Spirits and ghosts visit this time of year. I do think the veil between this world and the otherworld is thin now. Ancestors hang in the eaves, eavesdropping. The Snoqualmie tribe, on whose land I live, also traditionally thought ancestors came back this time of year.
This year, I haven’t felt a lot of spirits. I did see a grey tabby cat in my kitchen the other day, who wasn’t there. This guy was friendly, reaching up to be petted. Then quickly he disappeared.
I didn’t recognize him. I brought a tan-grey tabby to this house when I moved in, but he was skinny and a little standoffish, well-mannered, a gentleman among cats. The grey tabby in the kitchen was paler and a little chunkier, in that cute pudgy-cat way.
My most recent ghost is my little floof kitten, who ran afoul of a local dog and is buried in the front yard under a Japanese maple, where he used to sit. Black, fluffy, affectionate, desirous of attention, he was of the cats I’ve known the most likely to plop himself down in the middle of a Tarot reading. Which is a very cat thing to do anyway. I remember him sitting in front of the fan one summer day, yelling at us, “Meowwrroowwrrowwrrr,” in other words, “Can’t you turn down the heat?!”
After he was gone, he came to my housemate in a guided meditation. He told them that he’d had a good time being a cat, that he’d been new at it, and that we’d given him a good experience. Five out of five, would cat again, that’s what I understood. I miss him.