The List

The morning was still fresh, but my to-do list was burning a hole in my pocket.

“Where to start?” I asked myself, and then picked a place, took up my tools, and got going, as tough and determined as any miner or lineman, rancher or cabinet builder.

“This is exciting,” I thought to myself. And I thought it again, in one variation or another—satisfying, rewarding, gratifying—as the morning unrolled, items scratched off the list, new ones appearing almost as fast. I lost track of time, and the hours flew by. Pausing between emptying the recycling and making rice, I asked myself, “Who says work can’t be thrilling?”

After a quick bite for lunch and checking one last item from the list, I was ready to leave for work. “Goodbye,” I told my son. In a spasm of happiness, one foot out the door, I turned again. “Life is so fun,” I said.

He stared at me, then asked, “Why?”

“Why indeed,”  I thought. All I had done that morning was answer a few emails, hang the wash up to dry, make a meal out of the leftovers in the fridge, prepare rice to go with the assortment, wipe down some splashes of coffee on the white kitchen cabinet doors, and in the midst of all this activity, plan where to fit in the other 10 or 15 tasks of my day. What could be so very good about any of those activities? That was my question on my half-hour drive to work, along the motorway and into the city through light traffic and the 16 stoplights that keep drivers in check. We were like horses out of the chute at each signal. This, too, was fun.

It really was. But later, in a more controlled moment, I realized it wasn’t a collection of enjoyable moments that made the day exciting; rather it was the growing excitement of fitting everything into the day that made each moment a thrill. On that particular day, my recipe was how to make a hearty dish of the leftover tasks. First, empty the compost bin into the garden. Second, do the recycling. Third, the shopping. Like steps in a recipe, no single step afforded much satisfaction; it was the accumulation that made it fun. More than a recipe, a day is like a circus act: You’re successful when you keep the balls in motion, the plates spinning.

Once upon a time, such a day in my life, full of a million challenges, would have been more stress than success. So why, I wondered, the difference now? I allowed the question to flit across my mind. The answer is obvious: knowing when to toss things in the air like a juggler, and when to sit back and watch it all pass in front of one’s eyes.

Put another way, I finally recognize the venue (circus) and extrapolate the meaning (hardly any) and know what rests on success or failure (nothing). Try it yourself. All you need is your to-do list and its 20 balls to keep in the air, knowing that nothing will be permanently broken if you drop any or all of them.

And there is always a bright side.

“The rice is gummy.”

“You don’t know how lucky we are!”

“Because the rice is gummy?”

“Because it’s not burned! Gummy rice is a spectacular save. It’s stretching and half-stumbling to grab the ball that’s getting away.”

“You’re making this all up.”

“No, it’s true.”

But my son, in utter seriousness, pointed out that when you save the ball, it’s as good as ever. The same was not true of the rice. Is this, though, the moment for such careful, serious thinking? I ask you!

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