As soon as I got home from the film, I started researching animal organizations that I could volunteer with. The urge to have my own dog was overwhelming after the seeing the main character’s relationship and love for dogs. If I couldn’t have my own, at least I could be around other pups in need of some TLC. I e-mailed a few groups, hearing back from a woman who attached the volunteer application. Once I read the weekly time commitment, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. I wanted to play with dogs whenever I could and they were looking for consistency.

My interest in volunteering continued to have themes. After I saw a YouTube video about third-world hunger, I Googled the sponsoring organization, filled out an online form and received a personal e-mail to call someone to discuss my interest. I appreciated the quick response, but knew that wouldn’t pan out because I hate talking on the phone, especially to strangers.

Despite wanting to volunteer, I never got around to actually doing anything. I researched a lot, but the extent of my goodwill was playing an online game called Free Rice, which donates grains of rice for every vocabulary word you correctly define (or in my case, guess).

Then one day I noticed an update on my Facebook feed about a volunteer organization in New York. After looking it up, I knew it was exactly what I was looking for — not just one cause but a large umbrella of activities (including walking dogs that are up for adoption and art projects with kids and Bingo with the elderly). Because the system was so clear and extensive, I felt confident about finally following through.

I signed up for my first project and after eagerly awaiting three weeks, the day finally arrived. Even though I allowed ample time to make it to the East Village, I was 15 minutes late. The orientation had explicitly said that we needed to show up before the kids to familiarize ourselves with the project. I called our coordinator and left a message, hoping my tardiness wouldn’t earn me a bad reputation.

The kids didn’t start showing up until 15 minutes after we expected them. I was hoping for one of the younger girls, like the 2-year-old already at the computer singing along with Barney. But two sisters walked in, hugged the project coordinator and then stood right in front of me. The decision was made for me.

Daysi was 7, going into third grade and didn’t take much time to decide that she wanted to research Chris Brown. I panicked immediately. I know Chris Brown. His hip-hop music is the kind of stuff we danced to in college bars. It has a good beat, yes, but mature lyrics and immodest videos and I started worrying about whether we were supposed to aid with moral literacy as well.

But before I knew it, Daysi was telling me about her favorite Chris Brown video with zombies - and pulling it up on YouTube. My heart raced. What if I let her watch something she’s not allowed to at home? What if a curse word comes up? How much grinding is a 7-year-old allowed to see? I was definitely not prepared to make these decisions. I told Daysi we could watch once we finished everything, secretly hoping we’d run out of time. She didn’t look happy. Especially once she looked around and saw that all the other children were playing games on Disney or PBS websites and I was the only volunteer enforcing the assignment.

We spent some time on Wikipedia and managed to make a two-page PowerPoint, even changing the fonts and colors (I’m a designer. I couldn’t resist). I even managed to incorporate GoogleMaps into the lesson, suggesting that we include where Mr. Brown was born. Daysi didn’t know where Virginia was, so I introduced her to my map obsession. She was not impressed.

And then we hit the wall.

Daysi put her head down and wouldn’t talk to me. The coordinator was nearby and asked if she was OK and went to get her sister, who just yanked her head up. Daysi, sounding beyond her years, asked if she could go out on the steps for some fresh air. I stayed at the desk wondering what I’d said to make her shut down. She returned much happier and this time I didn’t fight watching Chris Brown on YouTube. She almost had an outburst because she couldn’t hear the music, but after the project coordinator asked the rowdy boys to quiet town, the problem was solved.

We ended the afternoon playing some maze game against each other, Daysi shrieking that I was doing it all wrong and killing my player each time. In my defense, I had a sharp learning curve and was becoming a competitor. But then it was snack time and Daysi was out of my hands. Sigh of relief.

The six volunteers congregated to discuss how things went with the coordinator. Everyone talked about how they couldn’t get their partners to do anything in PowerPoint and they headed straight for online games. I admitted that my girl hated me, but they were impressed we actually made a PowerPoint and that I showed her GoogleMaps. This made me feel a little less of a failure.

I’ve always considered myself someone who is good with children. I grew up with lots of younger cousins who wound up on my hip getting swayed to sleep. I frequently encourage my co-workers to get pregnant so that I can hold a newborn (I even offer to baby-sit). The lack of connection I felt with Daysi, despite how hard I tried, was obvious. And frustrating. I wasn’t expecting an instant bond, but I also wasn’t expecting a 7-year-old to talk to me about Chris Brown and be so upset with me that she needed to go outside. But maybe me feeling a bond wasn’t what it was supposed to be about. Maybe me just being there and spending time with her, even though it was doing PowerPoint, was enough.

