by Jill MacGregor

I have a spot reserved in my heart for the small voice that speaks at the exact moment the yammering crowd silences –when the noise parts and the small voice says the thing everyone is to afraid to say—and usually the last thing I want to admit.

Finally.

Sort of.

But until that voice speaks, the yammering persists. And amidst all that noise, seeds are planted—well, thoughts get planted—firmly, in my rocky, little pea patch of a brain and sometimes the one thing that thrives is doubt.

Excuse me while I second guess myself.

Psst. Shut it. Busy in here.

This small voice—let’s call it clarity, bright and glaring. My horrible internal friend who would never be mistaken for a yes man, by anyone’s definition.

This small voice, is not always kind but it is so on the money. Its sentences often start, “You know exactly what to do, you big whiner…” and “Seriously?”

This small voice is the first to announce: “Something is not working. Welcome to your crossroads.”

To which I respond, “Aww dang—again? Sumbitch…”

Choosing the Right Story for Yourself

Bringing things together in your life requires patience and persistence and percolation.

I love alliteration.

Developing your personal mythology is not for the faint of heart. Your story gets really interesting at the So, here I am at a crossroads part, especially in retrospect. In the moment, it’s a churny pain in the ass.

Let’s look at what got you here.

Untying Your Knot

For things to change, something usually has to stop or end. Sometimes it’s not your choice; sometimes it’s not any easy choice to make. And at first, you might even miss the thing that you’ve let go off and you may notice that it’s left a little black space where nothing else seems to grow.

Loss can make you hesitant. Loss can also make you fight for the wrong things.

Wrassle. Struggle. Fight. What do you want me to tell you—that it’s not fair? Maybe, but this story is yours for a reason.

You’ve got something to solve.

It may all start with some reoccurring pattern—that’s usually what the struggle is all about. That thing you thought you had already done for the last time but here it is again just in different wrappings.

Truth, the hot stinking truth—it begins to seep into your situation and you welcome it the same way you welcome noxious gas. Why is it that something that is designed to be such a solid, helpful reflection of our internal and external situation can make us hide and deny its existence? Truth is such an influencer even though our ego likes to claim that role for itself.

Cue denial. Perhaps it will only make a short cameo.

But, you’re starting to get it. Because that small voice keeps chirping—it is the smoke detector that has a dying battery. It’s going to keep beeping until you change the battery.

Truth–just try to ignore it. It will stand too close until you feel its breath on your neck—truth is a bullying, forcing function. Truth can be very intimidating—how do you argue with something that’s –well, undeniable?

But you do spend some time arguing it down ‘cause you’re so smart—and you are as effective as a drunk arguing for his car keys. You want it your way. But the truth has no flexible points. It is what it is– clear and firm.

The Desire to be Real

“It’s not what you did. It’s what you do next.”

A friend said this to me while we were philosophizing and it has stuck in my head, echoing around in the wide open spaces of my mind.

It’s not about the damage. It’s about the reconstruction.

Not about the omission but the commission.

Not how it ties you down but how you free yourself.

It’s what you do next.

I have a tendency to rub my face in my mistakes, like a bad dog who should know better, hoping that the sting of shame will be enough of a reminder to keep me from making the same mistake again. It can be hard to pry myself out of the constant replay I force myself to watch.

I bet we all do that to some degree.

Shake it off like a wet dog. Your task is to live in the present.

What are you going to do next?

I bet it’s going to make us pick up our pompoms and shake our asses.

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by Jill MacGregor

liminality: a psychological or metaphysical subjective state, conscious or unconscious, of being on the “threshold” of or between two different existential planes

I harbor a deep and growing resentment toward the horoscope in the Sunday paper. It repeatedly tells me *today is a 7*. I cannot get past a 7. Every flipping Sunday—7.

My horoscope score (HS) is a 7.

I just invented Horoscope Score^TM.

Everyone else is having 8’s and 9’s…it makes me think they get tired when they get to September and they say, “Aw, let’s just give the Virgos a 7 again. They won’t notice.”

But we do. We are Virgos. And that in itself is not always easy—nor is it often a 7.

Liminality showed up in recently my horoscope and caught my eye…it felt so very *not* a 7.

