The reader of my current Audible book, written by a clinical psychologist, declares that bucket lists are not only way to dream bigger and better, but for some, a way to avoid the reality of their impending death. Afterall, planning the future is a convenient way to ignore its finiteness.
I am disconcerted by the message. I have always believed that bucket lists are created with the recognition that our earthly journeys will end, hopefully following a graceful, elongated life but sometimes shockingly truncated by happenstance. The book is mostly cheerful, uplifting, and humorous, so I am unsettled by this pronouncement. The book engaged me with the author’s honesty, experience, and vulnerability. Her message was a mixture of professional opinion and understandings developed during her own psychotherapy.
I wonder what that means for me, a planner by intention and, I suspect, genetics. My passion for finishing tasks overshadows the bliss of almost anything else I do. I spend much of my leisure time (and to be fair, an unacceptably large portion of each workday) thinking about what I want to accomplish, how I will complete a project, why it is off track, or when I will finish. And even before I am done, I am restlessly scanning the horizon for the next goal. I have dozens of pages of blog post ideas, notepads of household improvement inventories, and scores of future book outlines. Every workday begins with to do reminders, though I hardly ever complete them.
But I do not have a bucket list, and I am not sure why. I love laying out vacation and project plans and documenting their progress. I am acutely aware of what is important to me, as well as the quickening steps of the passage of time. The fact that I am obsessed with chronicling my daily and monthly goals yet ignoring lifetime aspirations troubles me. Perhaps I have a deep-seated worry that when I cross off the last bucket list item, I will kick the container it is rooted in.
I pause and think how I would spend my day if I knew death was ten years away. I would leave the office at my usual time and go home and dive knee-deep into an exhaustive outline encompassing active travels, elaborate family celebrations, and heartfelt talks with my husband. If my demise is scheduled for five years in the future, I would email my partners that I am retiring in thirty days and race home and fervently plan five, annual out of town family adventures.
If, on the other hand, I knew I was dying much sooner, I would simply call my children and remind them how much I love them and that from the moment they were born, their happiness became the center of my existence. Then I would crawl into bed with my husband and alternatively cry and laugh, reflecting on the crazy, chaotic, and gratifying history we shared together, made all the more likely within the shadow of his ever-present protective wing.
I shut down my computer. Middle son Andy is busy this weekend with an apartment move, and our accommodating garage is an attractive alternative to temporary commercial storage. Youngest son Evan is vacationing with friends in Texas, and I expect to see golf course photos. Oldest son Eric is home alone while our daughter in law is visiting a friend on the east coast. Eric is busy managing a full-time job, several side businesses, a houseful of dogs, and cramming for a graduate school mid-term exam. I text him:
I miss you. Can Dad and I bring dinner over tomorrow night? We can drop dinner, walk the dogs, and give you a hug. We won’t linger.
I push the green arrow Send button, knowing Eric’s upbeat and affirmative response is mere moments away. If the purpose of a bucket list is to remind us of life’s infinite possibilities for joy, I am not convinced I need one.