Day 16: 4:28 p.m.

My kid has gerbils.

Chocolate Chip and S'mores.  Or is it Oreo and Chocolate Chip?  I have no idea.

They are not my rats.  They are her rats and they live in a glass terrarium with a jar full of ash where they take odd little dust baths.  There are wooden houses they eat.  There are two wheels for running, which they eat.  There is a water bottle, which they try to eat.  Their teeth are so sharp, they will obliterate an empty toilet paper roll in 32 seconds.  We know, we've timed them.  An empty paper towel roll will last for about a minute.   To hold them, my girl has to wear gloves.  Without the gloves, they'll gnaw her finger right to the bone.  S'mores did that once, or was that Chocolate Chip?

The point is, these rats have sharp teeth and they live in our house, in the kitchen to be exact.

Gerbils, my girl would correct.  They are gerbils in her world of cuteness but to me, in the world I occupy, they are vermin.  They are rats. 

And they are nocturnal.  This means they gear up at about four p.m. and it's run, run, run on the wheels like they are being chased by a man with a gun.  Run, run, run.

As I compose this post, I listen to the damn rats spin in their cage and I note that I haven't seen one homeless person since Monday.  It's Wednesday.  

So I want to write about all this but what to say and I let my mind go blank for a moment.  I just listen to the rats rattle around the wheel and it's all so futile.  That's what I think.  "You stupid creatures, what are you doing anyway?" 

And here come the questions: 

Q:  What do I want?
A:  Happiness.

Q:  What is my greatest fear?
A:  Not being happy (and being homeless).

Q:  What is happiness?
A:  I really don't know.

Being happy is a relative thing, to me.  What makes me happy as I sit here, all domesticated in my house, with the rats behind glass?   Justin's organic dark chocolate peanut butter cups, vegan cinnamon donuts from Whole Foods, my daughter when she laughs, my son when he dances and my beloved's voice with his deep southern twang.  Happiness arrives when I make enough money to pay the bills, when I can bank money for the proverbial "rainy day," having a car that works and water that is clean and enough toilet paper and a boy who remembers to put the seat down and a clean refrigerator (I need to get on that).  Health insurance doesn't make me happy but it's a relief to have it considering the impossible cost.

But all these things are outside my control.  Once I have them, happiness may arrive but then, when the stimulation is gone, what happens to the happiness?

Where is the happiness that lasts?

Is happiness a home? Money? Food? A child? A lover? 

The happiest I have ever been is when I had nothing.  I had left my husband of eleven years, left the house that cost us half a million, left the money that was in my bank account (and there was a lot), left my car, left even my kids (no, no, I was coming back) and I even shrugged off my career as a writer which I considered to be a major fluke.

I took up residence in the mountains of Colorado.  I lived in a tent.  I had a backpack, an air-mattress, a pump for the air-mattress, a flashlight, bug repellant, a cup, a plate, a fork, a pretty crummy sleeping bag, a black moleskin notebook and half a dozen mechanical pencils.

Damn I was happy.

Each night I fell asleep under a wide dark sky, the sound of wolves all around and sometimes, there was also the roll of far away thunder that was so big it shook the ground I slept on.  A million plus stars rained down and I was in my place.  Small.  Tiny.  Puny.  For once I didn't think about a damn thing and I had a lot to think about too.  What would I do without my husband?  What was my life without that man?  What kind of mother would I be?  Where would we live?  What would I do for money?

In the morning, even before the sun, I was out of my tent and into a pair of hiking boots.  With only the sound of my own breath, the puff of cloud that came from my hot lungs against the mountain cold, I hiked up a hill, took off my boots and padded into a canvas covered yurt.  I wore a pair of wool socks, a fleece jacket, a pair of kahki pants and I looked like hell, smelled even worse, but I was so fricken alive, it felt like energy shot through my whole body, this electric wire of aliveness.

I won't talk about spirituality, that's my deal from an earlier post, but that's what I was doing up there, in the mountains.  I was sitting down and breathing in and out and not thinking.  Which isn't really spiritual at all when you think about it.  We call it meditation because we need a label but that's not really anything.  What is meditation?  It's just butt on cushion and breathing until it's time to eat.

Big deal.

What's so spiritual about that?

Nothing, that's what.

And I was happy.  It was enough.

I had nothing.  I was homeless.  I was pretty much without a dime to my name while I was up there and what I had, damn, I gave it all to my teacher.  I couldn't get rid of my paper money fast enough.

I think about that time now.  I think about my fear, here in the city, where I live like everyone else.  Mortgage, work, bills that blow my mind and the surprising cost of food.  The day in, day out grind.  I'm no different than Oreo and Chocolate Chip.  I am a rat going around the wheel and it's all so futile.  That's what I think.  "You stupid creature, Jennifer, what are you doing anyway?"  I'm going in circles chasing what?

What do I want?   Happiness.

What is happiness anyway?