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 always 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.

if you liked this, you may want to read:

Image Credit–Jill MacGregor

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.

If you liked this, you may also want to read:

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by Jill MacGregor

I’m learning a big lesson right now, I think. About fighting. I love to fight—fight for what’s right—or better—fight to BE right.

Oh, but there’s more. It feels good to fight to prove you’re strong, fight to prove you can, fight because sometimes easy doesn’t feel as valuable. Fight to tell the world something’s important.

I fight a lot. Not always for the right causes.

What would happen if all the energy I put into fight was put into something else?

So… this lesson. I understand that until I finally learn the lesson(s) I will be a fighting machine—and probably not in a good way.

I’m starting to think that instead of fighting, the real issue may be to find the way to let something be good and positive just the way it is. Not as a pushover. More in a *breathe deep aaaaand release* kind of way.

You may have noticed that I haven’t written for a while…it feels horrible, by the way, as if I am very hungry but am only allowed to eat Pixie Stix. As if I am going to a beautiful art museum only to be met by elaborate displays of chicken bones and bent fork mobiles…banjos in the background… As if I can’t get the last pickle out of the jar…you get it. It’s unsatisfying, to say the least.

I guess I have a story here.

It starts with pain.

Pain is great reminder that something is wrong. And I’ve been getting reminded regularly that something is wrong with a pain that grabs my hip like an angry fist. Digging into me and stopping me in my tracks—like a horrible game of freeze tag I never asked to join. This thing has reacquainted me with finite. And I HATE finite. Finite is a bully who takes away my choice.

Lesson 1: Find the infinite beauty in all things even when they’re a pain in the ass.

So, here it is: my clutch is slipping and I can feel it going.

Several months ago, I started limping–again. And that may seem like nothing to you. But to me it is a big, giant *uh oh*. Decades of my life have been marked with this: limp, cut, hobble, limp, heal, limp…repeat. It’s my hip. Three surgeries since I was 12 and now another one. At this stage it is unexpected, or at least, premature.

Now they recommend a hip replacement.

This is a problem with a solution. What’s the big deal then?

It’s not supposed to happen now. Simple as that. My last surgery occurred so this wouldn’t have to happen for many years.

Lesson 2: Find the opportunity in Plan B and embrace the moment, even though your choice is not the choice.

This was not what I was expecting to hear when I visited the doctor. And once I dried my angry tears and was left just with my anger, I devised a plan. A plan to trick my hip…wouldn’t be the first time I done it.

I’ve developed a strategy throughout my life. If I can’t figure something out, can’t make it do what I want, I have learned that I can hack it.

hack: an inelegant but effective solution to solving a problem

So I began to work my plan to find ways to trick this thing, this troublesome hip.

I decided to mind over matter the hell out of it. I dragged my hip to the gym and made it walk fast on the treadmill—and do lots of leg presses—like a normal hip would. Yea…not so much with this one but it did accentutate that gimp along I was perfecting.

I went to a healer. I am a firm believer in things I cannot explain. I’d visited this healer before and he delivered relief I couldn’t explain. This healer converses with my spirit guides while I lay on a massage table, eavesdropping.

His hands hover over me, never touching my fully clothed body, plucking at the air as if an invisible harp is resting the length of my body.

“So, we’re going to work on growing cartilage and muscle.”

“Dude,” I respond. I mean I know he’s a healer but…dude.

“And it will be uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable would be a step up”, I say.

He continues plucking at the air.

“So, what do my spirit guides think about me?” I interrupt.

He laughs at their silent response. “They say you are doing the best a human can do.”

PS: We didn’t grow any new cartilage or new muscle.

I add new tricks to my plan.

I started doing deep -painful- fascia massage.

And swimming a lot.

And acupuncture.

That all helped. At my 2nd opinion months later with Dr. Terribly Cute I was forced to fess up when he greeted me with “How are you walking on that thing?”. that thing = my wonkus hip

I tried everything I could to affect change. All I did was manage some of the pain.

So…I’m getting the clutch replaced.

Lesson 3: Accepting the fact that you can’t change some situations, no matter how hard you fight, doesn’t make you weak.

