My last cat’s name was Abaddon. A rather grand name for a cat. In the Book of Revelation an angel called Abaddon is described as the king of an army of locusts. In the Hebrew bible he is the angel of the abyss. My daughter named him. He was a feral kitten when we adopted him. He became a beautiful big gray shorthaired cat, and very sweet.
The Naming Of Cats by T. S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey–
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter–
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover–
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
Maybe Bob Dylan is a prophet after all. On stage in Omaha back on Jan. 25, 1980, Dylan, in the midst of fierce controversy over having become a Christian, said, “Years ago they…said I was a prophet. I used to say, ‘No, I’m not a prophet.’ They’d say: ‘Yes you are, you’re a prophet.’ I said, ‘No, it’s not me.’ They used to say: ‘You sure are a prophet.’ They used to convince me I was a prophet. Now I come out and say Jesus Christ is the answer. They say, ‘Bob Dylan’s no prophet.’ They just can’t handle it.”
We started talking about gardening today, so I thought this repeat post would fit into our discussion. Jess has since moved from Arkansas to a much larger farm in South Carolina. She has a bigger and nicer greenhouse and her first real red barn, complete with cows – a long-held dream!
I love Jess. I think it is because she reminds me of my mother (also named Jessie.) I know that sounds funny, but she thinks a lot the same way my mom did. There is a wonder of nature in her heart, and she is creative – a writer, a musician, a gardener.
As my daughter once wrote about her grandmother, my mom:
Grandma used to cut fruit apart to show me the beautiful patterns inside. She watered the plants and told me to listen to them drink. She brushed the dirt off the vegetables in the garden and bit into them, telling me to taste their goodness. She sees beauty and magic everywhere. I believe she sees God all the time, in all the good and lovely things of the earth.
Is there a mystic/spiritual aspect to gardening? Yes.
“This is the only place on Earth bluebonnets grow, and once a year they come an’ go at this old house here by the road. And when we die, we say we’ll catch some blackbird’s wing, and we will fly away to Heaven come some sweet bluebonnet spring.”