Bucket Lists

I read Leo Babauta's Zen Habits post about why to not have a bucket list (or, rather, what kind of bucket list is preferable), and I began thinking about the bucket list I've shuffled around in my head for years. I'm not a particularly motivated person when it comes to fulfilling this list, and most of the items seem so far-fetched that I wouldn't be surprised if I never did them, no matter how much fun I think they would be.

Some have been crossed off the list already. Saw a Broadway musical on Broadway in 12th grade. I've seen both The Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables on stage. I've been in a band singing lead. I won National Novel Writing Month in 2013. I've traveled long-distance on a train a few times and LOVED it. I taught in a college setting for a few months.

Some items are in the works. I got my masters degree and am just waiting to learn where Dave and I will be for residency to start my PhD and eventually teach university classes. I've also got a novel series in the works and am in the major overhaul phase of editing the first book.

Most of my list is dedicated to travel, and we're just too poor to do any of that at the moment. I've seen the Atlantic Ocean from New York City, but I've not been to Boston. I want to take a West Coast driving or train tour (which will be more fun now that we have friends in California and Oregon). I want to take Dave to Mackinac Island. Go hiking on the Appalachian Trail. See the northern lights. I want to go to England, Scotland, Ireland. France and Germany. Poland. India. Japan. Jamaica. I'd like to visit my cousins in Zambia.

I'd like to get the hell out of Texas for a while.

But what about the big ticket items like sky diving and bungee jumping? Why do those two wind up on so many lists for people who honestly are too scared to do them? They're on my list, but I am honestly more afraid of large parties than I am of jumping off a bridge if that makes any sense. More afraid of speaking in a foreign language to native speakers. So, does that rule out three quarters of my travel items? Maybe, but likely not.

I like making a bucket list because it helps me figure out my priorities. Yes, the idea of strapping a glorified rubber band to my feet and leaping over the side of a bridge makes me question my sanity. It's counter-instinctive. But my desire for flight is stronger than my fear, so I will likely do it. After a very thorough inspection of the harness and the line. I'm not stupid. And my desire to travel is stronger than my fear of fluxing up a conjugation. So making this list helps me find balances to my fears, reasons to act that are stronger than anxiety. Otherwise, I might become a slave to my fears and become a raging agoraphobic.

I know people who are determined to run a marathon (or three). I admire their tenacity and their athletic prowess. Marathons are out of my range. It's something that I just know. I hate running. Love hiking, hate running. There's no way "Run the Boston Marathon" is going to end up on my list. But those same marathon runners might feel the same about writing a novel (or three). What is NOT on the list tells as much about the person as what is.

So bucket lists can be an aid to mindfulness, a way to determine what is stronger than your fears. And a bucket list doesn't need to be filled with high adventure. It can include some of the more simple goals like watching more sunsets.

Personally, I have no crushing desire to scratch everything off my list. If I don't get to see the Taj Mahal in my lifetime, I might in the next. As long as I know I've faced down a few of my fears, I'll be satisfied.

Foster Kittens

Our neighborhood cat had her kittens earlier this week - three of them. Since she's not officially owned by anyone, a neighbor and I have taken over and we are working with the Humane Society to find a foster home for mama and kittens, though we don't know when a foster home will become available. So until then, I am the foster. Bella and her kittens arrived this afternoon, and they all have been safely housed in a towel-lined box in the living room. From what I can see, as they are only a couple of days old, two appear to be solid black and one is a tortie. Bella is grey.

My husband was a little wary of the whole plan at first, but once he saw them, his heart melted. Bella spent many days in our apartment while she was pregnant, so our cats know her. And I think my joy is so overpowering that Dave can't complain. And if this run goes well enough, I might sign up to be a foster with the Humane Society.

Right now, they are nearly silent except for the occasional plaintive squeak. When I hold them, they mew for a moment, then settle down and cuddle against my chest. I read that kittens should be handled often so they grow accustomed to human contact. I can't argue with that! Only, right now they are so difficult to tell apart that I sometimes pick up the same kitten twice. I'm resisting the urge to name them, since I know already I will have a hard time letting them go.

Passion

This is not a life. It's a form of survival. It's counterfeit, and it's killing me.

Sitting in this frigid little office at this desk, I realized that one major reason I'm so unhappy is that I'm trying to fit into a form of life that I don't understand. And, ultimately, I'm ignoring what makes me happy so I have enough energy to be someone I'm not so I can have a life that others tell me is fulfilling.

I don't belong in a business office behind a desk. I'd rather be in front of a classroom, but I don't have the health to do that anymore. There's only so much I can do, and if I'm going to spend hours a day sitting in front of a computer, I'd rather do so knowing that it's going to make my life better in a fundamental way, not because I might get paid for it. And when you work commission, there's a chance you won't get paid.

I've thought for years that my job defined me. And when I was a teacher, it did. I identified as a teacher, my whole being leaned in that direction. But since I've been out of the classroom, I've lost that identity. I'm not a teacher anymore. But I'm not a resume writer. I'm just...here. Filling a space until I figure out what I want to be when I grow up. And I spend a lot of energy doing that and trying to keep up with the housework. No wonder I can't write my stories. I've spent everything I had just getting to the point when I have the time to write.

But I should be writing. Not writing resumes, writing stories. I have novels in the works, stories I've started and abandoned because I'm afraid of that kind of life. Afraid of being the starving artist. But it's getting to the point that I'm more afraid of surviving another year.

Something very frightening happened to me a few months ago. I don't want to go into details, but I realized that I didn't have anything personal to look forward to. Things seemed meaningless. Life like that becomes a constant drudgery, but I couldn't see a way out of it. Going back to work didn't help matters - I was just reminded quite painfully of my limitations.

So today I thought about that situation months ago - and found a possible solution. Stop surviving. If this is surviving, what is living? If I could be doing whatever I wanted to find fulfillment, what would that life be like? Traveling and writing. I can't do much traveling at the moment, but I can write. I can stop allocating the dredges of my time to my writing and make writing my priority.

Not an simple task, though. People tend to look at writing like a pleasant little hobby that one can pick up or set aside at a moment's notice. And all that time spent at home could (should?) be better spent on housework. Except writing is a talent like any other that requires practice and dedication and discipline to make it good. A schedule, a deadline, and a fear of missing that deadline worse than the fear of failure. A driving need to get this story out of your head before it consumes you.

This is what I need to live. A passion.