The Bucket List Box

Last night I opened the box and pulled out the ones I have made happen.

Well done, Leila; mission accomplished here and there.

But the ones that remain undone — each of those sends a little shudder right through me.

My bucket list probably isn’t typical; it has relatively few travel destinations, and there aren’t any adrenaline pumping activities, like skydiving. My list consists of things that would stretch me, in both mind and body: learn to play the drums, learn a particular computer program that I know would help me enormously, execute a perfectly landed cartwheel.

And each one of these “yet undone” bucket list items carries its very own particular type of cringe.

I want to learn how to play the drums. I am a sixty-year-old woman. It seems ridiculous for a 60-year-old woman to take drum lessons, not to mention the discomfort of the idea of waiting in line at the music store with a bunch of 12-year-olds who are also waiting for their drum lessons. That feels cringey. And what would I do with the skill anyway? Would I play drums in a band? No, probably not.

But would I enjoy it? Yes. 100% yes.

I have never been able to do a really good cartwheel. I would still like to make it happen. But the reality is, if I couldn’t master it at nine, do I really think my body will cooperate at 60? Probably not. And that would require me to come face to face with the limitations of my sixty-year-old body. Cringe.

And the computer program. Becoming proficient at this would enable me to accomplish so many things that I want to do. A world of possibilities I can’t even imagine yet. All I have to do is start. And yet, those uncomfortable feelings of being a beginner: confusion, frustration, irritation, discouragement, all arrive long before the light at the end of the tunnel. Cringe.

Although each of these items comes with its own particular discomfort, the underpinnings are all the same: the anticipatory anxiety and potential discomfort have kept me from starting.

The cringe is one thing, but there is another, heavier cost to leaving these items undone. That cost finds me late at night. The undone slips, while still untouched, all carry a murmur of “someday” or “should” with them. That cost is the hum, the undercurrent of self-criticism that asks, What are you waiting for?

And I never have a good answer.

A few years ago, I took a Zumba class on a whim. I took a spot in the back; I had never taken a Zumba class before. Right up until the class started, I was thinking how I would rather just be at home after work, I was tired, it had been a long day, what was I doing here anyway. And then the music started. Latin horns, rhythm, and percussion. It was infectious, and the music and movement brought out a joy that was completely unanticipated. I was hooked. Not on Zumba, but on the feeling the music created. Salsa music. It made me want to spin and twirl til exhaustion set in. So I signed up for salsa classes. I knew I would have to be a beginner, to make mistakes, and have to do things over and over until the muscle memory took over. I knew I might feel clumsy, awkward, and self conscious. But the desire to dance overtook the discomfort.

I am trying, at this stage of my life, to embrace an openness in my approach to life. To keep the door open to whatever new possibilities are out there. And that takes courage. Courage to be uncomfortable. To be willing to be a beginner again, and again, and again.

The cringe is always anticipatory. The joy is always waiting on other side. That is the reward: you can never feel it on this side of the door. With an attitude of openness and a healthy dose of courage, the slips get done.

I may never be able to land the cartwheel or get good at the drums. But the moment I begin, the hum quiets. As it turns out, the items on the list don’t actually require mastery. They just require starting. Because the peace doesn’t come from landing the cartwheel. It comes from just stepping through the door.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.