Sidebar: Sometimes I read other horoscopes only to gather evidence against my argument of being a 7. Because, of course, I want to be fully prepped to defend my case in Horoscope Court. Best argument to date: I am definitely not a 7—maybe more of a 9 or, dare I say it, a 10—because I am experiencing liminality.

So, moving from the topic of my horoscope rage…I think there might be something to this liminality–excuse me while I overuse my new word. I do feel like I’m in a bit of a jumping off place (HS 9)-—maybe a launching pad (HS 10)-—or if nothing else, some sort of transition (HS 7).

Transition is such a boring word, boring like buying tires. When you think about it, a step forward involves one foot in the past and one foot in the future. Passing from one to the next—let’s call it what it really is.

Time travel (HS 11).

My next step creates the past just as it creates the future.

Liminality. So much more interesting than transition.

Jill is experiencing liminality. Jill is liminalious. Liminalicious. Even though I’m not sure how to use it in a sentence, I pretty sure it will make you study me and wonder.

And not think I am just having a mid-life crisis.

And, as you study me and wonder, you will notice that things are mid-process, that colors are slipping off me only to be replaced by new ones. You will see all that I have shed lying in a heap at my feet and wonder about the slightly raw and pink newness that has taken its place. You will nod at my desire to stretch my new baby muscles, tight like rubber bands.

You will think words like re-invention and rebirth.

That sounds so much more glamorous than mid-life crisis…

But the Virgo in me wants to distill it down to its truest nugget – and also find something I can use properly in a sentence.

I’m doing gap assessment.

Once you understand where the gaps lie—that tender spot between what is and what will be—you can then lash your bridge together and close said gap.

This will allow me to touch something that I once could only see from a great distance.

That’s got to be at least a 9.

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by Jill MacGregor

Action expresses priorities.

~ Mohandas K. Gandhi

Drowning and Swimming – both involve water and splashing about but, of course, you’d never confuse the two. You may think that’s a ridiculous statement but reflect a moment. There are choices you make, things you decide to do that make you sink like a stone in life yet you tell yourself that they represent forward motion. You are in the water and there is splashing…but you are going down.

Are you struggling for the fun of it? And as you say “Why would anyone choose to struggle?” three or four people will probably pop into your head.

Are you one of them?

Ask yourself this: What do you think you deserve?

It can be very simple: Are you able to say please and thank you—and really mean it?

But that is other people. You’re fixing to get to that super important life changing thing as soon as you make it through your to-do list.

Sidebar: So that I can avoid all the messages from friends asking why I wrote a blog post about them…this is not about you.

This is about all of us.

Which one of these feels familiar?

The Finger Puppets, Dancing Bears, Key Shaker—

You’re very practiced at finding that clever way of not getting it done completely or correctly each time. You avoid your goal by adding yet another elaborate task to the mix. You’re the man behind the curtain, pulling levers, creating smoke—hoping that no one ever discovers that you are a fraud.

You don’t seem to be comfortable getting what you want. But all the talk you do certainly distracts the crowd. All the puffs of smoke and brightly colored scarves in the air…there’s a lot to look at even though it contains no substance.

You’re afraid. But we all live that moment. Put away all your magic tricks and tall tales and start talking about your fear. Pick one person. You will probably hear this: “Yea, me too.”

Everyone has fears. Gently give yourself permission to be human—the rest of us already have.

You are a doer of great things.

The Gift Blocker—

It’s never going to be right for you, is it? You’re always wishing that it had happened at a different time or a different way—because then it would have been perfect and only then could you have enjoyed it.

Your focus is on the *not* and *if only* portion of every situation.

Maybe there’s a part of you that feels this approach shields your from disappointment–to start all new endeavors with low expectations. But you’re really making a declaration: please take your stinkin’ gift back because I can tell, without opening it, shaking it or holding it up to the light that it is subpar.

Opportunities are given to you, just like gifts, and you never know how a gift will change the course of your life.

Life is a bag full of surprises and you, you are here to LEARN.

Because let’s face it. If you knew everything, we would have put you in charge a long time ago.

The Spin Cycler—

You make problems for the sake of making problems and love the accompanying struggle like it’s a badge of courage. You spend a lot of time tying tiny little knots in things, then spend more time untying them only to call it *progress*.

