When I look at Vanessa Stockard’s Naps and Cats, I see more than just a child asleep with a pair of watchful feline eyes. I see myself during the strange suspended time of COVID, when napping became less a guilty indulgence and more a necessary coping strategy. In those days, exhaustion was not just physical; it was psychological, a heaviness borne from uncertainty and the constant recalibration of what it meant to live, work, and care for others. Out of that crucible, the nap became ritual. Now, years later, it remains a practice I return to with comfort. I do not get to nap every day, but more and more it has become a refreshing part of my daily routine—especially when shared with my beloved cats.
The psychology of napping reveals what I already intuitively know: brief periods of sleep restore not just the body but also the mind. Studies in cognitive psychology suggest that naps can enhance memory consolidation, improve learning, and regulate emotional balance. In a sense, they are small acts of resistance against the modern cult of productivity. To nap is to reclaim time from the grind of efficiency and to allow the body its natural rhythm. In this, napping becomes almost philosophical: a way of acknowledging the body’s limits and honoring them, rather than pushing past them into exhaustion.
Historically, napping has carried complex associations. In ancient Rome, the sexta hora—the sixth hour of the day, around midday—was set aside for rest, giving us the root of the word “siesta.” Many Mediterranean cultures wove this pause into their daily structure, an acknowledgment of both climate and human need. Yet, in industrialized Northern Europe and America, napping was often stigmatized, linked with laziness or lack of ambition. Only in recent years, with the rise of research into sleep health, have we seen a cultural revaluation of naps. The sleeper in Stockard’s painting, cocooned in softness, embodies this timeless truth: rest is not weakness but a mode of resilience.
The presence of cats complicates and enriches the scene. Across cultures, cats have been regarded as liminal creatures—guardians of thresholds, both domesticated companions and independent spirits. Their inclusion in Stockard’s work transforms the nap into a ritual of trust. When my cats curl up with me, I feel not only warmth but a form of protection. Their slow breathing and occasional purr seem to regulate my own. Psychologists note the calming effects of animals on human stress, lowering blood pressure and heart rate, but there is more than biology here. There is companionship, wordless and profound.
In Stockard’s painting, the child sleeps with one arm draped protectively over the black cat, while another pair of eyes glows faintly from the shadows. This echoes my own experience: I nap surrounded by companions who exist in that in-between space of wakefulness and dream. They are both guardians and tricksters, embodiments of comfort and mystery. In this sense, the nap is not merely sleep but a threshold experience, a daily rehearsal of surrender, renewal, and return.
Ultimately, Naps and Cats reminds me that napping is not retreat but restoration. It is a practice rooted in history, affirmed by psychology, and enriched by the presence of those strange, luminous creatures who choose to share their time with us. In this daily ritual, I find not only rest but also a small, steadfast form of grace which I happily give myself.