How I Was

I like lists. A lot. My self-esteem bubble is not that robust, but checking off lists makes it tolerably full. I even put things on lists that I know I HAVE to do, but somehow a longer list looks better (no one is looking at this but me, of course, so what does it really matter, Katie???) than a short one. Quality over quantity, like I always say!

There's a burden, though, that comes with the glory of the list. You have to finish it. Or you fail. You have to accomplish all, not some, of the items on the list during the day. You may not add as you go. So, if in the morning you didn't plan to do something really time consuming or stupendous like waiting in line at the post office for the commemorative stamps but you did. . .good for you. But it is not list worthy. Those are the rules. And it can be as easily oppressive and daunting as satisfying and gratifying.

What if we made lists in the evening rather than the morning (you know, like starting a diet on a Tuesday rather than a Monday? It's a radical thought, I know.)? And what if, it recorded what I was rather than what I did? I know practices are typically reserved for Lent, but I've got Advent to work with in just a few weeks, so I'm going to try out the exercising in December rather than March and see what happens. I'll practice making the backward kind of list. How was I today? Was I kind or short-tempered? Was I gentle and compassionate, patient and present? Was I busy or bored? Was I reflective or preoccupied? If that little dash in between is all that represents our living, maybe I should try being as I'm doing? How will I be when I'm standing in the proverbial (and literal) grocery store line, the most boring and trying of all activities? How will I be when Jacob is trying to earnestly describe his lego landing gear he just built and I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT HE'S TALKING ABOUT and frankly, don't really care? How will I be when I'm cooking or thinking or sliding down the slide or talking to my family? Will I be intentioned and attentive or distracted and dismissive? My behavior and my being-that is what I'll write down. Not the actual doing it at all.

My parents visited over the weekend. I hate it when they leave. It's like a piece of you goes with them. And it hurts, dag-gommit. It just aches. You get over it, clearly, but you kind of don't want to. I love them, and so do my boys. I love that they laugh and eat good food. I appreciate that they love their kids and accept each of us for what we are and what we're trying to become. They see the potential in us and celebrate, truly, the lives we've created. They have opinions and "suggestions," but how can they not? They raised a good family and were good at being.

A friend recently emailed me a little reminder of our "responsibilities" and demands on that list. "It is interesting," he said, "to think of life in the terms of flying a kite, suspended by the winds of choice and circumstance.  Many of us think the tethering of the string as a hindrance; our parents, our spouse, the amount of money we have, the responsibilities demanded of us. But in reality, the restraint of the string is the only reason we fly." 

Oh, to the heavens above, thank you for my life. Thank you for my roots. Thank you for help making me a kite (please let it be a thin one with vertical not horizontal stripes) who floats and dips and soars because of the string.
 
"If I won't be myself, who will?" A. Hitchcock