I don’t want to go to Africa.
I‘ve yet to make a bucket list for the years ahead, and never made one for the years behind me. I know what I don’t want to do in my life. I don’t want to go to Africa or South America. I don’t want to have osteoporosis. And I don’t want to live in a big city. But what do I want to do? I can’t even seem to get around the question. How can people narrow down all the possibilities in life to a list of 100 or less? I guess I don’t have that kind of focus. Yesterday, a college student quoted Thoreau to me, something about “sucking the marrow” out of life. It sounds exhausting! I’m more of a surface dweller, and wait until things fall into my lap. And since I’ve remained open to all sorts of opportunities and adventures, my lap is full. I’ve traveled, I’m educated, I love and am loved. I’ve had the opportunity to serve. What else is there, really? So I’m skipping the bucket list altogether. Instead, I’m keeping my door open and will see what pops up. That’s how I ended up wandering Central Park with my eight-year old daughter, marveling at Christo’s gates. That’s how I learned to braid a rag rug. And yes, that’s how I came to work at a soup kitchen for a year when I was in my twenties. I don’t know what this year will bring. My passport is in good order. I’m healthy. I’m embedded as a librarian in thirty plus online college classes, so I’ll definitely learn. And of course, there’s the magical ride of being a parent and a wife. So no bucket list, and maybe no resolutions either. Just me and the Petri dish, hanging out, ready to grow.