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Being vulnerable about my feelings scared me when I was young. I decided early in life that if people knew my fears and vulnerabilities, they could use them against me. I don’t know how I came to that conclusion, but I learned to hide my emotions and wear an impassive mask.

By the time I was in the ninth grade, in fact, kids at school had tagged me with the nickname “Spockelroy,” which was a combination of my last name and the name of Star Trek’s half-Vulcan Mr. Spock, who was brilliant and logical, but never showed the emotions from his human half. The name stuck for a couple of years.

Learning to get in touch with my emotions — well into adulthood — saved me from an empty life. Learning to feel and learning to be vulnerable saved me from continuing down a road of dysfunction toward something ugly that would have been a natural destination for me. Today, I’m very open about my feelings and vulnerabilities, because I know that going back into hiding would kill my heart and destroy any possibility of receiving the love I so desperately need.

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As I stood in the ankle-deep water of the Cahaba River late Tuesday afternoon, it was so serene that time seemed to stand still.

I had ditched my shoes and rolled up my pants to wade into the water for a better view of a warm golden sunset. The water was unseasonably warm for a late February day. I stood there feeling the water rush against my legs as my eyes took in the color and majesty of another perfectly routine Alabama sunset.

In the stillness, I couldn’t help but think that the scene before me had played itself out — like perfect clockwork — for many hundreds and thousands of years. It occurred to me that if I could somehow transport myself back in time — say a thousand years — to this exact spot, I would be watching a sunset that would be essentially the same, depending on the clouds that day.

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My dogs and cats have taught me a lot of things over the years, though I’m sometimes slow to learn. Lucy taught me something this weekend — and I now feel foolish to realize she had to teach me something that should have been obvious.

Lucy hates vacuum cleaners. This is common with a lot of dogs and cats, but her fear is the worst I’ve ever seen. She seems to think her life is in danger and she goes into a terrible panic.

You might remember that when she came to live with me two years ago, I was told that she would always be a “special needs dog,” because she was terrified of the world. She’s made so much progress that I almost never see that side of her anymore — but the vacuum cleaner still brings it out.

I can be stubborn, for reasons that have to do with both personality and training, and I’ve been stubborn about the vacuum cleaner. I’ve said all this time that she had to get accustomed to this device eventually, so I’ve not kept her away from it.

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