The cat laid on my keyboard…

The Kindness Game has been discontinued along with the mountain of banned books and the cupboard of open minds. Those of us who still remember the two thousands when it looked like the world was opening up to everyone have kept our copies hidden on the closet top shelf.

We bring it down when friends and family come over but are reluctant to talk about the game at the bus stop or water cooler, unsure who to trust anymore.

I took a creative writing class in college. The assignment was to write a thousand words.

I wrote the story of the kittens in the haybarn. How they’d cuddle up to my legs, play untie my shoes, eat themselves fat, then fall asleep. It’s a story I’m still trying to write. How the bare lightbulb created shadows on the bales. Danger hiding where I couldn’t see.

Even now the words I write don’t capture the magic of being in the haybarn. My parents milking cows in the barn below, homework waiting for me in the house.

How I felt like I belonged and yet didn’t. How there were times I looked at the hole with the ladder going down to where my parents and the cows went about their work and thought what it would feel like falling to the floor below.

I was the outsider no one recognized. My family saw years of their DNA in me. Curly hair. Green eyes. Broad shoulders. But when I looked in the mirror, I saw the underneath. The part that never felt like she fit in the room. An actress in her life.

I tried to write all this for that creative writing class full of students trying to prove to the professor how smart they were. I tried to say it all using those fluffy kittens. Orange. Black. Gray.

But no one heard. No one heard.

I remember exactly where I was standing. The room downstairs the cat wouldn’t go into because the energy was weird. I was holding a baby. The baby they handed me a week before that cried some, but not as much as I expected. It had been a hard day. One where I hadn’t slept as much as I wanted the night before and food was the mountain I had to climb. Nursing for him, which wasn’t as idyllic as I thought it would be. Milk squirting and soaking and nourishing all at the same time. And me not taking a moment to boil water or toast bread or defrost anything.

The sun shone outside, but I was in the darkest corner of the house in an area I could never define. At times it was the TV room, or the office, or a library, and sometimes it just held toys. I stood in the middle bobbing a week-old baby to calm him. It was time for sleep. Actually it was always time for sleep, but no one was.

The thought appeared out of the black hole that they call milk brain. A time when a body is so focused on production of milk that to produce thoughts is secondary. The thought was new and clear in its uniqueness, a white lettering on a black background. When are the parents going to pick this baby up? I’m getting tired of babysitting. A week is too long.

I knew in that instant the thought was real. Not a sly joke like my father is known for where one of his eyebrows raises and there is a pause at the end for recognition and laughter. No this thought was a genuine realization of a situation interpreted the wrong way.

It took a moment, a longer moment than I want to admit, for me to realize–I can’t use the word remember because remembering means that at some time I knew the truth. I didn’t know the truth until that thought and correction of thought. I was not a babysitter. No one would be picking this little guy up. This was my baby. My son to watch grow into a man. I had prepared myself so thoroughly for this situation not to happen, and here it had. He was mine to feed and teach and love and hold and support forever and I was his… what?

In that tiny room that for the eighteen years we lived there, I could never define, I was presented with what I had become, for better or worse, ready or not. At that exact moment, I became something and it was not something I had ever dreamed of, or something I could know or predict or define just yet. I had become a mom, and the definition would come later.

You know what’s formative. It’s when for five months out of each of your first twenty-eight years of life you have to tense your shoulders up to your ears to keep out the cold. That’s 4235 days of not being able to take a deep breath into your lungs without them burning and constricting like you’re going to have a heart attack. It’s 4235 days of piling on increasingly heavier clothes until you’re so weighted down you don’t ever think you’ll stand up straight again. It’s 4235 days of holding on to people because there’s a good possibility that you’ll slide on the hidden ice that is waiting to rearrange the bones of your spine.

I’m not angry, I’m furious. You shouldn’t have to choose between playing outside or feeling the ends of your fingertips. You shouldn’t have to cut a conversation short because the wind decided to pick up and plummet your already freezing skin to dangerous levels. You shouldn’t have to plug your car in overnight, just so it starts and you can go to work the next morning with your head hanging out the window like a dog because the defrost that the auto industry normally equips cars with can’t handle a normal Minnesota winter.

So I’m really not surprised, it took me seventeen years, to emerge from the tiny nest I’d fashioned inside myself with bits of kitten fur and a stray kind word. It was a warm, cozy place, where the fire crackled. But it was lonely, and I knew the only way I’d leave is if the next twenty-eight years I could let my shoulders relax.

