I had one of the most ordinary experiences of my life this month.

Like so many mundane endeavors, this one involved the government. Specifically, state government: I had to renew my driver’s license.

Previously, this had been a surprisingly headache-free process, particularly in California. I’ve had my share of motorized vehicles, and have become something of a DMV idiot savant. California had nearly perfected the bureaucracy: On some visits, the line moved more quickly than I could fill out the predicate paperwork.

Recently, though, the state “mainstreamed” the process, according to the its Pollyannic press announcement of the change. Appointments and driver’s tests could be made online, presumably to make the already-expedient process blindingly so.

But I soon realized those improvements were aspirational at best. I received the renewal notification in late March. The notice said to give myself at least a month to find an open appointment.

Wow, I thought. So much for expediency.

On, fittingly, April 1, I went online to schedule an appointment, five weeks in advance of expiration. But the earliest availability — in metro Los Angeles — was June 1. So much  for mainstream. So I braced for a morning rise to try my walk-in chances. I knew the line would be long. Be prepared for a three-hour wait, I girded myself. Maybe even four.

It was 6 1/2 hours.

Normally, I would have stormed out of the office by hour five in line. Fuck it, I would have thought. I’ll take the risk of a month on an expired license.

But since my father’s death and my subsequent departure from the Gnash, I’ve learned the importance of navigating stillness. Of holding onto moments, even stopped ones. Especially stopped ones. One of dad’s favorite sayings was that time moves more quickly with age, which is as true as navy blue.

Still, despite time’s seemingly inexhaustible warp drive, you can pause it. Strangle it, even. Leave it like an ant in amber: goin’ nowhere until you free it.

Sorry about that, Father Time. Mother Nature taught me a few wicked bitch slaps. In fact, she  sent me to the hospital a few weeks earlier to condition my patience with a three-hour emergency room wait, followed by a two-hour gurney detainment. Emboldened by the slo-mo adventure,  I decided to surprise Time at the DMV and challenge him to a bore-off.

Perhaps it was being braced for inertia (a necessity in LA traffic). Or a new outlook on time’s passage. Maybe I was high. Whatever the reason, the 6.5 hour wait — which included about .02 minutes of actual paperwork — was somehow tolerable.

In fact, I think I had the strange rush runners describe. The glacial shuffling, the dense throng of hundreds, the pent-up anger and herd-stink of the DMV, it all  somehow left me giddy when I walked out. I broke into hysterical laughter on the drive home. My mother thought I’d buried the lead, starting with news of me passing the eye test instead of the wait.

That’s when I realized: I had, at least fractionally, taken baby steps in strangling time.  Not only that; it’s damn simple to do.

There’s a huge caveat, of course. Some parents literally need the day to run 25 hours. Some people could use an 80-hour week to pay for things like food.

But, for the spoiled lot of the rest of us, we really don’t know how to handle time. Particularly that which is down. Our cell phones, websites, deadlines and Facetwit accounts have rendered spare  time as rare as an albino alligator (a real thing that prowls southeast Louisiana).

I’ve seen the bouts of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), the tales of breaking free of the social media cycle, the difficulty of claiming time that is actually your own.

Good news, then. Or, as Whitman might say, “Answer.” Time need not flee you by. You can pause time. Here are five ways to strangle the moment:

Take the 7-second test. It sounds like like no time, but try a couple things that will change your mind about seven seconds.

First, after a normal inhale, hold your breath. Count to seven. Repeat the exercise on the next breath, only stop breathing halfway through the exhale and count off seven seconds again. Finally, do the same one more time, after you have exhaled. That’s it. Find a simpler meditation (suck it, Deepak!).

But admit it. Didn’t the very air you breathe taste a little sweeter on the second inhalation? Even more so on the third?

Here’s a socially braver exercise. When you’re talking to someone, either on the phone or in person, think about what they said for seven seconds. Say nothing. Just absorb what was said and weigh it before speaking. Your banter buddy will initially think something is wrong with you, the silence seemingly so interminable. But after a while, they way you’re perceived will change. You will outwardly transform from awkward to thoughtful. Do it regularly, and you will gain a reputation for being intellectual. All with a seven-second pause.

The point is, even brevity is longer than you think.

Recognize wet cement. Life is full of wet cement moments: That first minute the concrete of your mind is laid and a memory begins to dry into permanence.

We remember the big ones: births, marriages, deaths.

But what about those innumerable wet cement moments? The little recollections that fire randomly through your synapses like a lit match in a fireworks stand. A joke a child told. A revelation a friend confided in you. That weird exchange at the grocery store. Those things that are burned into your consciousness for reasons you can’t explain or understand.

But you can recognize them. Think of a positive deed you’ve done. Perhaps you helped a stranger. Rescued an animal. Gave an unsolicited compliment that left a true impression. Those are wet cement moments; little scattered gestures that make you, when the bill is tallied, what makes you a good person.

If, for instance, you’re doing the driving to take your child and her friends to their first concert, don’t think of it as a parental obligation. That’s a wet cement moment, one that she will never forget. If you see it as wet cement as well, neither will you.

Resist spackling. This one isn’t easy, but try it. When an event on your calendar is canceled, don’t fill it with another errand. You had already accounted for it, when you scheduled that meeting tomorrow so you could get your oil changed or your kid to a school trip today. What if you were to simply enjoy that hour? What if you were to people watch? Daydream? Take the 7-second test. It might not be unforgettable, but most likely it will be more memorable than a substitute chore.

Make mountains of molehills. Don’t hesitate to mentally gloat over those moments of pride — and any self-flattery you know in your heart. Your job as a professional. Your skills as a listener. Your love of animals. Your patience with stupid people. Those are attributes to which we could all aspire — and celebrate when we accomplish them, however mundane.

We’re taught not to make mountains out of molehills, advice that makes sense when you’re thinking of daunting or frightening things. But when it comes to the positive, well, fuck that. Make a big deal of maintaining your composure, or speaking openly, or listening instead of talking. Celebrate your victories of human nature, however small. For who else will recognize them, if not you? What good is a laurel if you don’t rest on it?

Reevaluate boredom. Boredom is terribly underrated. It’s a sign of utter contentment. Hungry people don’t get bored. Seriously sick people don’t get bored. People whose lives are at risk don’t get bored. There was a time when only the only people who enjoyed the fringe benefits of boredom where rich: aristocracy, castle owners, slaveholders.

Consider this statistic: Humans have been on the earth for about 200,000 years. If we consider the industrial revolution (which began in 1760) as the demarcation line between a life of modernity and having to hunt or forage for food, human beings have had the opulence of boredom for less than 1% of our time on the planet. We evolved mightily to create the fidget spinner. No need to piss on the accomplishment.

That’s it. No strenuous exercise, no change in your diet, no elective surgery. When our lifespans are measured in minutes — and everyone will face that truth one day — we won’t be measuring all the things we got done. We’ll be measuring those moments we held still, held close, until they became a part of us. Those moments we strangled.

If the average lifespan is 70 years, you get 2.2 billion seconds, or 314 million opportunities to take the 7-second test.

Better get started. Time’s not wasting, but it’s not waiting, either.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COZzsTwDghQ