mini mailbag

Cat explores consciousness with special guest Dusty.

¿Qué onda? This Cat.

Usually, Cat try squeeze very many reader questions into one newsletter. This time, Cat only answer one question. Have question for Cat? Please ask here.

And now, welcome to a mini mailbag, with a special guest Cat’s longtime readers might remember from the dust bunny crew.

To Cat
From KL

Dear Cat - my wonderful Dad Charlie passed away on April 17th. He was an incredible human-smart as hell, witty, curious, and deeply kind. A total star and beloved by many. He was always sure to share his butter when eating toast with my cat Stan. We miss him very much and hope that he reaches out to us. What Cat feel about the afterlife?

Dear KL, Cat is very sorry for your loss. Cat knows that missing someone feel like carrying heavy stone in chest. Cat not know about afterlife. Cat only know that missing someone mean love is still alive ❤️

When Cat not know something, Cat become very curious. When Cat not find answers in books, Cat look to dust bunny, name of Fluff. Fluff spends days under bookshelf, studying, so naturally, Fluff is covered in very many stories, stories that hold very many wisdoms.

However. When Cat calls on Fluff, Cat finds mess of pencil shavings, post-it notes, and paperclips underneath bookshelf. Fluff is nowhere to be seen. Lucky for Cat, Fluff’s research assistant, name of Dusty, is happy to speak with Cat about bigger answers.

Of course Cat would not dream of arrive with empty paws, so Cat collect gifts that would please any dust bunny: one dead cricket, two hairs from Cat’s human’s comb, and sprinkles of stale Cheetos dust. Cat was very pleased when Dusty present Cat with a crunchy treat (extra crunchy) foraged from under the couch.

After Cat and Dusty exchange gifts, Cat pour two tiny mugs of warm creams and arrange self on floor in front of Dusty.

Cat: Hello Dusty. This Cat. Cat want know about afterlife.

Dusty: Ah, yes, the afterlife. Cat, do you know the work of Elisabeth Kübler-Dust?

Cat: No. Please tell more.

Dusty: Of course. Well, she was very knowledgeable about these things. There is one book in particular… Here it is, On Life After Death. Elisabeth accompanied many beings through the doorway of death. Because of her experiences, she held a great deal of wisdom. You know, she shared something very wise with me when my father died, so I will share it with you now.

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“I have spent many lifetimes sitting in the quiet after someone’s last breath. What I learned is this: death is not a wall, it is a doorway. Your father has stepped through it, and though you cannot follow yet, the doorway is not locked. Grief is the echo you hear because the love between you is still alive, it does not end when the body dies.

You hope he reaches out. Perhaps he already has. Not with hands, but with small ripples: the sudden memory, the dream where he lingers, the ache that brings you to tears. Each is a vibration from the other side of the doorway. Missing him is not an ending, missing him is how love keeps speaking.”

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Cat: This makes Cat’s heart feel soft and warm. Thank you, Dusty.

Dusty: You are most welcome, Cat.

Cat: Cat still feels curiosities. Elisabeth Kübler-Dust say love and grief live on after death. Cat not understand. How???

Dusty: For that, Cat, we must talk about consciousness. Sit close now. It is a long story.

Cat: Cat knows this word, consciousness. Every time Cat closes eyes, Cat feel like whole universe is breathing on tips of Cat’s whiskers. Feels tickly. Is that consciousness?

Dusty: Mmm. Tickly is as good a doorway as any. Consciousness is not just in your head, Cat, it’s the entire field in which your head appears. Think of it as an endless living porch, with no walls, no roof, just chairs stretching forever. Everything sits on that porch: planets, pawprints, the smell of loaf in sauce, the ache of missing someone.

Cat: Porch with no roof? Is not drafty and cold?

Dusty: Drafty but alive. The breeze is what lets new ideas in. Many creatures think consciousness is like a lantern in their brain, lighting up thoughts. But I have wandered through eleven dimensions and found no such lantern. What I found was sky. Limitless, shared sky. The lantern is just a pocket of that sky, pretending to be separate.

Cat: If all share porch, are fleas invited too?

Dusty: Absolutely. Fleas, cosmic dust, forgotten dreams—every speck has a chair. Consciousness doesn’t discriminate, it hums through flea and philosopher alike. I once held a conversation with a fungus spore about the meaning of eternity. It lasted eight thousand years, though we mostly discussed moisture.

Cat: Eight thousand years??? And not get hungers for crunchies? How not get bored?

Dusty: That’s the beauty of it, Cat. There is no boredom when you rest in the porch itself. Time slows, then disappears. Only noticing remains. You and your crunchy treats, the fungus and its droplet, all dancing in the same noticing.

Cat: So Cat is not thinker of thoughts? Porch does thinking?

Dusty: Precisely. Thoughts are furniture that appears on the porch, then wanders off. You don’t own them, they just…drift through. Some cats chase every chair. Wiser cats just watch chairs come and go, perhaps sometimes napping in one.

Cat: If thoughts not Cat’s own, why bad ones feel like hairball stuck in throat?

Dusty: Because you swallow instead of observing. Hairball of thought wants you to notice it, groom it gently, then let it pass. When you believe “this hairball is me,” it lodges. When you remember “this is porch passing through,” you cough, purr, and move on.

Cat: Sounds messy. Porch crowded with chairs, fleas, hairballs, planets. Where can Cat find room to nap?

Dusty: Anywhere. Porch is made of stillness, even when crowded.

Cat: Dusty, when Cat close eyes to nap, feels like Cat disappears. What happen if Cat never wake up? How is sleep not full of dangers?

Dusty: Good question, Cat. Sleep is the safest disappearance you’ll ever know. See, you don’t actually leave. You loosen. Think of it as setting down the heavy backpack of “Cat” so the porch of consciousness can breathe without straps digging in.

Cat: But what if Cat sets down backpack and porch wanders off?

Dusty: Porches don’t wander, Cat. They hold everything, even while you forget you’re sitting on them. Sleep is your rehearsal for letting go. It’s like a dress rehearsal for a play you’ll one day perform by letting go completely.

Cat: Letting go completely…like death?

Dusty: Very good, Cat. Yes. Every nap is a small, reversible death. It teaches trust: you let your edges dissolve, and somehow the morning knits you back together.

Cat: But why dreams? Why the strange mice made of blue light, the endless stairs?

Dusty: Dreams are the porch rearranging furniture. Daytime thoughts pile up like mismatched chairs; at night the porch says, “Let’s see what these pieces look like in new constellations.” Sometimes the arrangement is nonsense, sometimes revelation. Either way, the mind loosens its grip.

Cat: Cat has very many dreams of chasing mice made of cheese. But then Cat wake up. No cheese, no mice. Only empty tummy.

Dusty: Think of it this way, Cat. Dreams are postcards from worlds you almost visited. You collect them, then return.

Cat: So, every nap is like tiny trip to afterlife?

Dusty: Exactly. Which is why naps are sacred.

Cat: If that true, that mean Cat is very sacred cat.

Dusty: I never doubted it, Cat.

After many thinkings about sleep, death, and dreams, and after very many mugs of warm creams, Cat feels pleasanty full, and ready for nappings. Big nappings. What do readers think?

Cat gives many thanks to Dusty for the wisdoms, KL for sharing question, and you, for simply being.

Thank you for reading, Cat 🐾