Recently I have moments when I think about my current hip being replaced and I feel something surprising. I’ve begun to understand that there is no part of my body that has worked harder, fought again and again to be like it’s mate—even in its weakest, most worn out, drilled into, stitched up moments—only to be replaced with a chunk of ceramic and a titanium rod. How hard will this new inanimate piece fight to be strong and normal?

Lesson 4: See the strength in the damaged part of yourself, emotional and/or physical. Your weakness can be the thing that makes you strong because it urges you to fight harder.

My body knows so little of normal but maybe we can all say that to some degree. Everything’s connected to everything and when my hip is crooked, my back compensates, and my neck and my knee…my crazy Jenga configuration.

What do I know from sockets that fit smoothly into their joints? My hitch has had a get along for almost 40 years. My body fights to fit together. I grind and pop and not in a way that would make you want to throw dollar bills in my direction.

Lesson 5: Shit. I’m getting old…

I’m afraid I can’t do it any other way than crooked.

I’m afraid my artificial parts won’t fight as hard.

I’m afraid that *normal* will be harder.

I’m afraid I won’t heal.

Lesson 6: You know you’re standing close to the heart of it, close to the answer you need, when you feel Fear thumping you in the back of the head. Think of Fear as that extra cup of coffee—you’re not going to sleep as well but, boy, are you going to be alert to what’s going on—inside and out.

Might be a reason.

If you liked this, you may also want to read these—just because they always make me feel better:

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by Jill MacGregor

You, with your mad bag of skills. It’s amazing the knowledge you’ve amassed. But you’re so familiar with all the many things you can do that you can’t see how unique their combination is.

That unique combination really makes you special.

I wish you could see it like the rest of us do. You might consider one of your skills and think, “Meh, what’s the big deal?”. Sometimes all of your talents can feel unconnected, like a bag of loose strings. It’s only when you link those skills together that they create this wonderful alchemy— making YOU uniquely YOU—and making you uniquely able. Equipped and prepared for something very special.

Even if you’re not quite sure what that means.

No one has your exact set of life skills—do you get that?

So–what are you being trained for?

It’s an interesting question to ask yourself especially at a moment if you’re feeling a lack of direction in your life.

Every event, every person that crosses your path, every question you ponder, tragedy you experience, emotion you can’t reconcile, every old pattern you work to overcome, every darkness that was illuminated, every joy, every connection—everything that may have made you ask “why me?”—these are all building blocks for your life’s resume. Preparing for the all important.

It’s about fulfilling your superpower.

Nobody can do what you can do. Really.

Own up to the fact that you possess a unique dexterity. This is a time of percolation. It’s all coming together.

So, that all important task(s) that you are built for—it may serve a multitude or a handful. Maybe it will change one life.

Maybe that life you change will be your own.

Never discount the importance you play in making the wheels spin and the gears shift.

Life changer.

Mountain Mover.

What are you being trained for?

There will be moments when the mutinous crew that lives in your head takes over and you will find yourself full of doubts. Those moments… when you feel like you’re not measuring up and that the only solid connection you can make is to one of lack.

You may not feel strong.

It’s okay.

Maybe you don’t always have to be the strong one.

You just need to have the right combination of tools in your tool box—and you’ve been amassing those tools your entire life. And you just need to be standing at that right place when only you can do that specific thing—and life has a funny way of making sure you’re at bat when you should be. There is a specific thing that your life’s events have molded you into—have molded you for. The thing that changes everything…

Think about all those tools in that toolbox of yours. Any suffering you’ve experienced has provided you with unique sensitivities and compassion—such important tools.

Your joy, your spirit, your faith, your kindness are important but those feelings don’t always get your attention in the same way. You have a tendency to forget them like Christmas morning. You focus more on the things that you don’t understand, the things that make you feel alone, the things that make you feel like you’re doing it all wrong.

All the things that steel you…they don’t exist to dishearten you, although that may be hard to remember at times.

Your struggle may just be a necessary ingredient.

Your pain may be an important pathway.

Ask yourself regularly what you are being trained for. You may not understand until after it’s happened.

But it’s going to happen.

If you liked this, you may want to read:

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by Jill MacGregor

Uno mas, por favor.