The lesson that volunteering reminded me: It’s not about me.

Graphic treatment by Becka

I blamed this man for making that particular moment so full of anger, hostility and shame. How can he do that? Why didn’t he talk to me first? How anti-social can you be? He is not allowed to do that. What a narrow-minded asshole. Those were the words in my head; I actually let out a very mature “Thank you,” to which he replied with (a no less mature) “You are so welcome.”

Then, I called him an asshole.

I had been on my way to church when this happened. Because I was so aggravated after this incident (which happened right outside my house), I considered not going at all, but then remembered something my yoga teacher had told me a while ago: The heart wants to be dared.

My first thought when he had told me this was that this sounds negative. I don’t know about English, but in German, the word herausfordern (literally “demand out”) connotes attack, danger and being hurt. Why would I want that for my heart? I have enough on my plate as it is, I don’t need to invite any more trouble.

But he elaborated: The heart wants to be dared. It wants to be challenged so that it can grow. Your body can help in that endeavour. You can open your heart physically, draw back your shoulders, lift your chin, lose that hunch you got accustomed to sitting in front of a screen all day long.

So I was riding my bike to church, trying to calm down and get a grip on the strong emotions flooding my brain and my soul, remembering these words. And all of a sudden, I knew, I KNEW what he had meant. I realised my heart had been anxious about going to church even before the incident, because it is still a new and very emotional experience for me, which is frightening for a control-freak of my calibre. I couldn’t know what would happen the first time I had my son with me, and that scared me.

In addition, I had been in one of the darker places of my life in recent weeks, grappling with numerous old and new issues that had been re-born, so to speak, with my son. These issues have nothing whatsoever to do with him, he’s an absolute delight, but they have everything to do with me and with things very close to my heart that I have ignored for far too long.

Opening my heart to all of this, I managed to calm down and take a more forgiving stance, both toward the old man and toward myself. I am not proud of how I reacted, of my self-righteousness and my insulting manner. However, I don’t think he has anything to be proud of, either. But when I opened my heart to him and also to myself at that particular moment, the question of “whose fault is this?” became so utterly irrelevant that the day brightened a little.

I sincerely hope for more of such moments, when I manage to conjure up that inner poise, that outlook on life that says “Here I am. I welcome you, what and whoever you are.” Somewhere deep down I know that even things that would usually trigger anger and its close companion, fear, will then appear in a different, softer light.

Pencil me in under the “nightmare” category.

When I say I don’t like the dentist, I really mean that I hate the dentist. I despise the dentist. I wholly object to the dentist. Worst of all, I fear the dentist.

Saying you don’t like the dentist seems, like I said: obvious. But saying you’re afraid of the dentist feels like something entirely different. It sounds so… 8 years old. But I can’t help it. Right up there with trains, it’s a fear I’ve carried with me through my entire childhood, up the stairway of adolescence and right on into adulthood.

Chalk it up as one part bad experience as a kid, one part to my claustrophobic tendencies and about nine parts being a weenie about mouth pain. I cringe from mouth pain like nothing else in the world, and I’ve made that known. I’ve told friends before that it was my worst fear.

A disbelieving friend asked me one time, “So would you rather be hit in the mouth or in your (nether regions)?” I was able to pause for a few moments, think it over, and honestly tell him I wasn’t sure — I would probably take the shot down below.

I had to be convinced that today’s trip to the dentist was necessary. I nearly had to be dragged from the car, and my nerves only went downhill from there.

When I’m about to undergo some sort of traumatic event, I try to prepare myself by putting it in perspective. I attempt to psyche myself up to provide that jolt of adrenaline needed to make it through to the other side.

When I broke and dislocated the bone in my middle finger a few years ago (or shall I say, when my dear friend George broke and dislocated the bone in my middle finger a few years ago), the doctor told me he would be back in five minutes. He gave me that time alone, and said that when he returned, he was going to break the finger again and force it back into the socket.

See ya in five, doc.

Actually, my first thought went to NFL ironman quarterback Brett Favre. I’d heard a story once that Favre, notorious for being a tough guy, broke his thumb on one play, had it popped back into place and returned to the field the very next play to throw a touchdown. When the doctor came back and inserted a four-inch needle between my middle and ring finger, I was thinking of the quarterback and what he would tell me to do.

