Photo by Keenan Barber on Unsplash A small ginger cat arrives on my terrace every afternoon, to curl up in the sun and slumber peacefully for a couple of hours. When he awakes, he gets on his feet with minimum effort, arches his back and walks away as he had come. The same spot every day, the same posture, the same pace. There may be better spots—sunnier, quieter, frequented by birds that can be hunted when the cat is rested and restored. But there is no guarantee, and the search will be never-ending, and there may rarely be time to sleep after all that searching and finding. It occurs to me that perhaps the cat is a monk. By this I do not mean anything austere. I doubt anyone in single minded pursuit of enlightenment ever finds it. A good monk would be a mild sort of fellow, a bit of a sensualist, capable of compassion for the world, but also for himself. He would know that it is all right not to climb every mountain. A good monk would know that contentment is easier to attain than h