Listing

I've been a creature of to-do lists, perhaps ever since I realized that my Daddy made 'em.

Somehow I inherited his addiction to resolutions, goal-setting, plans and projections. One of my favorite things is to make a table. Or a chart or a matrix. An outline is good, too.I've been known to make lists of things to do in a given month, then go back and break it down into tasks for each week and then to itemize the weeks's into days. Of course I use different colored legal pads for each type of time--month, day, week.

It's ironic, I suppose, since I don't think my father was particularly good at getting things actually accomplished. (Actually, the story goes that he was so addicted to seeming organized that as a boy he would fill in his diary in advance, as if to double the odds that he would get things done.)

Tony, who makes no lists, is far more diligent than I about finishing any project he starts. I know the truth, that for me, (and possibly this was true for my father) making lists and plans is in fact a way of procrastinating, a way of feeling like I'm actually almost done, when actually I've only conceived of myself doing. I'm always transferring tasks from one week's list to the next--or copying one year's list of resolutions on to the next.

I found this "To Do Tattoo" on a website fittingly entitled "craphound.com." I get the picture. Sometimes lists are just a way of filling your brain with crap, instead of concentrating on the present moment. But perhaps I'm like the Russian Olympic athletes (I forget which kind) who were told to visualize in their minds' eye each move of a winning swim or race.

Each stroke.
Each muscle flex. Each breath.
Each step toward the finish line.

Or perhaps my lists are my way of being intentional, of acknowledging that time is finite, and at least I want to try to fill it right.

And so, as silly as they can sometimes get, I won't give up my lists. I'll just try to spend less time making them, and more time acting on them.