{"id":5454,"date":"2014-06-30T15:37:43","date_gmt":"2014-06-30T19:37:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.katrinakenison.com\/?p=5454"},"modified":"2014-06-30T15:37:43","modified_gmt":"2014-06-30T19:37:43","slug":"bucket-list","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/bucket-list\/","title":{"rendered":"bucket list"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"photoO<\/span>n Tuesday afternoons this past year I\u2019ve been a traveling yoga teacher, lugging a bag full of straps and foam blocks and lavender eye pillows to a small elementary school in a nearby town.<\/p>\n

My students, a dedicated handful of regulars, are all in their sixties, including the school principal and her now retired husband, who once taught English to my son Jack. We work gently together, accommodating a tricky hip (mine), chronic back pain, osteoporosis, balance issues, and the inevitable assortment of aches and injuries that are simply part of the territory now that we are no longer young.<\/p>\n

Last fall, on the first afternoon I arrived at the school to teach, I was surprised by a few sudden tears\u00a0the minute I walked through the front door. It hit me \u2013 suddenly, although certainly not for the first time — just how far down the road I\u2019ve traveled from all that transpires each day in this tidy, welcoming brick building.<\/p>\n

Everything I saw brought back a memory: The box of lost-and- found baseball caps and tangled sweatshirts, the collection of canned goods for the food pantry accumulating in the foyer, the children\u2019s bright artwork on the walls, the sight of a lone L.L. Bean backpack forgotten in a corner, the distinctive smell of kids and chalk dust and used books and half-eaten lunches.<\/p>\n

The question rose up hot and fierce as a reprimand in my chest: \u201cHad I loved my life enough?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

The honest answer? Probably not. Back when my own two boys were small, what I now know to be evanescent felt as if it would go on forever. I made a hundred sandwiches, a thousand, with no end in sight. How many mornings did I urge my kids to hurry, warn them that they\u2019d be late for school, lose my patience as they whined or dawdled or resisted some obvious necessity \u2013 hair combing, boots on the right feet, raincoats?<\/p>\n

Much as I tried to pay attention, tried to remind myself nothing lasts forever, and certainly not first grade or third or fifth or childhood itself, I couldn\u2019t possibly have anticipated the speed with which the years would fly by while I was in the thick of it all myself, mired in the details of doctors appointments and homework assignments and t-ball practice.<\/p>\n

P<\/span>erhaps it is ever so. Perhaps it\u2019s only the lived experience of seasons passing that can teach us the truth of impermanence, as endings pile up willy-nilly.<\/p>\n

Perhaps it is only by enduring a progression of lasts that an ordinary now is transformed into an achingly precious present moment.<\/p>\n

Perhaps it is only in pausing every now and then to gaze behind to where we\u2019ve been, that we can turn face forward again with hearts full of gratitude for the ground beneath our feet.<\/p>\n

With the school year over, my Tuesday afternoon classes have concluded as well. Over time, I did get more comfortable walking down the hall, nostalgia for the past giving way to a kind of cultivated ease in the present.<\/p>\n

Still, I would always stop to look at the bulletin boards, to enjoy the children\u2019s artistic creations, to read the their names, to remember just how it felt to visit my own sons\u2019 school all those years ago and see their latest efforts displayed in the hall.<\/p>\n

As the last school day drew nigh, the children made summer \u201cbucket lists,\u201d sharing their hopes and dreams for the months ahead. There were lots of pictures of sunscreen tacked to the board, along with aspirations for summer vacation: play with my cousin<\/em>, go to the beach<\/em>, ride my bike<\/em>, go camping.<\/em><\/p>\n

I thought about making a summer bucket list myself. What would be on it? Read a book a week. Meditate every morning. Take a walk every day. Be more disciplined about writing my blog posts.<\/p>\n

I got just about this far before I realized: my summer bucket list sounded suspiciously like a to-do list.<\/p>\n

L<\/span>ast week, my husband Steve turned 65. A big one any way you look at it. Medicare. Senior citizen discounts. Fifteen years shy of eighty. Only thirty-five less than a hundred.<\/p>\n

As it happened, I was away from home attending a book festival on his actual birthday. We\u2019d both been busy all week, running\u00a0in opposite directions, he with a board meeting to attend, me with a talk to deliver, no room on our calendars for a party or a dinner out, both our sons away.<\/p>\n

I wracked my brain for an appropriate gift and came up empty. There is nothing he needs. Nothing he really wants that he doesn\u2019t have already. Nothing except, of course, more time<\/em>. The one gift money cannot buy.<\/p>\n

And then it dawned on me \u2013 time was<\/em> a gift I could give. No receipt needed, no return possible.<\/p>\n

\"photo\"S<\/span>teve played hooky from work and I planned a day for the two of us.<\/p>\n