Imagine all you could accomplish if you used all that energy in a different way.

Creating churn and froth is not forward motion. Churn has no give back. It’s not a sign of innovation to build something only to tear it down.

Honey, hop on the Love Train, immediately. Your burning need to identify everything that you think is wrong is delaying you from seeing everything that is wonderful.

So, no more pretending, no more avoidance. Quit being a puss about it. Today. Accept the gifts. Embrace the positive. Allow for differences. Be your strongest advocate. And, become a laser beam for all you wish for—even if deep down inside you think you don’t deserve it.

Here are some easy words but also a possible hard truth: you do deserve it.

Get ready.

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by Jill MacGregor

giving the paparazzi the stink eye in my younger years

I have found myself running into the girl I used to be lately. You may think that must mean some carefree version of myself, untethered by serious adult themes but that would not be the case.

I’ve definitely gotten younger as I’ve gotten older.

But I am rediscovering an old theme—an old ghost—that used to keep me up at night. It’s that first hurdle we all are faced with, I think: What am I supposed to do with my life? Who am I supposed to be? What am I meant to influence? Am I smart enough to recognize the signs that will point me in the right direction?

Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever stopped asking myself these questions.

These questions definitely got stirred up recently when I found an artifact in my closet.

I keep thinking about it.

It’s my Strong-Campbell Interest Inventory Assessment. I can’t believe I still have it. I remember when I got the results –some 25+ years ago—I thought it was full of shit. Because at 23, I already knew everything.

EVERYTHING, people.

Except what to pursue as a career.

At 23, I was using my double major of French and International Studies to manage a trendy, little bakery. At this point, I think it’s important to remind you that “croissant” is French and I pronounced it better than anyone at the bakery.

Yep. That’s what 6 years of French and living abroad for a semester will get you.

So I baked. And I loved it. I loved researching new recipes. I loved the science of baking and its demand for precision. I found that the toque I wore at work was tremendous camouflage for my increasingly unusual hairstyles/hair colors. No customer knew what was going on under there until I *released the Kraken* at the end of my shift and the long pink curls fell over one eye in direct contrast to the buzz cut on the rest of my head and the –gift with purchase–long purple and blond tail.

My hair was a strange cross between Burt Lancaster in Elmer Gantry and the female singer in the Thompson Twins.

It was the ‘80’s…

But here was the rub. You see, the 2 years after college I’d watched many of my friends put on suits and go to traditional jobs that somehow corresponded with their college major while I put on my apron and baked.

And as time passed, I began to feel the difference in the choice I’d made–to the point that I began having very quiet conversations with myself about doing something that might involve working for the MAN and following a path I proudly fought for no real reason…other than being young.

So, I searched a bit of counsel.

And, as I sat across from the career counselor, my erupting fuchsia curls assaulting her very senses –and at the very college that encouraged the pursuit of my French major even though the reasoning for my choice was “I like French”– I realized she was just a few years older than me.

But she wasn’t wearing Birkenstocks or smelling oddly of chocolate and vanilla or thinking, as I was, that I needed to go to the co-op and get some falafel before that new client stopped by to have me read their Tarot cards.

She was probably thinking how nice she looked in plaid and that her brunette bob was never going to go out of style.

I imagine her thoughts were peppered with ideas about career trajectory and maximizing her potential.

I was a little jealous of her at this moment for her ongoing clarity that led her from one sensible decision to the next. It made me feel a bit…cartoonish.

I approached the test results the same way I would have approached a horoscope: slightly skeptical but still hoping to find some definitive answers for my life.

She said my results showed that I would probably never be a farmer or in the military, as if a single glance wouldn’t have allowed us to come to that conclusion. I rated lower than low when it can to teaching, especially as a foreign language teacher, or any career that ended in -ist or -ian.

I scored very highly with the Artistic themes, though, especially with art and writing. There was a high score in Adventure, however that is translated. The job that popped highest on my results was advertising executive.

That would so be working for the man.

I shifted nervously in my Birks and rolled my eyes.

I also scored highly with the Enterprising themes especially in the Sales related field.

I was horrified. Selling? That is so what the MAN would want me to do. Sell a thing to make money. It sounded horrible.