Something along the lines of, “Focus. Be tough. Play through it.”

I wasn’t playing through anything, but I felt braver imagining that Brett Favre might be proud of me. However, when the needle came out and the doctor cocked his head to one side to say, “Better make it two shots,” my bravery was tested.

A numb crack and a pop, a tug and another pop later, my finger was back in socket and I’d moved along. The quarterback might not exactly applaud the effort, but at least I didn’t cry. That was victory enough.

And so today, as I approached my darkest hour, the dentist’s assistant jammed one of her barbaric tools into my mouth, my mind danced from calm place to calm place, none of them helping to settle me down. I didn’t know of any tales involving professional athletes and molars, so they would be of no assistance to me. In a state of near panic, with tears forming at the edges of my eyes, my thoughts went to… Carrie Bradshaw.

I should explain.

I’m not a Sex and the City fan, per se, but I’m not entirely opposed to it, either. Until about a month ago, I’d never had an opinion one way or another. I hadn’t consciously avoided the show, but had never found a reason to tune in, either.

I’ve got a reason, now, and I can’t say I mind it. The plot moves quickly, the storylines are engaging, and there’s always at least one 30-second stretch that makes me want to cover my blushing face. I can look past the fact that the show makes men look like pigs who aren’t capable of much beyond satisfying themselves and sweating.

Well, except for one character: Mr. Big. And it’s because of him that I was thinking about Carrie Bradshaw during a dentist’s exam.

See, in much the same way that I couldn’t imagine Brett Favre cringing at having his shattered thumb forced back into place, I couldn’t fathom Mr. Big being afraid of the drill. Was I making a reach? Most definitely. But it helped at the moment.

For all the SATC knowledge I’ve developed through the first eight episodes, Mr. Big seems like the closest thing to a likeable male figure contained in the series. I know it’s likely to change (because that’s the way television works, after all), but to this point, he’s a man’s man. He doesn’t seem like the type to freak out because some sort of tool resembling a claw is being repeatedly shoved into the back of his mouth.

I thought of Mr. Big, and I thought of Brett Favre, and I tried not to think about the metal in my mouth.

And I calmed down. I made it through, and as much as it upset my psyche for the rest of the day, I survived.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that my girlfriend held my hand the whole time. What would Mr. Big have thought? I don’t really care.

She was a Christmas kitten given to my daughter Caitlyn by Santa. We — well, actually Santa — left Caityn a Beanie Baby kitten and a note that told her that she could pick out the real thing at a shelter. Santa was not aware that not many kittens are born in the winter. We had a hard time finding kittens. But a shelter in Lenexa had several, and this beautiful Calico kitten with tiger markings stole our hearts.

We named her Taz… as in Tazmanian Devil. As a kitten, she was a whirlwind. Think Tom Cruise in Risky Business. She would run into the kitchen chasing a fly, a snippet of paper, a piece of string or the wind and then sli-i-i-i-ide across the floor. No tightie whities, of course. Anything on the floor that could be moved was chased, tossed into the air or tackled. Shoestrings and ankles were, of course, fair game.

We brought her home on a sunny day in late January. Although our Golden Retriever, Buttercup, and Taz hated each other on sight, we wrapped Taz (a little spitfire) in a towel, petted Buttercup and then petted Taz. We let them sniff each other (which generally resulted in hissing from Taz and a low growl from Buttercup). But after sweating it out for four hours, the two accepted each other. The next night, Taz slept curled up in the long hair of Buttercup’s tail. They have been buddies ever since. We have loved watching them chase and play and dart through the house. We have listened for the sounds of them thundering through the house in yet another mad game of chase and attack. It’s amazing how gentle a large dog can be with a tiny kitten or a small cat.

Taz is young … only 8. We had planned on having her around for many years to come. She is not your typical cat, aloof and stand-offish. She demands to be petted and will crawl under your hand if you don’t get going fast enough. She knows exactly what she wants you to do … rub and scratch right behind her ears and then down between them. Oh sure, she will LET you do some intense rubbing on the top of the head if you really want to and you will be rewarded with eyes closed in slits and by quiet purring. Don’t even think about rubbing her belly or giving her more than just a quick slide down the back. Failure to remain focused on her head and ears and maaaaaaybe her chin will result in a quick nip. Not a bite, no broken skin, no blood. Just a quick reminder of what’s proper care and maintenance.

