Instructions for Living a Life.

“Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention. 

Be astonished. 

Tell about it.” 

~ Mary Oliver 

The sky hung heavy and gray as we climbed the tiled stairs out of the Abbesses metro station. I tightened my black peacoat around my torso and nestled into my scarf. Glancing at the Parisians passing me on the street, I smiled when I realized I could probably pass for one of them-- at least until someone tried to speak to me in French.

It was just before dusk, and orange light had begun to pour out of the dozens of cafes that seemed to line both sides of every street we wandered down, each one tempting us with an aperitif and fresh, warm baguettes. Up the hill, I could see Sacre Coeur looming over Montmartre, and Mark and I pointed out each landmark we recognized from Amelie (my most favorite movie of all time).

We wandered down another random street, drooling over tidy rows of macarons and croissants in the window of the patisserie and admiring how there was an individual shop for nearly everything-- a chocolatier, a cheese shop, a pharmacy, a seafood vendor, a florist, a rotisserie.

On the other side of the street, I caught sight of an unmistakable red and white awning that read, “Cafe des 2 Moulins.” Abandoning my desire to avoid standing out as a typical American tourist, I excitedly turned to ask Mark if he would take a photo of me in front of Amelie’s infamous place of employment.

But he was no longer standing beside me. I glanced up and down the narrow street, wondering for half a second how someone could have possibly abducted my husband in plain sight. How does one goes about filing a missing persons report in a foreign country?

Not more than 30 seconds later, Mark emerged from the rotisserie with a smile, holding up a white paper bag. Two translucent circles were growing across the bottom of the bag, and the swirling scent of herbs and rich, caramelized chicken wafted out. He said, “My mouth was watering, and I just had to follow my nose.”

I followed Mark to a dim side street, and we perched on the window sill of a shop that had closed for the evening. He handed me a shiny auburn drumstick speckled with rosemary, and I sunk my teeth into the most tender, juicy, flavorful chicken I’d ever had the pleasure of tasting. I’m pretty sure I closed my eyes and I might have moaned aloud. When nothing but a clean bone remained, I licked the last bit of herbs and oil from my fingertips. Smiling, I realized I’d just had my own little Amelie moment-- giving in to the moment and fully enjoying the most simple of life’s pleasures.

*****

When you look at my life list, the preceding memory is summarized as “Visit France.” Followed by a check mark.

That check mark contains so much. It’s the crisp Montmartre air and taste of that chicken eaten greedily on a street corner. It’s the few hours we were accidentally locked inside our friends’ apartment in the 15th Arrondissement, and the laughs we shared over authentic crepes and bowls of cider. It’s a kiss under the Eiffel Tower. It’s the difference in the way Paris felt to me as a twenty-year-old versus a twenty-nine-year-old.

Does a check mark on my life list speak these nuances? Will I remember each of these precious details as I grow old, or will I focus only on the fact that France was a check off my life list?

I’m not wholly opposed to life lists or bucket lists or whatever you choose to call them. I think it great to think about what you want out of your life and make a plan to move you towards that. However, I’ve sort of been questioning why I personally keep a life list. I’m starting to think more critically about the way life lists can cut into spontaneity, and how they affect the experience and memories of specific events. 

At their roots, life lists and bucket lists are the things we want to do before we die. They are a way to try and fill our lives with activities-- and therefore memories-- that we think will be important to us during our lifetime. However,  I think it's delusional to sit down in advance and pretend to assume we know what experiences will shape us, and we certainly can’t predict which actions will turn into memories that matter.

The thought and planning that goes into creating a life list is based on our self-definition at the time of writing it. A life list can be created to push your comfort zone, but there’s no possible way to plan the kind of spontaneity that ends up shifting and expanding the way you see yourself. I’d never have believed myself to be the kind of person who would ever want to go white water rafting, but on a trip to Colorado with my family I found myself bobbing down a river, furiously trying to remain in the raft while slicing my oar into the rapids. And, guess what? I had a blast, and I hope to do it again someday.

Despite my Type-A, somewhat controlling, over-planning nature, I’ve gotten much more out of experiences that have evolved naturally or spontaneously rather than those that I’ve deliberated. Sometimes it has been a small moment, like my experience white water rafting, or a more significant event, like the time Mark and I were offered passes into Grant Park on Election Night in 2008, where we got to be a part of the crowd as Obama was declared President. I still get goosebumps as I recall the deafening cheers, happy tears, and Obama's speech that followed. Neither of these memories are commemorated in any form on my life list.

Aside from the removal of spontaneity, the other issue I have with life lists is the way that I process experiences and goals from my list. Once I achieve or complete something, I add a check mark and move on to the next thing. In being so deliberately action-oriented, am I taking the appropriate time to acknowledge what I have done? I take the blame for part of this, as I haven’t been keeping up with writing and other forms of documenting life, but I also recognize that life lists by nature are skewed towards the future-- they are lists of things you haven’t done yet, places you want to go, hobbies to someday be explored. I don’t want to be in such a rush to achieve that I forget to savor the moment, to take pause to remember the taste of the chicken devoured on Montmartre street corner.

I don’t mean for this critique to be a wholesale takedown of life lists and bucket lists. I think they can really work for some people who thrive on the challenge of it. But I want to start treating my own list as an outline instead of a rule book, as a reflection tool instead of a planning tool. Since I already have a list created, perhaps it's time to take an indefinite hiatus from it and let life happen for a while, inviting in serendipity, discovery, and "yes moments." I wouldn't be surprised to pull out my list in the future to discover that I'd achieved more than a handful of items without any force or expectations, and a number of stories to tell.

I want my life to be more than a series of check marks; I want it to be full of the stories that live in the spaces between them.