These results seemed to fly in the face of the life I was currently leading. Because, people, at this point, I was volunteering at the co-op to get my 15% off of my organic kefir. I took my own jars…And lets all remember this was 25+ years ago which officially made me…a granola.

Alright. Get the picture? I was a pink haired, Birkenstock wearing granola who ran a bakery and read Tarot cards professionally on the side. My friends and I discussed our auras and the use of cranial sacral massage to rid us of baggage from our past lives.

When I left I felt quite certain that the test only had the ability to discern my dislikes and absolutely lacked the power to tell me what I should do with my life.

I discarded the (NOT)Strong-Campbell Interest Inventory Assessment that day.

So imagine my surprise when I found these test results—which are such an ancient artifact that they are printed on paper.

Because when I short list my career and interests now…well, I ended up pursuing everything that damn test said I would.

When I eventually left the bakery several months after taking that test, full of fear and the absolute knowledge that I was doing the right thing, I started a 20+ year career in advertising sales, working at TV stations around the country. Much to the horror of my woo-woo friends…

I’m an artist and have been showing my paintings for the last 5 years.

And I’m a writer.

Show off-y test.

It makes me feel a bit like a word problem—that somehow I can be solved mathematically. And I’m sure you can understand how frustrating that is to the girl with the pink hair and too many piercings– that she can be so easily deciphered. After all the work she had put into being unsolvable.

I couldn’t help but notice how things have changed—and how they have stayed the same–when I ran into this girl I used to be. We both live by our intuition but I notice, now, how much more informs my intuition than when I was younger—fortunately.

And, we both love the smell of the unbeaten path and slightly uncharted forward motion. It has always led somewhere interesting.

If you like this, you may want to read:

by Jill MacGregor

I have been practicing being strong with my least strong part.

My weakest part. I map its boundaries, feel out it’s yes and no and then try to push past that a little bit more, a little bit more, like a runner trying to steal second base.

There’s nothing like being on crutches to be reminded of how much people want to help for no reason other than to lighten your load. People make more eye contact and smile. Open more doors. Ask how you are.

We seem to need that visible sign of weakness—it gives us permission to help. Without the visual prompt, it is easy to forget that everyone is practicing to make their weakest part stronger…one way or another. And that your offer of help is welcomed.

I am sitting on my couch in my stretchy clothes finishing my morning coffee. Christmas lights are still twinkling while Kate Bush is singing about her love affair with a snow man for the trillionth time– *spoiler alert*–he melts. The two kittens I adopted weeks ago, Lizzie and Nox, are bookending me, one high and one low, alternatively making biscuits, giving each other baths and snuggling with each other.

I feel very content.

The sky looks full of snow—this I derive from living in the Midwest for decades, a place where figuring out the weather is as serious as laying a bet. But after 15 years in Seattle, I know the house will always win…skies are not used to predict here…they usually change like a mood…of a small child…who may be having a tantrum.

I’ve taken off a few months to heal from a hip replacement and I feel great. I was taken care of, and because of my slightly thorny nature, this seldom is allowed to happen. My family took care of me. My friends took care of me.

Strangers took care of me.

But there’s something about receiving all that care…it put me in such constant proximity with gratitude on a regular basis.

They may have replaced more than my hip.

My incision travels up the side of my right hip for 12 inches. Yes, I measured it. It is my 4th big incision. Four–one for each hip surgery. I always request they take out the last incision before they add a new one. Maybe they’d do that anyway and they are humoring me, allowing me my moment of power as I hand myself over to them oh so powerlessly.

And, now, I find myself quite amazed…I have so much more energy now that pain isn’t casting a dark cloud over everything. I feel a little younger, which is slightly ironic as I find myself bent over a cane.

For now. Just part of the practice.

One of my friends told their daughter about my surgery. Her 6 year old response was wide eyed with discovery. “Jill’s a robot,” she stated slowly as she realized I was probably the only robot she knew.

So now I have a titanium rod where my drilled into, pinned, arthritic like a 90 year old chunk of femur used to live. And a lovely, gliding ceramic hip joint were there once was bone on bone.

We should rename my femur. Femur sounds so * original parts* instead of new and improved. It should be a name that sounds strong because I want to be STRONG. I want it more than having a small ass. I want to do those karate side kicks. I’m ready to run in 3 inch heels. I long to take 2 steps at a time.

