Choosing Wonder Instead

As we were pulling up to my voice lesson, I noticed two things at once.

A black baby cat near the edge of the road.
And the sound of rushing water in the creek that usually runs dry.

The cat was young—small enough that its movements felt made mostly of instinct. It ran away while I was still far off, disappearing into the brush before I had a chance to get close. I didn’t follow it. I just stood there, looking at the place where it had been.

Almost immediately, old stories surfaced.
The ones about black cats.
The not-so-good meanings people attach to them.
The warnings that arrive already formed, asking to be believed.

I noticed those stories too.

And then I remembered—I didn’t have to take them in. I didn’t have to agree. They could pass through like weather, like something overheard but not adopted.

I wondered instead why the cat was there.
Whether it was for me or for someone else.
Or whether it was simply hungry or cold, moving through its own small life without symbolism attached.

It’s too bad it ran. I would have warmed it with love if it had stayed.

The creek kept rushing. Water moving through a place that is usually empty. A reminder that what appears dry isn’t always dry—and that what arrives doesn’t always need a meaning to be real.

I didn’t get to hold the cat.
But I did get to notice it.
I got to choose wonder over inheritance.
Presence over prediction.

For now, I’ll be happy with that—
with the brief chance to love something as it passed,
in awe and wonder,
without needing it to stay.