My cat, My coach

Meet Kali. A cool cat, and in recent days, it turns out, also a process mentor. I adopted him from the sidewalks of Talpiot market in Haifa as a three-week-old abandoned kitten, and he's been with me for 3.5 years. He's a cool cat, easy-going, not picky with food, and sometimes I look at him and wonder how much he really understands. At times, it seems he has more emotional intelligence than some people I've met along the way. Two weeks ago, we moved from Jaffa to Mitzpe Ramon. In Jaffa, the young furball had free access from the apartment to the stairwell and from there, outside. The neighbors already knew him and would open the entrance door for him every morning when he returned exhausted, filthy, hungry, and happy with life from his adventures – who knows where – around Jaffa. The first few days in the new apartment passed quietly. The cat was overwhelmed by the move itself and the new smells, explored the house, and enjoyed the sun's rays on the tiny balcony (which is at just the right angle for growing herbs). But after a week, he decided he understood the deal, and "Yalla," it was time to explore the neighborhood. "Come on, let's go for a walk outside!" And ever since, he stands for long hours gazing at the door with mournful looks and occasionally tries his luck with meows. I'm not giving in. I worry about the life of the young furball who doesn't know the area and has never met an ibex or a hyena. At the beginning of the week, I decided to start introducing him to the area and went down the stairs with him to the entrance. To my delight, a giant yard cat emerged from one of the building's corners and made the young furball run quickly back home. Then there were a few rainy days, during which the furry winter lover didn't understand why he was forbidden from enjoying the mud and busied himself composing sad songs, with loud and heartbreaking meows. I didn't give in. This morning, the sun appeared, and I decided to let him explore. I opened the door, and he looked at me hesitantly. "Really?" "Go on, take your walk," I conveyed to him telepathically. The cat raised his tail and instead of going down to the yard, he ascended, with the elegance of Beyoncé on the red carpet, to the floor above us. He intensely sniffed the walls and stairs, licked himself, looked at me with what I could swear was a feline smile, and slowly went back down to our apartment, rubbing against my legs and meowing as if to say: "See? You worried for nothing. I know what I'm doing." This tiny event made me happy today. It brought a little relief to my battered Israeli heart, and I didn't quite understand what exactly happened here. And then I came across a phrase in a post that until today I really couldn't stand: "Trust the process." It always seemed to me that it was a phrase encouraging negligence. "Yalla, the main thing is to keep moving." Which is a nice idea on an emotional level, but it doesn't encourage stepping outside one's boundaries and perfectionism. Or am I wrong? Kali taught me this morning to trust the process. To let go. He's a cat who has spent almost his entire life roaming outdoors; he has instincts and probably also the ability to draw conclusions. Just like me, actually; I've been self-employed for many years, taking on projects for others. I have experience, and I have instincts. The process of building my store started smoothly – I took personal guidance alongside instructional videos, followed the steps and instructions, and voila! I have a store. Easy-peasy. And then we got to the supplier stage, and here, every day, I encounter 70 roadblocks and unforeseen circumstances that are impossible to account for before starting. These aren't just glitches; this is part of being a store owner. And it's part of the process. In the not-too-distant future, I'll also navigate the intricacies of communication with suppliers, and my store will flourish, and the furball will expand his circle of walks around the building, all the way to the edge of the crater. So thank you, Kali, my sweet furball, thanks to you, I trust the process a little more.

In the picture: The Kali blossoming season. Farewell to mint.