The cats are looking for their food bowls to be in the same place they were three years ago, not the current location. They scratch at the door to the attic and the one to the back yard, just as they did before we moved. On some level, they remember this house, this place they called home for ten years.

I’m still working on getting the kitchen in order, and I don’t remember where the rolling pins and cake pans used to be. Unless I don’t think about it. Half asleep or distracted by something else, I’ll return things to their former spots – my somatic memory knows things beyond what comes to mind (An existential muscle memory?). That’s neither good nor bad per se: it depends on whether I put things in their former places because it works well for everyone now or whether I put them there without considering other/better options.

Sometimes I think it’s the same in my inner life’s home. Without thought, I return to the same places and actions – prayers, ponderings, and spiritual resources that have been reliable ways to welcome God into my life. There’s nothing wrong with this, I guess. Unless familiarity prevents me from moving the spiritual furniture to make the place more welcoming for me, for others, and for God. Whatever prompts me to answer the door when God or neighbor knocks, whatever creates a home where who I am includes them both – old or new, that’s what I want in my inner sanctum.