Cats are rather delicate creatures and they are subject to a

Hear now the words of Joseph Wood Krutch: “Cats are rather delicate creatures and they are subject to a good many different ailments, but I have never heard of one who suffered from insomnia.” At first, these words appear wrapped in humor, but beneath their gentle wit lies a profound lesson about the nature of life, peace, and the wisdom of creatures who live closer to the pulse of creation than we. For Krutch does not simply speak of cats, he speaks of their serenity, their ability to yield to rest, to live without the burdensome anxieties that rob humankind of sleep.

The ancients often gazed upon animals as mirrors of the virtues man had forgotten. In the cat, slender and fragile though it may be, there lies an unshakable gift: the ability to surrender wholly to the rhythm of existence. A cat does not question whether tomorrow will bring sorrow. It does not lie awake rehearsing regrets or dreading failures yet to come. It curls itself into a ball, closes its eyes, and entrusts itself to the night. In this simple act of repose lies a mastery that many humans, mighty though they imagine themselves to be, cannot achieve.

Let us remember the tale of the Roman general Scipio Africanus, victor over Hannibal. Though he conquered vast lands and secured glory for Rome, history tells that he carried within himself a restless spirit, worn by the weight of duty and ceaseless vigilance. Even in his triumph, sleep evaded him. Contrast this with the smallest of cats, who, with no empire to guard and no riches to maintain, slumbers in contentment upon a sunlit stone. Which, then, is truly richer—the conqueror haunted by the burden of power, or the humble creature who knows the art of rest?

Krutch’s words remind us of the folly of endless striving. The ailments of the cat may be many, yet never is its spirit consumed by the plague of sleeplessness. For insomnia, in its deeper sense, is not merely the failure of the body to rest, but the rebellion of the soul against the present moment. It is the mind refusing to lay down its arms, choosing battle when there is only night’s silence. The cat, delicate though it is, knows no such rebellion. It dwells wholly in the now, and thus, it sleeps.

From this we may draw a great teaching: that to live well is not only to work or to conquer, but also to release. The wisdom of the cat is the wisdom of surrender—of trusting the flow of life enough to allow oneself peace. What kings and philosophers sought in vain, the cat embodies without effort. Perhaps it is for this reason that humans, weary and overburdened, gaze upon sleeping cats with envy, for in them they see the tranquility their own hearts long to reclaim.

What then is the action required of us? We must learn the art of letting go. When night falls, let the mind cease its endless march. Cast aside tomorrow’s worries and yesterday’s ghosts. Let the heart rest in the present, as the cat does, without fear. Begin with small acts: close the day with gratitude, breathe deeply, and release the weight of ambition. Know that sleep is not idleness, but sacred renewal, the silent forge where the spirit regains its strength.

So, O listener, carry this lesson with you: Cats are delicate, yet they do not know insomnia. Let their example be your guide. For strength does not only lie in action, but in repose; not only in conquest, but in surrender. The one who learns to rest without fear, to close his eyes with trust in the unseen, walks a path of true wisdom. Therefore, when you next see a cat at peace in slumber, remember this teaching: that serenity is the greatest strength, and rest, freely taken, is a triumph greater than empire.