Tonight it is Brad Pitt. Some nights, it’s the more playful Paul Rudd, or the sultry and mysterious, Johnny Depp. I remember Johnny Depp nights very clearly. For awhile it was the bad boy, Leonardo DiCaprio. I saw Wolf of Wall Street, and couldn’t get him out of my head, even during sleep.

But tonight, it’s Brad. He and I are at a party. Strangers for now. But I know he’s there. I can see him move through the crowd effortlessly, with a boxer’s grace. People love him. Their eyes brighten under his gaze.

From across the room, he sees me. Watches how easily I laugh. The way I brush back my hair. Shift my weight. He is intrigued, and I draw him in.

We talk. I make him laugh. He asks me what I do. I tell him, and he is in awe that someone so beautiful is also so smart.

The room gets tighter. People press against each other. Our bodies are pushed closer. I comment that I admire his work, not his film career but his philanthropy, who he really is, underneath. He finds me charming. Real.

He leans in, places his lips against my ear and whispers that he thinks I’m wonderful. That we are meant to be together. That I am the only one that truly knows him. It really doesn’t matter what he says. I only comprehend the intimacy of his breath. The heat radiating between us. My body shivers.

He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me even closer. I lay my head on his shoulder and let myself melt against his torso. He says he loves me. Deeply, I breathe him in. I too am in love. So completely in love.

Dec. 25, 2014. Newport. Rain slants in from the ocean. Waves roll up the rise of Yaquina Beach. At home, Santa and his Christmas pals are in boxes, taking a year off, and I am breathing the salty air, exactly where I am supposed to be.

I’ve been reading. Find three feelings your soul desires. Use them to live authentically.

I chose

freedom. A two hour drive West with Rob and River, a wet hike along the coast, then outrunning waves on the beach.

beauty. The grey clouds above the churning water. Jagged outcroppings of rock. White seagulls pecking the stone shore. The day wasn’t perfect. There were obstacles. But, I revel in obstacles, it gives life

interest. A sleep deprived teenager, crappy Chinese food, and a call from parents, all led to the ocean and a pocket full of rocks weighing me to the earth.

The last feeling, a given, if you follow the first three,

joy. The sea lions pop their heads out of the water, curious of what’s being missed. I want to join them. I am also curious. What churns beneath the ocean’s surface?

It is a creation. And I am a creator. We are one.

It’s a myth. There are no best years. There are no worst years, either. There are just years that flow by at their own pace without judgement. Like a river. Some years meander through the wild flowers, pleasant enough. Others rush toward the end before you realize they have begun, white water obscuring the views. But all of them weave and cross and flow at their own pace, following the contours of life until it is time to get off and start the next journey.

Finding the best months, weeks, and days is more manageable for me so I pieced together my most favorite months from my life thus securing the best year. A compilation.
It starts with January 2014. After having two morgage payments for too many months, my husband and I sold our first house and paid back the money that we borrowed from our families. They provided funds to help us compensate for finding another house, our dream house, earlier than planned. It was hard work to hold a family loan and an ego at the same time, and finally I could take a breath unhindered in January.

February is the month of my birthday. From 1969-1985 the month of February was mine. Cake and candles. Presents and friends conspired to make me feel special. No matter how many sang Happy Birthday, it was all for me. In 1986, my boyfriend soon to be husband came into the picture. His birthday is two days earlier than mine and I no longer owned the February stage alone. The more the merrier they say. I try to live by that motto but cake two days after you’ve just had cake, isn’t all that special.

March. Well, I’ve never had a good March. So let’s just move on.

April in Minnesota is a time when the snow begins to melt in earnest creating large puddles in the front yard of my parent’s farm. When it freezes, as it always does, they ice over making it impossible to walk or drive without slipping. When we were young Dad would send my sister and I out to create rivers in the gravel to move the excess water down the driveway and into the ditch. All April we’d come in muddied, our boots and gloves soaking wet knowing that our water management project of trenches and canals would produce a dry yard.

May of 1987, was a promising month. I walked across the high school stage and received a diploma, giving me free range to study exactly what I wanted to for the rest of my life. Well, exactly what I wanted to from what the course catalogue of the state college had to offer. It was a leap of freedom with a one hour drive home safety net. Not as grand as it could have been but it felt momentous and practical all at the same time.

