When I started my blog, I wondered what I could do that would be different and compelling. I decided to be open about my life, not use the blog to look good, and only post photos of cute animals. Being honest is often painful, so few people are understandably uncomfortable doing it. In a world where hardly anyone minds their business anymore, being open often feels naked as if a bullseye is painted on my forehead. Some people need to get off on others being weak or authentic.

Sincerely and honesty are considered hypocritical, mean, or false.

The upside is that I  have worked hard to be authentic, which has helped me be honest. Being open has made me a better human.

Acknowledging my vulnerability has made me stronger and less angry. But sometimes, I am jarringly reminded just how vulnerable I am.

Yesterday, within an hour or so, I had two experiences that jarred, unnerved, frightened, and left me spinning.

The first involved Zip, our new barn cat.

I was away in the afternoon, and Maria took him to the vet for the last vaccine booster shots (he will get his shots every year, just as Minnie and Flo did.

Zip is nowhere near as calm or accepting as those two were. He freaks out over being confined in any way or getting stabbed with a needle. Getting him into a cat carrier was no small thing; he fought all the way, and although he sat still for his arrow, we knew he would be distraught.

He was.

When Maria got him home, he shot out of the cat carrier and disappeared for several hours. He was frightened. At heart, Zip is wild; he has no history of being forced to do anything or confined.

All of this was new to him – being forced into a crate, riding in a car, getting jabbed several times.

Maria said he was okay but was rattled. Once out of the crate, he let the techs do their work.

Soon after, I pulled into the driveway. I’d driven to Manchester, Vt. to get some food for Thanksgiving (an hour each way round trip), and I was angry with myself for wasting so much time when I could just have checked online or called to see if they were open. It was dumb for me not to do it.

I pulled into the driveway, beating up on myself, and was startled when I opened the car door. Zip came shooting out of nowhere and rushed toward me as if he had been waiting. He never came near my car but ran and leaped into my arms. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Something was wrong.

I held him closely as he stared into my eyes, and I felt he was looking to me for comfort. Nothing like this involving a cat had ever happened to me before. I walked up to the back porch, Zip clinging to me, and sat on a chair. Zip is a solid and independent creature, rarely in anybody’s lap. He is more extended and hungry. But, like me, there is a vulnerability there I had not seen.

I know little about cats. I don’t understand the relationship Zip and I have. I sense it is a good thing, but it also confounds me. He is challenging me to face up to the broken pieces of me. I am not as strong as I think.

Zip was trembling in my arms, which I had not seen before. He is constantly in motion and never surrenders in that way to anyone.

He looked into my eyes, and I rubbed his back, scratched his ears, and spoke with him. In a calm voice, I told him it was okay, he’d be fine, I was sorry I wasn’t there with him, not that it would have mattered much.

No one is sweeter and more gentle with animals than Maria, certainly not me.

I held him and talked with him for about 20 minutes.

I realized suddenly that the trembling had stopped, and he was now purring. I almost cried when I realized he had run to me for comfort.

I could see that he wanted me to help him calm down and feel safe. He purred for another five or six minutes, hopped off my lap, and hurried towards the barn. He was done. He felt better.

I saw that his swagger had returned. I was the one who was almost trembling at that point; his trust in me deeply touched me and, for just a few minutes, his need for me. Fearing intimacy is a problem I’ve had all my life; Maria was the first person to break through the screen, but I was still guarded and fearful of it. I believe I am always learning to be open; my life requires and enables it.

Zip has surprised me by breaking through the screen and trusting me this way. He’s also got my emotions to a boil. He has me confused.

The second thing that happened – I believe it was related to the first – was that when I brought a handful of thin and square almond cookies into my study, I foolishly put them on a San Disk card reader I use to store my Leica pictures and transform them to my computer. It was sitting on my desk, waiting to be inserted.

When I write, and there are vegetables or plant-based crackers to snack on, I don’t look to see what I am doing. I reach for the bowl while I write and put the cracker or celery in my mouth. I was chewing on several crackers when I realized I was chewing on something that cracked, something more complex, something with plastic and metal in it.

I felt a wave of panic when I spit out the chip, wiped it clean, and inserted it into my card reader. About 100 photos were in it, and none appeared on the screen. The chip was cracked, and the reader couldn’t read it. The photos were lost, and the card was ruined. I didn’t think I had another.

I couldn’t believe I had done such a stupid thing. I was mortified, embarrassed, and furious with myself. Maria heard me cursing and talking to myself and came into the room. She said it would be fine, and she couldn’t help laughing. When I thought about it, I couldn’t stop laughing either. How many times in one’s life can one say they ate a card reading chip? And losing those photos, some of which I loved, stung.

It wasn’t a big deal, but it felt like a big deal. I thought for a few minutes I was losing my mind.

It took me a few hours to settle down myself. I wished I had a Zip to comfort me and rub my back. Maria and I both couldn’t help but laugh about it, but inside, I was chewing myself up.

I realized that Zip coming to me for help in that way triggered an intense emotional response. It frightened me, touched me, and spun me around. It was new to me, especially from an animal.

I went to Vermont this morning and got the food I wanted for Thanksgiving. When I got home and unloaded the car, Zip suddenly appeared at my feet. “Hey,” I said, “I’m busy now; I can’t visit with you.” And he turned and walked away, trotting towards the chipmunk tunnel he loves to hover over.

I was surprised that he turned to me and mortified that I had stupidly destroyed a card chip with photos on it.

This is life, I thought. It is constantly moving, changing, challenging, surprising, and playing with us. I wasn’t sure how to feel about my response to this. I only knew I needed to keep my promise to be open and authentic. I knew I had to do what I always do when frightened and ashamed. I had to write about it.

The world of social media is often filled with people who use messages to hurt others or to make themselves seem better and stronger than they are.

That doesn’t work for me. I am learning to deal with my fear, my anger, and my vulnerability. To be stronger, I have to understand my weaknesses.

I’m learning to be a man who can comfort a cat at one time and eat a computer chip soon after.  Intimacy is not dangerous any more. I am learning to be honest so that I can see myself.

I know these two things feel connected to one another. I just haven’t figured out how.

Yet.