The Art of Being Happy: Pure Madness with Cassie, or Active Meditation Between Russian Music and Feline Instinct

There are mornings when everything aligns. You don’t need much: a pulsing Russian playlist, a cat leaping like a maniac, and the audacity to let go completely. No alcohol, no drugs—just the raw energy of the moment. Back when I was learning Russian, I discovered that happiness could be a wild dance in my living room, an unlikely duo between a man, a cat, and melodies that hit you like an electric shock.

Cassie always knew when the moment had come. At the first notes, she’d transform into a hyperactive ball of fur, ready to defy gravity. I’d sing off-key, dance like a crazed bear, and for the first time that day, I was there. Not in my head, not in my to-do lists, but fully grounded in the present, my body on fire, my soul light. These sessions were more than just a release—they were a form of active meditation, a celebration of life in its simplest, most intense form.

The Playlist as a Trigger

It all started with a choice: Which song today? Russian tracks have that raw power, that ability to grip you by the gut. Whether it was the epic energy of Kino’s «Группа крови», the haunting melancholy of «Влад Сташевский», or the frenetic rhythm of «Леприконсы», every song was an invitation to dive in. You didn’t need to understand all the words—Russian music is about feeling first. The scraping guitars, the raspy voices, the exploding brass… It’s a language you dance before you translate.

I’d crank up the volume. Cassie, curled up on the couch, would suddenly prick her ears. She recognized the ritual. Her pupils would dilate, her tail would twitch like a metronome. She was getting ready. Because when the music started, there was no hesitation. We went all in.

The Body in Motion: A Daily Trance

I always started by singing. First in a murmur, then at the top of my lungs, unrestrained. The Russian lyrics, even if butchered, poured out like a release. Every syllable was a punch to the daily grind, every note a liberation. I wasn’t a singer—I was a man shouting his joy, his anger, his vitality. And Cassie? She was my biggest fan. She didn’t laugh at my off-key notes (well, maybe she did, but she had the decency not to show it). She joined in. She’d rear up on her hind legs, claws dug into the couch, as if trying to catch the notes midair.

Then came the dancing. Not choreography—controlled chaos. I’d jump, spin, stomp my feet like a drunk cosmonaut. Cassie would tear around the furniture, leap over my feet, skid to a halt, then take off again. Sometimes she’d stop dead, tilt her head, and give me a look: «Are you serious right now?» before diving back into the fray.

In those moments, I felt most alive:

• My feet pounded the floor, reminding me I was here, I was real.
• My arms flailed like windmills, sweeping away my tensions.
• My breath matched the tempo—deep, jagged, almost animalistic.

Eyes closed, I was pure energy. Cassie was my mirror: her jumps were my jumps, her sudden pauses (where she’d sit and watch me, half-amused, half-puzzled) were gentle reminders: «Breathe. Feel. Live.»

Madness as an Act of Freedom

In a society that boxes us in—«Be serious. Be productive. Be an adult.»—these moments of madness were rebellion. A way of saying: «No. Today, I choose joy. Today, I choose not to give a damn about appearances.»

And that’s the key: happiness isn’t asked for—it’s taken. No permission, no excuses. Just a man, a cat, and music that rips through you. No audience needed, no validation. Just the essential.

With Cassie, I learned that meditation isn’t limited to zafu cushions and whispered mantras. It can be loud, messy, sweaty. A 180-decibel meditation where «om» is replaced by a «БЛЯДЬ!» screamed in unison with the chorus. Where mindfulness comes through laughter, socks sliding on the hardwood, and a cat charging at you like a furry missile.

Why Russian Music?

Because it doesn’t lie. Russian music is like vodka: it burns, it warms, it sets things straight. It carries centuries of melancholy, resilience, and celebration despite it all. When I’d yell «Я свободен!» («I am free!») and see Cassie staring at me with her green eyes, I’d burst out laughing. Because it was true. Free from what? Who cares. Just free.

The rhythms of «Плясовые» (traditional dances) made me feel like I was dancing with generations of men and women who, before me, had found in music an outlet for their madness, their sorrow, their zest for life. And Cassie, with her unpredictable leaps, was living proof that this energy was universal. She didn’t understand the lyrics, but she felt the pulse. She was my link to the moment, my anchor in reality.

The Energy of the Present

These sessions weren’t just stress relief. They were rituals of reconnection:

• To my body, too often ignored, too often treated like a machine.
• To Cassie, who taught me, without words, the art of living unfiltered.
• To that vital force within us, smothered under layers of «I should…»

At the end of a song, we’d both collapse, breathless—Cassie’s fur a mess, my hair wild. She’d curl up against me, purring like an engine winding down. We’d exchange a glance. «Again tomorrow?» her eyes seemed to say. And I knew the answer was yes. Because these moments, as absurd as they were, were sacred.

The Secret: It’s All Already There

Want to try? Here’s the recipe (warning: it’s a wild ride):

1. Music that guts you (Russian, metal, electro—whatever makes you vibrate).
2. A space to let loose (even one square meter will do. Even if your only witness is your cat).
3. The audacity to make a fool of yourself. Sing off-key. Dance like you’ve got potatoes for feet. Laugh at yourself.
4. An animal to remind you what matters (optional but highly recommended). Cats, dogs, even parakeets know how to live in the moment. Watch them. Imitate them.

Conclusion: Madness as a Path

Those mornings with Cassie taught me one thing: happiness isn’t a quest—it’s a dance. A dance between excess and calm, movement and stillness, seriousness and absurdity. A dance where you discover yourself, unmasked, expectation-free.

So today, I challenge you: put on your favorite song. Let go. Dance like your cat is the only judge (and trust me, its verdict will be kind). Sing like your voice could shake the walls. And above all, laugh. Laugh at yourself, laugh at everything. Because in those moments, you’re exactly where you need to be.

And if someone ever sees you dancing like a lunatic with your cat, let them think what they want. You’ll know: you’ve touched something real.

Postscript:

Cassie, if you’re reading this (unlikely, but hey), know you’re the best dance partner I’ve ever had. Thanks for teaching me, every day, that spirituality can be loud, messy, and covered in cat hair.