Tears in the Bucket
I finally watched the film The Bucket List last night, and dissolved into sobs at the end as Morgan Freeman's character Carter was laid to rest. The short scene of his wife crying over his body was just too similar to July 26, 2005, when I caressed my father's warm forehead as he offered his last breath and released his soul to the eternities.
So, friends on Facebook are already encouraging me to post my own bucket list. I am not sure one piece of yellow legal paper could do it justice. I've seen so little of the world still, even at the age of nearly 41. Chronicling all the places that Dr. Seuss still wants me to go would take some time.
But from the gut, here we go with an abbreviated list, in some semblance of order but not completely prioritized:
Get my novel published
Write in a Parisian cafe while sipping some great wine
Eat with my ethnic peeps throughout Italy
Write and edit full-time for a living and still pay the mortgage
Finish reading all of Hemingway's books
Own a beach house
Have coffee with a number of neat people whom I know through social networking but live far away from me
Go one full day praying without ceasing
Was it just me who noticed that most of my from-the-gut list revolves around writing or literature? So I don't want to jump out of an airplane or get a tattoo. Sue me. And I'm pretty sure I've already laughed until I cried. Of course, I'm always eager to do that again.
That's who I am, I suppose. God gave me words, and when I get immersed in their crafting, editing and reciting, I feel his pleasure a la the athlete in Chariots of Fire who had no choice but to run. Run, run, run, I will, until I trip over the bucket unexpectedly.