I don’t want to tell Caitlyn … maybe because that will make it that much more real, more final. I couldn’t sleep last night so I sat up with Taz and petted and whispered to her until about 3 a.m. I told her that she would be fine, that cats have nine lives and she still had plenty of them left. She doesn’t look bad until you look in her eyes and then you can see that she is suffering. Even then, as I tried to convince both of us that we weren’t going to need to say good-bye, I knew that my promises were empty.

The vet’s call this morning made my words lies.

I hate this.

I’ve always been with my pets when they die. I stayed with Maggie (a Malamute/Shepherd mix I call a Malamutt) until she stopped breathing at the vet’s. I stood by the sink where my cat, Sasha, chose to curl up and wait for death. It came quietly in the wee hours of the morning.

It’s always so hard. And I don’t know if I can do it again.

I know it is silly to be so upset. There are such bigger problems in the lives of people I love.

Color me particularly blue today.

P.S. Taz continued to decline. She meowed pitifully at me when I went down to pet her Sunday morning. I held her close for several hours Sunday night. She seemed a bit stronger. As I left for the first contract day of the school year on Monday, I knew she was worse. Much worse.

We took Taz back to the vet that evening. I asked if he was sure about the diagnosis. Could the diagnosis be wrong? Could there be any hope? Was she suffering?

He told me that it was time to let her go.

“So I’m driving this hot rod, right?” he begins his story, his one brother and two sisters leaning in close, surrounded by their kids and their kids’ kids. We had survived the 12-hour car trip to Sioux Falls, S.D., for my mother-in-law’s family reunion, with five of us crammed in a car. We spent the weekend participating in late night card games, drinking in front of the fire pit, feeding each other until we were stuffed and swapping recipes.

On our second day in Sioux Falls, we were sharing after-dinner drinks around the table.

“And I pass this motorcycle. He passes me, and I pass him.” Roger smirks and knows his family isn’t surprised.

“We continue this until…” He pauses and his hand goes up in the air, spinning in a circular motion to signal police car lights. “A cop.”

A giggle rises from the family around the table, mostly followed by knowing eye-rolls.

“So he pulls me over, and the motorcycle, too,” Roger continues. “Walks up to my car. He points at the guy on the bike and asks if I know him.” Roger shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “I say no.”

Laughter.

“He said, ‘Well you guys seem to be following each other. You’re going a little fast.’ Again, I say, ‘Well, I don’t know the guy.’ And what’s the next thing he tells me?” Roger looks around at his listeners. “He stands back and says…’This is a pretty neat car.’”

Laughter explodes around the table. Kathy, my mother-in-law who is the youngest of the four, has her hands to her face like a little girl, unable to control her laughter.

“And says to slow down and lets me on my way,” he said with a sweep of his hands, as if he had known the cop would say it at the time.

I laughed. I had not shared any stories or interjected any thoughts for the past while, but I was enjoying myself too much. The weekend was more relaxing than I had expected. It also made me reflect more on life, the passing of time and family more than I had planned.

The day before, we had all gathered in Aunt Barb’s garage to watch “home videos.” The adults were excited like kids, covering up all the windows and already swapping stories before the videos even came on. To my surprise, Barb pulled out old-school movie reels.

The garage was hot and stuffy with the door closed. Bright afternoon sunlight peeked its way from behind towels that had been hung in front of the windows, providing just enough light to see the profiles of family members crowded on coolers and folding chairs. As the movie started, there was no sound and the image flickered, but it was in color. Everyone kept excitedly pointing out themselves and recalling details to the stories being depicted on screen.

In one video, a Christmas one, my husband Cody’s grandfather strolled into the mess of wrapping paper and bodies as a strapping young man.

“Look, there’s Dad!” Kathy exclaimed, nudging me. “He walks and talks just like Cody.”

Cody’s grandfather died in 1987. Cody doesn’t remember anything about him, but there he was… tall and lanky, just like Cody. He was wearing a trench coat and a Dobbs hat. Despite his attempt at appearing intimidating and mysterious, Cody’s grandmother was giggling nonstop behind the camera.

I had met his grandmother several times. She passed away a year and a half ago, and the family has never been the same. Cody didn’t talk about it for weeks. She was the one who insisted on yearly reunions and kept the family together. When Cody proposed, he held out to me a tiny dried yellow rose that he kept from her funeral… “The one thing I have that means the most to me,” he had said through glistening eyes. Cody and I used the same yellow flowers in our wedding that had been on her casket.