June 1991, my husband and I spent in Europe. I had a BA in Political Science and English in my pocket and a backpack over my shoulders. The plan was to work but loneliness won out and travel became the focus. I have the traditional memories, climbing the Eiffel Tower, Venice in a gondola, Big Ben chiming, a train ride through the Alps, the Sistine Chapel. But the memories I cherish more are the odd ones, The huge snails by Neuschwanstein Castle, eating chewy Belgium waffles, getting stuck in the doors of the London subway, being soaking wet and waving to Princess Diana as she drove by, feeling safe with armed guards on every Roman street corner and trying to find Nessie in Loch Ness. We had the best of times on a small budget.

July 2000, my son River was born. He was pink and perfect and had eyes that held a million truths. His middle name is Solomon and he has always lived up to it. His wisdom, even in those first months when he communicated without words, changed me.

August 1989, I said I do, he said I do and then we drank champagne for the first time celebrating with friends and family. Then we drank champagne for the second time watching the sunset on Waikiki Beach. August is palm trees, hula dancers and geckos climbing the walls.

September every year is a great month for me. It was the start of school for seventeen years. A time to meet up with friends and buckle down to learning. But in the 23 years since I find myself preparing for the cooler weather of Fall by gathering pencils, paper, crayons, scissors and bursts of new ideas in excitement for the year to come.

October 2013, we moved from the rural Gresham area to 33 Spinosa, Lake Oswego. Now we’re be part of the city. The number 33 in numerology is a number where anything can happen and it has. My husband and I have reconnected again. We are walking the trails, trying new restaurants, bonding as parents of a teenager, drinking wine with the neighbors, and just getting to know each other again.

November 1996 on a crisp winter’s morning, we left Minnesota with all of our belongings packed into a U-haul. We were bound for Portland. My husband and I had no jobs yet, just a need for change. My dad came along to help drive and move us in. Before he boarded the plane to fly home, he looked me in the eyes and said, “I hope you find what you are looking for.” It was a gift I still tear up remembering.

Dec. 1996 was our first Christmas in Oregon. It was our first Christmas without family. And it was the first Christmas in a long time I was excited for. On Christmas Day, we drove to Ecola State Park to a beach strewn with smooth gray rocks. The sky was cloudy, the fog gathering on the horizon. As the ocean rolled into the shore we gathered as many rocks as we could carry. Then went back for more. I was happy, truly happy. Oregon was proving to have everything I was looking for.

“Am I going to be on the back of this dam thing all day?” I hollered over the din of the motor. “What?” My husband Rob, whose waist I clutched for dear life hollered back. “Would you just stop?” i groaned. The next turn caused me to shift my weight at such an angle, I was sure I was pavement bound. “Stop!” I screamed. As he pulled over I realized, I was going to blow.

Now, it’s hard to be upset with expansive views of deep, blue ocean on your right and lush green jungle crawling up the hills on your left. But we were on Ko Samui in Thailand and I wanted to dig my toes in the hot sand and decompress, not suck in the fumes of a motorbike and shop for a hotel.

The night before had been perfect. We spent it in a tiny hut directly on the beach. When the wind blew, the sand sifted in through the cracks in the walls. It was exactly what I imagined experiencing the authentic island culture to be. We fell asleep to the sound of waves, no air conditioning to interfere. I loved it! Rob didn’t and made sure I knew he was uncomfortable with the dirt, the sweaty sleep, the ox that swam in the ocean feet from us.

And so now, I was being the nice wife and allowing him his choice of accommodations, a luxury hotel at third world prices. But we couldn’t just take the first beautiful location with the picturesque beach, in Rob’s mind there is always something better. And so we were whiling our day away searching for the best hotel with the best price. For an “I like it-I’ll take it” shopper like myself, it was excruciating, but I held it in, like a good wife. Until, as always, I blew.

I cried, I hollered, I pleaded my case that he was the worst husband ever, maybe even the worst human ever. All the while, he looked at me with blank eyes wondering what went wrong.

“You never listen to me,” I accused, as we stood at the side of the road.

“You kept agreeing,” he countered.

“Well, I shouldn’t have. I was just being nice. And you’re never nice.”

“Never?” he answered, in a teacherly voice.

Resisting the urge to run him over repeatedly with the motorbike, I realized I was hungry. “Let’s eat before I kill you.”

After a long discussion over a much-needed meal, we vowed never to be nice. Just truthful.