Safe Spaces and Underground Journeys

Dear friend,

The underground carriage is sauna-hot.
Dry, warm air ignited by the heat of humanity.

It’s loud, too.
If I’d suddenly manifested here from the pre-industrial era—like Catweazle or some other time-traveller—I might imagine myself in some stage of purgatory.

I’d be concerned about what might happen at King’s Cross.
And for my soul.

The chirpy disembodied voice of the onboard announcements, the clash of steel against steel.
No one making eye contact—heads bowed, staring at screens.

I’d be contemplating what kind of life I’d lived before leaving it for the underworld.

I’m heading to Vauxhall to collect Sky, our friend’s cat—brother to Dippa.
Sky was meant to come to us earlier, but we had to find another arrangement when Sonni stayed, since he chases cats.

Cat and dog chess.

Sky’s a beautiful creature. Very serene.
But I do wonder how he’ll make sense of this roasting tube carriage.
I’m wishing I took the car, even if it takes longer.

He’ll need water.
Hopefully it’s cooler on the way back.
We might try for a seat by the windows.

It feels like a situation I ought to have thought through from one or two more angles.

The best I can do now is to sink into my heart and connect with a loving feeling.
And if I need to come back without him—I’ll do that.
Then return with the car.

—

We’re home now.

Sky was glad to see me at first—but not so keen on going into the carrier.
A vet once told me to tilt it upright like a bin so the door’s facing the top.
Eventually, that’s how we got him in.

He’s such a sweet cat.
Didn’t even scratch me, even though it turned into a gentle wrestle.

The return tube was less crowded. Noticeably cooler.
A woman struck up a conversation about her wild ginger cat.
She showed me photos—this beautiful red feline tolerating her five-year-old daughter’s hugs.

Then a punk couple boarded and sat opposite.
They’d just picked up a Rottweiler puppy—tiny, placid, full of love.
They were smitten. So was I. So was the woman with the ginger cat.

Sky bore the clanging and conversation with quiet grace.
I placed the punk guy’s accent—Glaswegian.

Now Sky’s hiding behind a chair in the front room.
He’s let me scratch behind his ears, and he’s had a sniff of Dippa.

I’ll likely sleep on the couch tonight to make sure he’s okay.
It’s comfortable enough.
And it’s bliss to be in the shared field of our belong.

Life can be complex.
But what brings joy is so simple, so ordinary.

Eventually, Sky will realise he’s in a safe space.
He’ll adjust—bit by bit.

Everyone needs that:
A safe space outside, and a feeling of safety inside.
Safe in the self.
Safe to yourself.

That’s the kind of world we live in when we’re kind.
And it spreads.

Sky and Dippa are both curled up now—
The cat behind the chair,
The dog on the floor.

I’ll go get my bedding.

Till tomorrow,
Love,
Mikey