It had finally come around full circle. When Cody’s grandparents were young, they didn’t plan on getting old. They knew they’d get old, but they didn’t spend their time worrying and trying to prevent the inevitable. So they planned. They celebrated Christmases and raised their babies and went to church and lived the best they could while documenting good memories, and they made it through bad times. They had silly fights and played goofy games and cried happy tears. They were young, just like us. And now they’re gone. But that doesn’t make me sad. It makes me happy and hopeful. Because even though they are gone, they left four happy adults, each with children who have children of their own. As a group, it’s a sight to see…and quite large, really. To imagine that two normal people in love spawned this troop of lovers sparks a bit of hope in me. With their death came new life that is continuing in every which way.

So instead of worrying about the future — what might happen, if I will accomplish enough, or if my life will be significant enough to make a difference — I will be like Roger. I will continue to make stories, tell them and pass them on, and I will continue to love and to hold my family close.

I spent July 30 through Aug. 10 in southern California, and, for the first time in nearly two years, I had plenty of time to read.

Looking for Alaska by John Green

No one should have to deal with a stranger’s sobs — especially not at 30,000 feet. But halfway through John Green’s second novel (Looking For Alaska) and halfway to California, I forced that burden upon the retired army general in seat 28A. He kept reading his newspaper; I e-mailed my sister an angry message from my iPod. “You should have warned me. You suck. I am very mad at you. Love, Becka”

About 20 minutes later, I had my tears under control and he asked me if I was coming or going.

“Coming. I’m teaching at Chapman.”

“Oh. Sad book?”

By the time we had landed, I had powered through the second half of the book, and I had explained that, No, I don’t teach architecture, those grids on my computer were for print design. And Yes, I get a little emotional over words. And No, I’m not staying in California long, but Yes, I had seen the beach there before.

The general’s demeanor was perfect for my emotional style: He acknowledged that I had been crying, but then he got on with the conversation. He quietly — silently — let me know that it was OK to feel however I was feeling and, with a few mundane questions, he “told” me he understood.

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

This month, God (or something god-like) seems to be tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Look at Me. Think about Me. I love you; love Me.” I’ve always been pretty secure in my belief in nothing in particular, but…

August 10: I was stressed out about breaking a lease and choosing a new place to live and the possibility of agreeing to live with a stranger and her cat. Then, with the chirping of digital crickets, my cell phone rang and I was offered a puppy from Kansas Specialty Dog Services and my housing situation became less of a choice.

Tap.

August 12: I shattered my computer screen in a moment of inattention in San Diego, and had been both actively avoiding making and too busy to keep an appointment with the geniuses at the Apple store to check it out. I was concerned Jesse Cash (my favorite genius) had no option but to tell me I had killed my computer and would need to spend $3,000 to replace it. But a new genius plugged my computer into an external monitor and keyboard and, instead of proclaiming a time of death, assured me that I’d be OK.

Tap. Tap.

August 13: My landlord threatened to take me to court — and, waving receipts for $2.30 faxes, let me know I wasn’t welcome on her property (but that I still had to pay rent). Then, buckets of tears later, she scrawled a note on a half-sheet of paper that releases me from my lease and even made a little joke. Our friendship was more important than money.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I have begun to count the second book of my California trip — Eat Pray Love — among the evidence in God’s favor.

My trip to California was supposed to be half-work, half-vacation. But six days in, it felt like all work. I was low on sleep, low on joy and even lower on peace; I had spent 144 hours without a moment alone (we were staying in dorms), and the lack of time to recharge was taking its toll.

So, when Greg went to WalMart I asked him to buy me a book — any book. He called from the store and asked for more direction than that, and all I could think to say was, “Eat Pray Love.” Then he asked me if I liked Jodi Picoult. I said, “Uh, sure, that’s fine, just not The Tenth Circle or My Sister’s Keeper.” (And thought “No! No! No!”). I fully expected to be reading Picoult’s Picture Perfect that night, but when Greg showed up at my dorm room door, he presented a WalMart bag holding Eat Pray Love.

Uh… TAP.