“Trust me,” I said. And he did.<\/p>\n

We got up early, had breakfast with friends, then headed north to Vermont and our date with a rented double kayak. After a few hours of paddling down the Connecticut River and lunch at the Harpoon brewery, we made our way through an underground tunnel to enter an outdoor sculpture garden called, appropriately enough, The Path of Life<\/strong><\/a>.<\/p>\n

\"photoMetaphors abounded \u2013 from the hemlock maze, signifying the adventures of childhood, all the way to the circle of dead oaks and charred carvings that evoke death, and finally the quiet grove of delicate white birches suggestive of rebirth and life\u2019s renewal.<\/p>\n

It was a weekday afternoon and we had all fourteen acres of this inspired, idiosyncratic garden to ourselves. It felt as if time had indeed slowed down a bit. There was space to talk, plenty of time to wander.<\/p>\n

\u201cI still can\u2019t wrap my head around sixty-five,\u201d Steve said as we approached a towering jazz combo exuberantly constructed of old wood and metal scraps.<\/p>\n

\u201cSixty-five is old<\/em>. But inside, I still feel the same. How can that be? I\u2019m not even sure how I\u2019m supposed to act at this age.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"photoWe looked up at the faded, venerable musicians playing their silent song for the ages, perfectly embodying the spirit of creativity.<\/p>\n

Maybe there is no \u201csupposed to,\u201d<\/em> they seemed to say. Maybe the work of growing older is about finding your own song and singing it fearlessly, joyously;\u00a0singing even when\u00a0it seems no one is listening. And maybe aging doesn\u2019t have to be about submitting grudgingly to loss, but rather about accepting and choosing life just as it is — and beating out a wild, heartfelt tune that acknowledges all of it, all the joys and pains and conflicts that are part of the human trip.<\/p>\n

Knowing where our journey would wind up, we took our time. Why rush down the path of life, when one can choose to sit for a while under the tree of knowledge, survey the view from the top of the hill of success, meditate with a full heart upon one\u2019s ancestors and absent loved ones from within the circle that represents family?<\/p>\n

\"photoAs the end approached, we moved even more slowly, lingering, wanting to make it last, determined to drink fully of every experience along the way. (Another revelation: as it is in the garden, so it is in life.) We made an offering to the Buddha, walked the labyrinth, lay flat out on the grass and closed our eyes and imagined our own final rest.<\/p>\n

\"photoB<\/span>ack in the car at dusk, driving south toward a dinner of Thai food and listening to Willie Nelson sing my current favorite song, \u201cJust Breathe,\u201d<\/strong><\/a> we were both quiet.<\/p>\n

I found myself brushing back tears, as does seem to happen more and more often these days. But these tears weren\u2019t for the past, not at all. They were for the exquisite beauty of the moment, for our own shared, expansive, richly layered present.<\/p>\n

And it suddenly occurred to me that I do have a summer bucket list after all. It\u2019s not a to-do list. Nor does it include a fancy vacation or any grand\u00a0ambitions or even the stack of books by the bed that I really do long to read.<\/p>\n

What I want most this summer is simply to spend time with the ones I love. To have more days just like this one. Enough presence of mind to pay attention. And enough presence of heart to make gratitude my song, acceptance my refrain.<\/p>\n

Yes, I understand that every life must end, uh-huh<\/em><\/p>\n

As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, uh-huh<\/em><\/p>\n

Oh I’m a lucky man, to count on both hands the ones I love<\/em><\/p>\n

Some folks just have one, yeah, others, they’ve got none<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Stay with me…<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Let’s just breathe…<\/em><\/p>\n

Do you have a bucket list — either for the summer or for your life? \u00a0What’s on it? \u00a0I’d love to know!<\/em>\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

how a (grudging) critic\u00a0made my day<\/span><\/h3>\n

Although I’ve received quite a number of\u00a0lovely letters from male readers, I suppose I do think of myself primarily as a women’s writer. \u00a0So I shouldn’t have been surprised that my book would meet with some resistance from the no-nonsense New York journalist\u00a0Jesse Kornbluth<\/strong>.\u00a0Aka The HeadButler<\/strong><\/a>, Jesse is the author of a highly opinionated, persuasive, and incredibly popular blog about all things literate, trending, cultish, or practical\u00a0—\u00a0from music and movies and books to gifts and\u00a0gadgets to food and wine. \u00a0The HeadButler<\/strong> is nothing if not tough; he\u00a0admits,\u00a0right up front, that he was prepared to loathe\u00a0my book,\u00a0that he prefers a dose of denial to contemplation, that\u00a0the very word “journey” drives him nuts.<\/p>\n

And yet. \u00a0He chose to read Magical Journey<\/strong><\/a>. He read all the way to the end, despite the title, despite the subject, despite everything he was prepared not to like.<\/p>\n

And this morning he published this amazing review, which made me bristle for all of about two seconds, and then made me laugh out loud, and then made me want to give him a huge hug and take him out for dinner. \u00a0How could I not share it with you?<\/p>\n

Click here<\/strong><\/a> to read my one and only published review by a guy!<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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