We’ve all got a list. Some days it’s longer than others. Welcome to Part II of The Stop Doing List. Here’s Part I, if you’d like to get caught up!

Always pay attention when your clutch starts to slip.

Life has a wonderful way of giving you clues. First of all, I would like to tell you—in a seemingly unrelated matter– that I drove a clutch for years. I was quite sure it confirmed my coolness. Picture me: shift into 4th, light a cigarette, change the CD, talk on the phone…so glad no one died in the process.

But I began to notice that it was costly to drive a clutch—for me specifically, for some reason.

Because, as I discovered, for me a clutch only lasts 40,000 miles. Basically, 40,000 to the mile. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that most clutches could last at least 80,000 miles. WHAT? Who are these people with their fancy ankle movements and keen sense of timing—their feel for this piece of machinery…they were basically one with their car.

Oh.

Hey.

I am no longer as cool as I thought. Grind my gears…

So—after numerous clutches, I read the writing on the wall. I now drive an automatic.

But the funny thing was, when I did drive a clutch, I became extremely sensitive to the clutch as it began to slip. I knew that that hesitation meant I had about 5,000 more miles if I never stopped on a hill. I knew this delay meant I was down to my last 100. And I knew when I couldn’t shift out of 2nd that I had about 35 miles before it all went to hell.

Pity I didn’t possess the same sensitivity all those times I would shift from 1st to 2nd whilst the clutch was still functioning.

So consider this. What if everything has a clutch? And there are moments in life when you feel something give. Do you ignore that slip, pretend like nothing happened? Or do you consider it an important warning?

All I’ll say is every single time I’ve ignored the clutch slipping on something in my life I’ve realized—in hindsight—that I was being given important information.

It’s time to stop feeling guilty about not doing more.

We all make these lists, these long, long lists of everything we need to accomplish in the next 20 minutes and that’s not always…realistic. But why is it that we never seem to give ourselves credit for all that we did accomplish? It seems like the hairy eyeball always goes back to the didn’ts instead of the dids.

I doubt you’d be so harsh with someone else.

Recognize that there are always more choices.

There is no such thing as not having a choice. There is such a thing as possibly not having the exact choices you wanted. But, you’ve always got choices.

Obstacles to the choices you want can throw you off. Sometimes, you stop considering all of your possibilities when confronted with a roadblock. You come to that crossroads with a preconceived notion and if the choices present themselves differently, you can lose sight of how broad your possibilities really are.

Becoming anxious about what can feel like a lack of choices can make you become a bit of a drill sergeant, yelling out to the Universe how you want things and when, in your desperate attempt to feel back in control. I was talking to a friend recently who laughed at me as I described this and said I was handcuffing God by being so exacting with what I wanted. That my specificity to the details could actually limit my choices.

Because even though I know what I want, I’m not always correct in what I want. Cue theme song: *Unanswered prayers and other great favors*.

Next time you feel yourself in situation with no choices; look closely as the choice that makes you the most uncomfortable. Pay attention to the resistance you feel around that choice. I know you’d prefer things be smooth and easy but resistance is important in your life.

It’s there to tell you things are about to change. Things want to change. Resistance has a way of pointing to the next step you are meant to take. Yea, I know. It very possibly may not be your first choice. But you will gain so much in the long run.

This is a personal growth moment and you ordered it whether you realized it or not.

Yea.

When you find yourself on the edge of loss, you must dance.

Every sorrow contains a reflection of promised joy.

Sometimes the work is not in dragging yourself through periods of sadness and loss—maybe the work is in stretching enough, pushing yourself so that you can glimpse the other side. This is not a place to sit and rest—you will regain nothing here—and you will only erode further if you remain.

Ask for help if you need it. Forgive what you consider to be weakness in yourself.

The hardest thing to do at moments like these, is to find the joy–to make yourself get up and dance. It’s also the most important thing.

You may feel like you’re faking it at first. But trust me, you’ll hear the music soon enough.

If you liked this, you may want to read:

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by Jill MacGregor

ENOUGH.

I hate it that this word ever needs to be said but it does. And when it’s said it is usually because someone was not reading the room, someone was pushing or greedily grabbing, ignoring the looks and the signals.