The book is basically a travelogue — the story of one woman’s travels through Italy, India and Indonesia as she recovers from a nasty divorce — but it’s also a story about finding God (or gods, or energy, or peace, or…). I cried while reading on the way home from California, too. My tears — this time happy — were met with puzzled concern by the soft-voiced Persian woman sitting next to me. She tried to comfort me, but quickly realized that I was sharing in the joy of the author and switched to asking about the book.

I’m still not sure what any of this shoulder tapping means. It could be that God (or gods) has been there all along, but He (they) just recently decided that I need to start recognizing my charmed life for a spiritually affected one. On the other hand, I’ve been charmed all along; if whoever or whatever caused it wanted me to care, wouldn’t He (they) have let me know by now. Or, maybe, I am just searching for a reason to be so lucky (because damn am I lucky!). I’ll figure it out. Or maybe not.

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

A third book has been living in my Mexican mermaid beach bag purse since I got back from California. My copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife is a little banged up, though I haven’t read a page.

While I was in Oceanside, Calif., visiting Natalie, we stopped by Target to buy me a rolling suitcase (my backpack and messenger bag wouldn’t fit the four yearbooks, pair of super cute jeans and the High School Musical beach towel Natalie bought me). After choosing a bright orange suitcase (and sadly walking way from the $24 glittery, pink camouflage one (complete with water bottle and make-up bag), Natalie and I stopped by the book section.

I was pretty sure I’d finish Eat Pray Love on the flight home, so on Natalie’s recommendation, I bought The Time Traveler’s Wife. Natalie grabbed a copy and led me around the store. She told me about her first read of the book (in Italy, basically non-stop). We wound through racks of clothing, talking about ideas (as opposed to people or things) pausing to interrupt ourselves to question the taste of Target’s newest featured designer and the practicality of corduroy shorts. She carried the book; I pulled the suitcase.

This short shopping trip — between an attempt to attend Spanish language Mass and dinner at a place that specialized in Teriyaki dishes — is the reason I happily lug the book everywhere I go. Even though I know I don’t have time right now to read — I need somewhere to live; I’m starting training for a new job; school starts next week — I desperately want to have books I am as excited to talk about as Natalie was to recommend The Time Traveler’s Wife to me. I miss that.

When I read, I am lost to the world, but it is the world — with its generals and its gods and its Natalies — that makes me want so badly to read.

I love it because I feel like it suits me better than any other car I have owned. I have a hitch-mount bike rack that I wish I could use more often and a roof rack that will someday carry a kayak. It’s a manual transmission, which I love, and has plenty of room in the back for the transportation of goods. I can even fold down the back seats for more room. One of the best things about my car is that it gets great gas mileage. It’s for these and many other reasons that I think my car and I will have a long and fruitful relationship.

For all of the reasons that I love my car, there are two things that I dislike (I guess no relationship can ever be perfect). First, the cupholders. Worst cupholders I have ever seen. They are the incredibly flimsy kind that fold out of the dashboard, and half of the time they can’t accommodate the jumbo sodas I indulge in from time to time. Horrible. Second, the windshield-washing feature is apparently broken. The windshield wipers work, and I have seen the reservoir for the windshield-washing fluid under the hood, but I have never been able to figure out how to make it squirt onto the windshield. This would have come in handy on many occasions, as bugs tend to accumulate on windshields.

But one morning about a week and a half ago, I made a discovery that made me fall in love with my car all over again.

It was my first official day of work at my new job, and it was raining pretty hard. My windshield wipers were on, and I actually remember being glad that they were getting a chance to clean the windshield. Because it was a special day, I decided to do something a little special on the way to work, so I stopped at Sonic and ordered my favorite drink in the world: a vanilla Dr Pepper. As I pulled under the awning to make my order, I no longer needed the windshield wipers, so I turned them off. My drink arrived soon, and I lamented the wimpy little cupholders one more time as I shifted into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. I went to flip the lever that turns on my windshield wipers, and the most amazing thing happened: windshield wiper fluid came splashing onto my windshield! I quickly glanced down to discover that what I thought was just a lever actually had a button on the end of it. Who knew? Sheer exuberance radiated from deep within my soul and flowed throughout my entire body.

I was so excited I almost didn’t know what to do. The funny thing is that it was raining, and I didn’t need the fluid at all, yet I proceeded to wash my windshield five more times in rapid succession. Had you been able to witness my discovery, you might have thought I found the cure for cancer. I have owned that car for more than a year and spent that entire time thinking that I would never be able to wash my windshield from inside the car. It was almost like finding a $10 bill in your heavy coat when you wear it for the first time in winter. Except that I would equate this more to finding a $50 bill. That’s how excited I was.

