The Pieces of Me That Don't Click

On puzzles, parts work, and learning to sit in uncertainty

The luscious rush of dopamine wriggled down from my head and nestled deep into my chest. For one enchanting moment, I felt complete. All was right with the world. I grabbed another piece from the box, still intoxicated by the subtle click as the picture fell into place.

In an instant, the high evaporated. Uncertainty quivered in its place. My breath grew short and tight as frustration locked down my diaphragm. Exasperated by the search, I forced a piece in. It looked right, but the click wasn't clean, the feeling of completion absent.

I moved on, hunting for that click in my chest again. I looked up to see my son smiling, proudly pronouncing he just completed a section.

Sally, my manager part

Then I heard the voice chime in. Sally was out.

"Fuck! We're falling behind! You never were any good at puzzles. Isn't there a name for this, spatially challenged?"

"It's just a game for God's sake," I snarled back. "Take a break, Sally."

But it was too late, the fun was already fading fast. I left the table feeling flat, spent, done.

Sally is what parts work calls a manager. She runs ahead of me, scanning for where I'm about to fall short so I never have to feel it. She learned that job young. Nobody ever told her she could stop.

Sally — my manager part. She's not to be trifled with.

Weeks later, on the back deck

I didn't notice what was happening while I was in the experience. It was weeks later when the pieces fell into place.

I was enjoying my late afternoon ritual on the back deck, tossing almonds to my extended family of squirrels and blue jays. Suddenly, an image of my late husband, Duncan, came into my mind's eye. He was showing me a puzzle piece.

"A puzzle is to be enjoyed," he said.

Then, in pure woo fashion, Radiohead's Jigsaw Falling Into Place started playing through my AirPods. It took me a minute to register the synchronicity. Then I remembered being with the kids, puzzling.

The way I do a puzzle is the way I do my life

I find a piece that looks right. I try it out. Sometimes it looks like it fits, so I click it in and move to another piece.

But as my puzzle fills in, I notice a problem. The picture isn't quite right, something is off. As I slow down, I see the issue: the piece never fit. I was forcing it in to just get it done. Now I have to undo the work I thought I finished. I failed. All that effort for naught.

I so desperately want the high of the click, the satisfaction of reaching the finish line, that I miss what's right in front of me. The joy is in the mystery. Holding a piece in your hand, scanning the table filled with possibilities. Does this fit here? Nope. How about here? Yes! Score!

Why can't I enjoy the hunt for the missing piece? Why is the click so important? I've been searching for the next hit most of my life, never quite content to rest in the uncertainty of not knowing where a piece fits.

I want to know that my business will click. That I can expand and work with more people. I must be sure that I'll have enough to someday retire, maybe travel more. I'm holding the pieces but I'm not sure where they all go right now. I want to be okay in the not knowing. I want to bask in the excitement of the mystery.

The pieces are parts of me

Maybe it isn't just my life I'm trying to puzzle together.

There's the intuitive piece who isn't particularly woo, but sometimes worries she isn't woo enough for the woo.

There's the piece who wakes up excited to explore, discover and create without a reason to.

There's the piece who spent 30 years in communications and loves promotion, but now mostly wants to get off the screen and just do the work.

There's the corporate piece who thinks my second career is a bad investment.

And there's the piece who remembers who she really is. Who knows it's okay to misplace a piece or two. That's part of the game she came here to experience.

Savoring the puzzle means allowing my parts to mix, learn from each other, let go of trying to fit in and just be where they are.

The not-knowing lands in the body first. Short breath. Locked diaphragm. A manager part reaching for the fastest way out.

Sally isn't wrong to want the click. She's just been doing the job a long time, and nobody relieved her.

There will be time for the next click.

Right now, I'm still puzzling.