Sometimes it’s you. Sometimes it’s me. So much for being perfect…

But enough, already.

I know I’m calling this The Stop Doing List but we could just as easily call this The Start Doing List. Consider these recommendations your next steps right after you’ve said enough, already.

Understand that success requires more than your lucky pants.

Sure, I’ll give you *being in the right place at the right time* when it comes to accomplishing all that you want to in life. But in return, you have to put the following on the table: dogged determination, ongoing skill development and creating connections with the people who will mentor you to your next version.

Because your success will not occur in a vacuum.

Boy, a plan of action makes me feel good. I love to chart a course and Plan A/B/C my way through it mentally. Ever *forget* to put that plan into action? You’ve worked out the details in your head which is such an important first step. But it can be very easy to stay in the safe cocoon of planning—instead of what can sometimes be the trickier stage of cracking that whip and making it happen.

If you’re going to sail around the world, your ship has to leave the dock.

Don’t get pissed at me…I do not make the rules.

When it comes to your success, don’t be a leaf on a river, just drifting where you may, seeing what lands at your feet, crossing your fingers that it will be interesting.

Your life is not meant to be a casual walking tour.

This is about your happiness. This is how you signal to the world who you are and what you’re about. It’s about satisfaction and getting what you want. And although I am a firm believer that the Universe plays a hand in our lives—whether we ask for it or not—it’s also about being an active participant in getting what you want.

Pray to God but row for shore. Fight hard for how you want your life to be. Are you the one person you can always rely on—that one person who will battle to make your success happen?

Boy, I hope so. Nobody’s going to do it for you.

Stick your hand in the woodpile.

Snakes, I was always told by my Granny. Don’t you go putting your hand in the woodpile—it is full of snakes!

Now, you and I both know that snakes need the sun and they are not going to be hiding in a cold woodpile, waiting to strike. But that warning sure kept me from finding out. It made me afraid to investigate further.

Snakes, people!

I grew out of that…quickly—and life got more interesting. How can we not praise naughtiness, the breaking of rules and mild civil disobedience? Sticking your hand in the woodpile is just another way of saying: take risks. Do things in spite of knowing how it’s going to turn out. Don’t always do what you’re told—really, it’s just someone else’s opinion and your opinion carries just as much weight.

Get surprised—better yet, surprise others by your actions. It will only give them food for thought.

Hot dog bun or croissant?

You know those croissants you get at the grocery store? They look like croissants but they taste like hot dog buns—yes, those. We’ve all bought them once because they looked so tasty…until we took a bite.

Please. It’s so disappointing to be wrong like that. To expect one yummy, wonderful experience but to be met with a dry, flavorless one instead.

It’s not that we have a *wolf in sheep’s clothing*issue here. You already kind of know it’s going to taste like a hot dog bun. Consider the facts—it’s wrapped in plastic, for God’s sake. Flakiness is a thing of the past. Your *croissant*is sitting in a case next to a doughnut.

Come on.

But you were optimistic. Maybe THIS time it will be different… You know the only place to get a good croissant is the bakery. Its nothing but hot dog buns at the grocery store.

It is so important that you call things as they truly are, not what you’d like them to be. And this goes for identifying people as well. How many times have your hopes led you down a merry path? It’s good to be optimistic, but sometimes your rose colored glasses get in the way. How many times have you called a person a croissant—you’ve hoped, made excuses on their behalf, coached them—but, they’re just a hot dog bun.

Think of the time you could have saved.

Discern quality when all the markers are there. And they are ALWAYS there.

Make sure you know who and what makes you feel at home in the world.

Call it a security blanket. Call it your soft spot to land. Call it what makes you realize who you really are. These are the people and things that ground you to who you are, they are mirrors that reflect the true you back as a reminder when your own vision gets a little hazy.

They are your litmus test about doing the right thing with the right people. Your sounding boards, your go-to’s, your ports in a storm.

They are the only voice you hear when you find yourself on the ledge, the first person you think of when there is joy to share, the ones who help carry your worries when they feel too heavy.

What a huge and important job.

The great thing: it’s reciprocal.

You’re theirs, too.

Part II of The Stop Doing List will be out this Friday. I obviously have a long list of things I need to stop/start doing…

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