I caught myself about five minutes later and thought it was funny how something so simple could bring me so much joy. Perhaps it’s not funny at all, but perfect and wonderful, and exactly the way it should be. Many of the happiest and most enjoyable times in my life have been similar moments. Unexpected and seemingly inconsequential, yet joyous and extraordinarily blissful. Windshield wiper moments make life just a little bit sweeter.

And I can only hope that the next time I have such a moment, it will be a cure-for-the-lousy-cupholder moment.

My girlfriend and I moved several days ago. It wasn’t amicable. It was a messy, tabloid-style divorce with all the drama-trimmings. Television and faux-reality television programs champion moving like it is a universal reason for celebration. I can’t think of a single thing I hate more in this world. Maybe Diet Coke.

I look at the wound and try to count the species of debris wedged into it. It reads like a pagan grocery list. Drywall dust. Cumin. Rabbit fur. Wax. Fertilizer. The house has become a whirlwind of airborne sediment. Everything we neglected to sweep or pick up is swarming through my nostrils, my pores. Pausing momentarily to collect myself, I take a deep breath and immediately wish I hadn’t. I smell terrible.

This all began months ago. Before I had to rent a U-Haul. Before the bank told us they did not have sufficient paperwork. Before the house we toured that reeked of urine. Before my girlfriend and I were at each other’s throats. Before I was scraping myself on boxes and appliances. Before all that there was only us and the lousy housing market. Somewhere in the American mess of the economy and poor leadership and the mortgage crisis was an idea. I know who came up with it because it wasn’t me.

We knew what we wanted but didn’t know the drill. Cautiously, like walking barefoot through a gravel lot, we began making inquiries. Calls to lenders and agents. E-mails to friends and coworkers. Trying to keep a lid on it was like trying to catch smoke. Once people learn you’re interested in buying a house, they suddenly become real estate gurus. Lying about our progress became easier than explaining the heartaches.

Everywhere people were telling us that now is the time to purchase. It’s a buyer’s market if you’re a millionaire. If not, you’re in a rat race with other feverish young couples, and investors with lawyers and hordes of cash at their disposal. Both of us learned this the hard way. We wait a day to think on it and lose it to a developer. We make an offer and the paperwork is approved thirty minutes too late. The frustration builds. I tell my girlfriend I don’t want to move.

The agent shows us houses in our price range. Predominately foreclosures. Vagrants have broken into many of them and made a nest. Windows are broken and plumbing lines are ripped from the undercarriage. One place smells of death and we when leave, we are covered in fleas.

Everyday, every weekend, people quiz us about our house search. We understand they are interested and concerned, but it’s tiring to explain our failures. We avoid the conversations and quickly change the subject. They take notice and assume the worst. It’s like trying to tiptoe around chemotherapy.

Two months pass and we have noticeable fatigue. I think we’ve made four different offers, maybe five. We’re looking at fewer units but traveling more frequently. In order to avoid getting scooped, we must look the day a house becomes available. It’s a culture of last minute emails and contacts. I leave my cell phone on until midnight.

The places we haven’t completely ruled out are crippled in one form or another. We give them nicknames based on their features. The Fortress. The Piss House. Kitchen Sinkhole. Big Peach. Vagrant’s Lair. The Bus Stop. We exhausted most of the properties in the area. Our agent suggests we start looking at houses in the suburbs.

One night we get an e-mail around 11:30. Our agent has found a place that goes on the market the next day. It looks decent. We schedule a showing during lunch. Excited is the wrong term because we’ve become so jaded. By now we are just going through involuntary motions. They are now part of our instinct.

The showing goes well. It has its faults, but it is affordable and livable. We put in an offer a few hours later. The ballad of bureaucracy begins.

Paperwork is signed. Notes are made. The good news is the house is solid and we have the first offer. The bad news is three other offers came in the same day after ours. I wonder if invisible forces are trying to destroy us.

Days pass and negations continue. Phone calls, e-mails. I get lost in the cavalcade of terminology. We have a closing date, then we don’t. Times get moved around. Numbers change. I weigh myself and I’ve lost eight pounds.