Femurnium.

Rodmur.

Titanbone.

But I understand, first, that I will need to be off the cane to accomplish these things.

So I practice.

All of this fresh, newness has me thinking as I enter the New Year. The New Year—it always feels like a freshly painted stage on which to perform. The demarcation point when we can let go of the things that no longer serve us. The moment when we officially give ourselves permission to begin again.

As you start your new year and continue your work of making your weakest part strong, ask yourself these questions.

What are you deciding to accept?

Acceptance can mean so many things: it can represent forgiveness, loving not in spite of but because of and seeing beauty where you once only saw flaws. But the shadow to that can be doing something because you feel you have no choice, staying in a situation because you feel there is none better and giving up and embracing a long love affair with your pain. Remember–its always about your choices and you always have choices.

How are you managing your journey?

The first step of any journey is understanding where you want to go. How do you want to feel on this journey? What kind of people do you want to surround yourself with? How do you want to grow? What practical steps need to be taken to move forward?

Are your problems really problems?

Maybe your problems are simply puzzles. And the best way to conquer any puzzle is to step back from it, alter your perspective and reconsider. You may just be using old, worn out strategies. Its been your *problem* for awhile now, hasn’t it. Perhaps your hitting it with a hammer on a daily basis is not going to provide the solution you need. Try one different approch today. Ask for help when you need it–you are not responsible for recreating the wheel.

Wishing you the best this year as you continue to grow strong.

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The Incredible Force and Other Childhood Games

By Jill MacGregor

I need some glorious.

Shove me into spectacular.

And genius—dip me in some genius.

Smack me with astonishing.

Elbow me into marvelous.

MORE.

More can mean a lot of different things especially when it meets the fork in the road known as Quantity and Quality.

Maybe you’ve realized a dream only to understand that now you see more, you need more, you can do more.

Life is funny that way. You climb to what you think is the highest peak only to be met with an even more expansive vista at the summit. You realize how much more there is out there.

You thought this would be a place to rest and catch your breath… Your muscles are stronger now—the mountain you just climbed—that enormous challenge you just mastered—it now looks a bit easy-peasy, doesn’t it? And let’s face it; you’d feel a bit like a puss climbing the same mountain over and over again, wouldn’t you.

That’s because every challenge makes you more capable—and forces you to constantly redefine what more means in your life.

And what means more.

Easy—the four letter word.

Whoever got anywhere by doing something because it was easy? I totally get the difference between easy and natural, though—I always try to get to natural. It’s where I keep my best stuff.

But easy…whoever inspired others to do great things because they had accomplished something that was easy?

Maybe your dream should feel just a little bit dangerous and slightly out of control. As if you are trying to drive on ice.

It is now time for a story.

Please, Jill, please.

The benefits of willy nilly risk

You know, when you spend your high school years in the booming metropolis of Austin, MN—Home of Hormel—you learn quickly that danger is not around every corner.

So, you have to create it.

And not like *danger*…and then we died—more like *danger* …and then we screamed and laughed at the same time.

In High School, before my girlfriends and I grew out of our braces and glasses and developed our look, we were just funny and kind of smart. Possibly quirky and interesting, in the right circles.

Special activity: we would conjure The Incredible Force.

Although my friends would attempt it, they could never fully give over to it. They were a little too restrained for The Incredible Force.

Sidebar: We also played Inertia and Centrifugal Force. Those two games were very predictable and short lived and mainly happened on rides at the Fair. Additional note: I was a Friend of the Band…the Marching Band…don’t judge.

We might have been a little weird. Small town. Cranky Norwegians. Many months of snow and ice. Falling down and losing control were regular themes from October through March.

Best location for the Incredible Force: A deserted, darkened hallway in our high school.

It’s a very simple thing. The goal was to lose all balance. In a moment of extreme silliness, someone yells “It’s the Incredible Force!” and as if someone had shoved you from behind, propel yourself—hurl yourself–out of control. Imagine spinning and running at the same time. Anything that would set you off balance the fastest.

As you did that, you would pick up speed with each out of control step, bouncing off of whatever surrounded you until you struggled for your footing, spinning and straining to stay upright as you tripped repeatedly over your own feet– fighting falling down and staying upright at the same time.

