In my head, I’m about 30 years old, but since my brain injury three weeks ago, I’ve felt more like a 76-year-old man who can’t always stand up. I’m getting better every day, and I can thank my wife and doctors and nurses and two animals for helping me heal – Zinnia, my Yellow Lab, who is always near me, and starting this week, Zip, our new 11-month-old barn cat, who has become an integral part of my farm, my life, my heart, and my healing work.

Maria and the doctors have argued forcefully (to say the least) that I need to carve out one or two hours to sit and rest outside if the weather permits or meditate and read and listen to music several times a day.

If I rest, I will heal, they say. If I don’t, it will take forever, if it heals at all. I’m choosing healing; I prefer to stand up on my own.

(Three of the photos  today were taken by me, the others by Maria.)

I’ve never really been a cat person. I am somewhat startled by my instant and deepening relationship with Zip, a homeless barn cat we have adopted, or perhaps more accurately, he has chosen us. He seems overjoyed to live here, crawling around his crowded barn floor, stalking pigeons, mice, snakes, birds,  chipmunks, and rabbits, and crawling into bushes and gardens. He is helping me to heal every day. He makes me laugh and seems oddly sensitive to people and fond of most people he meets.

Right after lunch and after a morning of writing, I go outside to sit, take in the sun (as older men do), and rest my brain to walk confidently and upright again.  Zip has only been accessible on the farm for a few days and has decided to join my repose and meditation time. He hops up on a footstool and, if I ignore him, on my lap. He always shows up minutes after I come out.

When he came, he was afraid to go near me or Maria, he is eager to get close to both of us, to get some love, and give some. This has enriched my life and lifted me up; I’m happy to do it. But I didn’t foresee how healing this would be. He really makes me feel better.

I cherish my hours outside with Zip (and Zinnia lying near my feet.) I find this healing, restful, and uplifting. It has become an essential time for me. Afterward, I feel better.

Today, Maria, mourning her mother, who died yesterday, came out to sit with me; we are comfortable together and good with each other, especially when there is trouble. We know how to talk each other down and into reality.

There is a lot of love for a strong foundation of support.

My surprising friendship with Zip touched Maria today; we were both surprised by it. I have never been this close to a cat or more touched by one. He’s a juvenile delinquent with a big heart, a rich combination. She started taking some pictures. I thought she captured the connection.

Zip loves to have his head scratched and his neck rubbed. Usually, I either scratch the top of his head or cup his head in my hands and scratch his neck; he loves both and stands still for a few minutes, purring and closing his eyes. I feel my heart lift a bit. He keeps me from self-pity or discouragement. He makes me smile.

The apple tree is his headquarters out of the barn, his outside safe space. He is happy to spend a long time sitting by the tree, listening to chipmunks, and studying the farm. It’s his place now; he is our cat, and this is his home. In the hospital, I never pictured sitting outside in the autumn sun with a barn cat beside me and a dog dozing with his head on my surgical boot as a way of healing.

But these animals are healing for me, each in their own way; I can feel it. Zip has a lot of magic in him.

I’m grateful for both of them; I’m surprised by my almost instant love for a barn cat looking for a home. Getting him wasn’t even my idea, but I appreciate Marir’s pushing it.

I agreed to get the cat because I knew it was what she wanted; I didn’t think it would also become something I wanted or something that could help me heal.