil was leading me. And it felt true.

Except that I have now seen six foxes in two days. Each time I see them trot across the meadow, down across the ditch, or– even once– literally walking with purpose right down my road in front of my house, I think Oh no. He’s not done.

He’s not. The role of Fox is to take what you think you know, and to make you wonder if you know it. Since the beginning of the year, Cat has allowed me the following:

• a regular writing practice
• a consistent yoga practice again
• time to read
• time to take longer walks
• a better diet
• time for my friends

I’m grateful for it. But Fox, it seems, is dissatisfied. As I have been taking care of myself, with larger swatches of time, Fox has entered the picture in full spring rain and has pressed– What if we dream bigger?

I might argue that it’s a result of Cat. That the time I had an outright longing for is now in my possession. Creativity needs space. But the imaginings I’m having do not require the space of Cat, cuddled up in its domain. These ideas require a bit of scouting in the underbrush, surveying the boundary lines, a quiet mischief.

Turns out, mischief is a shared trait of the two, Cat and Fox.

So I have been following both sets of tracks.

Maybe the mystical is all in my head. We each create our own life, in most ways, and shape our perception with every “yes” or “no” we give to what the world is offering us. By throwing off judgment and tracking down these animals, pausing with every step to view where I have been taken, I have discovered a few things that make it worth continuing in this atmospheric, delightful nonsense. Like waking up and feeling happy to leave my bed, instead of already exhausted by the day. Like becoming reacquainted with things that used to make me happy– I’ve recently gotten my old film camera fixed, and have begun experimenting with a Holga my Someone found at a yard sale years ago that I was “too busy” for before. Like tasting my food again. Like sinking into a couch by a fire with my friends watching a movie and not calculating my enormous to-do list. Like relishing my work as if it were play– even the soul-sucking screen time.

A couple of years ago, my dear friend David– my other favorite spiritualist– saw in me my propensity for the mystic as we walked on a chilly beach on Plum Island in Newburyport. He unabashedly shared some of his own experiences, emboldening me to share mine, and we made a small pact to encourage one another to follow the noble pursuit of belief, of seeing what is not visible, and to reawakening our spiritual side. In the time since, I have felt I’d let him down. In the last year, I was afraid I’d lost that part of myself entirely. But when I thought back on that conversation, it would rally something within me. I realize now that it has taken nearly two years to rearrange and make enough space to follow through on our pact. It has taken burn out, a major surgery, and utter depletion for me to realize that this is not something I can try my hardest to accomplish. It’s not a to-do list, or even a standard to live by. Rather, it’s a stroll, a meander. It’s a slow opening. It is one small creak in the door. It is a following of strange tracks in the snow.

It’s a Great Pause.