I loved its contradictions: I must hurl myself and relinquish all control while I fight to maintain by balance and stay on my feet. I delighted in not knowing how I’d end up. How long I’d stay on my feet, if I’d fall or just run out of hallway.

So where the hell am I going with this one?

As adults, we have reasons for doing things. Lists of pros and cons. We think and think and think about why and how and what, carefully plotting our course.

We give ourselves permission based on strange criteria: Things like: I should—because it’s my turn– or a good/strong/ ambitious/person would do this. None of that seems to be driven by joy.

What if we decided to do more things because they were pleasurable, they fed us—and they were their own reward?

I’m afraid we multi-task our *reasons why*.

What if there’s something to conjuring The Incredible Force at this moment—in all of its uncontrolled, bull in a china shop fashion—making your gut your truest method for ballast, making each step—unplanned and unsure as it may feel—an opportunity to right yourself.

Perhaps every step forward is an opportunity to locate and harness your Incredible Force—even if you feel off balance in the process.

My mind goes to memories like this when I find myself alone in my emotional dark hallway, over thinking the next step. Forgetting about the joy in not knowing—wondering if I will fall or go further but understanding that I will laugh all the way.

If you liked this, you may want to read:

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by Jill MacGregor

She knew.

She knew it the same way a little bird knows which branch to land on.

I imagine my body told her as I held her and cried after the phone call. She detected the change. I didn’t need to have words to tell her what was going to happen.

Nothing surprised me more than understanding that she knew that that day was her last day. Because she was just ready.

Even though I wasn’t.

Suddenly, her every focus was the sky, the expanse, the wind in the trees—she wanted to be part of it. This sweet cat, who happily spent the greater majority of her time under the bed awash in her cushy blankets—-unexpectedly wanted perches that were elevated and allowed her to see as much of the sky as possible. She seemed thirsty for it.

It was just one more thing that made me certain that she was ready to be away.

Our last day together was full of anything she wished: drinking shower water, sitting outside in the cold Fall sunshine wrapped in blankets, cozy fires and love. And no one trying to force food down her: no syringes full of mushy food, no having to dodge the town of small bowls that appeared each day—the daily failure in trying to get her to eat more than a few bites.

That day and her sweet, knowing presence helped me understand some things.

There is a privilege in the pain. I wouldn’t have the sadness if I hadn’t had all the love. Those who are dear to us and the pain of their loss is wound in us like a double helix from the first moment, making us who we are.

They know—whoever they are in your life. There is very little you can hide. For every situation when you think you are not revealing something important to another—know that you’ve already said it a thousand times without your words. And somewhere in their core, they understand.

So, really…just say it. Good or bad.

Be in the moment. Make final moments a celebration, whatever they mark. Simple as they may be. It really is the little things that are so significant.

There is a silence in my home now. I have moments when I forget that she’s not here. I still go to call for her…I make a plan and she’s still somehow in it. I didn’t understand how she had become a ritual to my day.

Such a tiny creature to leave such a big hole.

My sweet girl, Emma 1995-2011

by Jill MacGregor

My birthday is on September 11th.

So, as a friend recently reminded me, I can make this September 11th the 10th Anniversary of that September 11th—or I can celebrate the 10th anniversary of my 39th birthday.

It will probably end up being an odd mix of the two.

Having my birthday on Sept 11th reminds me of how connected we all are—often by the most contradictory of feelings.

It reminds me how we’re connected by healing, by outrage, by grief, by loss–by resurrection and rebuilding and making all stronger. You hear the stories of people, united in grief on that day, coming together each September 11th to volunteer, commemorating the day by helping others.

That’s now.

Back then, if there was some reason I had to offer the date of my birthday, people used to actually wince.

I stopped celebrating my birthday on that day for several years. Just couldn’t do it.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I know so many suffer from what happened on September 11th in a very real way. What I experience is a mere inconvenience.

Something happened not long after that day and, I bet if we each thought about it, we’d all have an oddly, similar story. Initially, it seemed like I was just doing an everyday thing. But when I look back at the experience, it feels very different.

In Washington State, you have to renew your license on your birthday, every 5 or so years. And, strangely enough, I had to renew my license that year, weeks after it had happened.