Eventually we get a green light. I want to do a victory dance, but after all the defeat I just wait for another suckerpunch. The bank says we can close and throws together a clusterfuck of things I’m too dumb to understand. I yell things and my agent asks if we are angry with him. We arrive at the firm and sit and endure and run through the hopes and pace and wait and chew our lips until they are raw. The bank is uncooperative and there are moments I dream of leaping across the veneer table and breaking the attorney’s nose. I tell my girlfriend this and she advises against it.

The sun sets and we sign the final contract. We are homeowners. Pulling away from the firm, we head immediately to our new house and begin moving in. More than a week later than scheduled, we have a place to sleep. We unload the truck and toss everything into scattered piles amid the three bedrooms under the shade of nightfall. There is no time to enjoy this. We leave the boards on the windows and crash on a makeshift bed. The water is not on so we sleep in our filth.

That first night seems so unreal in my mind. I recall the ordeal we passed through to get here. Our little, turbulent journey. The scratch on my finger has ebbed, though it still stings like a motherfucker. In time it will scab and join the untold scars on my hands and feet. I walk outside and notice our yard. Even full of ant dunes and crab grass, it’s a beautiful sight. I gulp deep breaths like it was aromatherapy.

This is the new beginning of our life. It feels like the afterbirth of an immense purge. The weight on my chest is gone and yet there is not a flow of satisfaction. Instead I’m left wanting another challenge, another obstacle. The blackness ahead is now behind me. All that’s left are my tiny scars.

Glancing down, I see chlorophyll stains on my feet. Freshly cut blades of grass litter the sidewalk, and I realize someone has mowed our yard. I look over at my new neighbor doing yard work. He gives me a courteous wave of his hand. I wave back and return the smile. All in front of me, the sounds of bustling neighbors fill the street and I invite them into my ears. Behind me, my girlfriend notices I’m not coming back in and she softly shuts the front door.

But for the first time, I understand, at least in a small way, what it means to live in a drought in a climate that’s really only a step away from being a desert — and to finally get rain. Things are green in Colorado, but it feels forced, like the grass would be much happier to be brown and tough, thank you very much. My first impression of the state (after the mountains, of course) was of reddish rock and dirt and hardy scrubgrass. With more than 300 days of sunshine a year, clouds here are generally a tease. They gather and darken and look threatening, and then they dissipate, at which point someone in my house usually storms into the backyard, looks up at the sky and yells “Just DO it already!”

Because I’m from a climate where it rains fairly often, my gardening skills reflect that expectation. If I forget to water my tomato plants, they’ll be fine. It’ll rain soon. Except then it doesn’t, and my plants become things you can describe with adjectives like “crinkly.” Our neighbors have lawns; we have a dirt patch. I refuse to water grass in a semi-arid climate in draught conditions on principle. My students are embarrassed by this and covertly water the lawn when they think I’m not looking.

This summer has been dry, even for Denver. We’ve had 24 days in a row over 90 degrees, almost all of them sunny. We get teasing sprinkles, a few drops that splatter on the ground and practically sizzle away. We pray in our churches for rain for the fields, and I with my one crinkly tomato plant feel a sudden sympathy for farmers who truly rely on the rain for their living and their sustenance.

Last Thursday, I sat home alone, a few days after my summer community had moved out of the house. The clouds gathered and looked threatening, but they didn’t scatter. A cool wind blew in our open windows. As I lay on the couch journaling, I could hear a drumming sound on our metal awning in the backyard. The awning always makes it sound like it’s raining harder than it actually is, so I didn’t pay attention until the drumbeat got louder and more sustained. Finally, I got up and looked outside — it was pouring like I had never seen it do in Denver, the kind of pour where the rain just becomes a curtain of water. I ran outside excitedly, and quickly ran back inside when I realized how hard it was raining. So I stared hungrily outside the window, watching the water pool in our backyard dirt patch and stream down the driveway. I ran to close the windows at the front of the house, where rain was blowing in sideways and soaking our bookshelf.

It rained for hours, for the rest of the afternoon. The backyard threatened to flood, but the dry ground gulped down the water. At one point, the drumming on the awning became particularly violent and I looked out to see pea-sized hail filling the yard. But in that afternoon, the change was palpable. Everything seemed to be stretching and opening, almost relieved to be able to soak in the moisture. And I shared their relief. For a day, I didn’t have to be outside, doing, watering (or fretting about not watering). I could just sit, and be, and let nature do what I couldn’t to take care of the dry earth. My job was to just sit and soak it in, and let myself get a little less crinkly. I did it gladly.