It was a time when we all moved more cautiously. We were quieter. I remember having a *duck and cover* feeling the first time I saw a plane in the air after September 11th.

It’s easy to forget how it was—how we were during that time…when we were all in mourning.

So, I find myself at the DMV to renew my license and it feels utterly unnatural to do something so mundane, weeks after something so enormous has happened.

There is no wait, no line.

The man behind the counter calls my (unnecessary) number and I approach. His manner makes me bristle—I feel he would be the same if he were in a bar fight or at work. He asks me why I’m there—without making eye contact because he does not care and I am that unimportant to him. I begin to categorize him as the stereotypical DMV employee who hates his job and everyone he comes into contact with, just doing the bare minimum until quitting time.

I notice that his thick, rough accent is definitely from New York.

And then I think, “HE IS FROM NEW YORK”.

The thought catches me off guard, as if I am encountering something mythological that I have only heard of in stories. He might as well have been a unicorn. Which is stupid because one of my best friends in from New York and regularly says things like *cup of cawwfee* and *paawk the caah*. But, anyway…

I feel myself soften, thinking about his family and friends. Is he still waiting to hear about people? Did he lose people? Family?

I smile at him but it doesn’t matter because he’s still heads down. I hand him my expired driver’s license, he glances at it and he stops.

He just stops.

He’s noticed my birthday.

I can tell that something has shifted in him. He looks up at me and makes eye contact. But it’s not casual. He locks me with his eyes and they are so surprisingly blue. I was so surprised by the softness of his blue eyes. And as he begins to talk to me, his voice is suddenly soft, too. He’s not saying anything really important—just DMV stuff—but there is suddenly a gentleness about everything he says to me.

And he never looks away.

“Your birthday,” he says. It’s not a question. There’s no *dot dot dot* after his words.

“Yea,” I respond.

“You’re from New York,” I say and it’s not a question.

He lifts his chin, his version of a nod.

We look at each other, quiet, taking in the living symbol we seem to have become to the other.

I am the day and he is the place.

“Have you heard from everybody?” I ask him.

At this point, I really would like to hike myself over the counter and hug him because I see him steel himself. He pauses; putting his emotions in locked boxes before he speaks.

“Still waiting on a few,” he finally says. “And my brother.”

My eyes get shiny–but they used to get shiny a lot back then. Because at that point, it had been weeks and it was becoming very clear that if you hadn’t heard about someone, you weren’t going to.

I nod at him, not looking away. Because there were two conversations that were happening at that moment: the one with words and the one without.

I didn’t offer platitudes or false hope. We just held each other’s gazes and nodded.

There was nobody in the DMV and, being genetically predisposed to NOT taking a good picture, he let me take my picture about 8 times until I “didn’t look as if I’d had a neurological event”, as we say in my family during our photo opportunities. He gave me tips for taking the best DMV photo—chin up and out—and we sort of…played. We were silly.

Taking picture after picture in the very empty DMV.

It was a needed break from all of the heaviness and sadness; in the last place you’d expect it to happen–with a stranger I never saw again, but think of often.

If you’re looking for ways to volunteer in your community and mark September 11th in your own way, you may want to start here:

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by Jill MacGregor

I am a confident driver. Out of my way—yield to me. That feeling you have, other driver? It’s you knowing in your core that I have the right of way—that your speed is hindering me from closing the gap from timeliness to late AGAIN-ness. I am quite sure others consider me safe and benevolent as I let them in during rush hour… but come on.

I am the only one keeping score on things.

And I’m really not paying that close of attention to how the final tally is constructed.

When it comes to how I drive, there is no East German judge. It’s just Me, Me and Me! And I say *10’s* across the board.

I am so great.

But yesterday, I began to tally. I’d had several honking/gesturing moments with other drivers and I’m quite sure I pulled out in front of an oncoming semi.

Cement Mixer + Jill = cartoon flatness

I began to replay the honking/gesturing fits other drivers had initiated with me that day.

Hmmm. New thought—here it comes.

Maybe it was me, I said out loud. What an uncomfortable concept.

My next question?

Maybe I should ask myself this more often?

Well, that’s just a bag of snakes, isn’t it? Maybe I should start asking myself that question not just about driving but in general—during those moments of unease or friction—or whatever the emotional equivalent is to honking and mad gesturing…

Because, it seems when you ask yourself this question it is either laced with self loathing or dripping with arrogance. There must be a middle ground.

So, I have a little story.

A few years ago I had a fung shei party and while we drank wine and ate stinky cheese—a friend of mine who was a practitioner revealed the mysteries of the “bagau”, the fung shei map for measuring the placement of objects and the energy in a space. We discovered why clutter makes us insomniacs. We discussed the four elements; earth, fire, wood and metal, and the importance of balancing them in a room.

As she gave us this info, I mentally mapped out my own condo, making sure I had my wood and metal in the proper places. I was startled to find I shouldn’t have electrical appliances in my vitality quadrant, previously referred to as the kitchen.

I moved to the loft–my bedroom. This is where it gets scary. Initially, I marveled at my innate ability to place everything in the most desirable bagua quadrant. Then I get to my relationship quadrant.

I was horrified to realize that the cat box is in my relationship corner.

Side bar: Where does one put the poo?

I began to wonder if my *success* in love was directly tied to the placement of my cat box in this space. It had to be—it couldn’t be me, right?

I said, RIGHT?!

How simple this would be to remedy! Why, it would be all rice and doves in no time if only the litter box was not in the northeast corner of my bedroom.

But, I noticed a second culprit, this one tougher.

There’s also a toilet in my relationship corner.

Oh.

Stumper.

Where does one move the toilet? I realized I asked myself this the same way I sometimes ask myself if my life would have been different if I’d chosen a different major in college…because, merde alors, I seldom am parle-ing the francias, si vous get what I’m dit-ing.

But until I get that Way Back Machine it doesn’t’ much matter what the answer is…so, you get my move the toilet vs French major quandary and its lack of relevance in the real world.

And, as if that weren’t enough to hog tie a single girl, I notice a third problem stinking up my relationship corner.

I have three postcards in this corner—of the same Magritte painting. Three. Emphasis. In case you missed it the first two times…there’s a third one.

The postcard is headshot of a man and woman, hands clasped together, both melodramatically facing east, cheek to cheek. I thought it was so clever. You see, the man and woman actually have scarves over their faces obliterating their vision and the piece is called “Love is Blind”.

Did I mention there were three of them and they were my relationship corner? You know, up there sucking the love out of the room with the diabolical assistance of the cat box and the toilet.

Three of them.

“Love is blind”.

Cat poo.

Flushing. Sexy, sexy flushing.

So I had a choice at that moment. I could buy in 100%, put the cat in diapers and paint everything vivid red or pink *grimace* and plaster all wall space with hearts, flowers and symbols of love.

Or I could stop, reflect and say, well, that’s an interesting theory, and keep everything as it was.

I went somewhere in between. Because. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was just in case.

My plan: Bedazzle.

I started with the cat box.

It was a whorish mess.

Ten kinds of wrong.

The cat worked around it, shaking her head each time she entered her sparkling shit house. I (apologetically) noticed the look of concern on her face as she considered what else dear god in heaven was going to be inappropriately decorated.

For the sake of love.

One by one my little rhinestones fell off the cat box—foreshadowing–the cat began shaking her paws every other step as she encountered the stickiness. Shaking her head, she would shoot me a side eye making me realize that perhaps I had taken the wrong approach.

Really? Her cat look would say. Really.

Thank you, kitty. You are so wise.

It didn’t seem to make any difference in my love life where the cat box was or what it looked like or if my tiny bathroom had an oversized heart shaped rug from IKEA that was clearly meant for a teenager who had yet to develop her taste—in décor or men.

And as the last plastic gem stone fell off the cat box, I made the decision to buy a new cat box and return to age appropriate neutrals in the bathroom.

Everyone in the house (read: me and the cat) seemed much more comfortable with this less sparkly approach.

Why did I do it? I guess I did it so I didn’t have to ask myself the question—Is it me?

Because, bottom line, it is much easier to make a trip to IKEA and the craft store than to look inside and think deep and hard about the part I play.

I’m a firm believer in intention and its power in our lives, how we can create a stage and set the desired events in motion. But I’m also a believer in examination. I guess the trick—or the goal—is to never allow one of those to replace the other.

Look hard and believe harder.

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