finishing

In 1984 the summer Olympics were held in Los Angeles. I'm sure records were broken, careers were launched, and history was made. I don't remember any of that. What I do remember was the women's marathon that year, and the unusual sight of a woman marathoner staggering into the Olympic stadium far behind the other runners. I recall how the crowd went silent while for several long minutes she painfully, pathetically lurched and stumbled her way through the final lap of the race. Mesmerized, I watched her struggle, marveling at her ability to push her body so far past its human limit, and unable to understand why she did it. If I ever knew it, I have long forgotten her name and where she was from, but I have never forgotten this- she finished the race.

One thing about me you should probably know is that I am not great at finishing things. Ideas constantly ferment in my head; plans form and float in the air above and around me, sometimes even making their way into quasi-reality where they take on the nebulous title of "projects," but these ideas and plans rarely progress to the point of completion. I'm not a good finisher, and this inability to complete things is the bane of my life. For instance? For instance...

• My baby's birth announcement cross-stitch project. Start date: 1983. Estimated time of completion: Well, considering that she's 25 now, I'd say I'll probably finish it somewhere around the 12th... of never.
• Re-covering the breakfast room chairs. We sold the house 9 years ago; the chairs went a few years later. Want to buy some nice plaid fabric? Never been used.
• Throw pillows for the new sofa. The "new" sofa recently celebrated its 8th anniversary and, although we've been a pillow short since the night I imprudently leaned back onto the candle and caught one on fire, it's not looking too promising. How about a handsome paisley print? I'll throw in the braid trim for free.
• Months of Franklin Covey pages. All as clean as the day they were clipped into the binder; some in their original packaging. Sorry, already pitched 'em.
• Wedding gifts undelivered. Is there any kind of statute of limitations on giving presents?
• Miscellaneous failures. Pictures undated, recipes unfiled, magazines unread, rooms undecorated, silver unpolished, mulch unspread, shall I go on?

Bless me, Martha, for I have sinned. I have not deheaded my flowers. My windows are not impeccably clean. I don't keep my gardening tools well-oiled after each use. Some of the dirt in my entry is original to the house. I don't vacuum my carpet in multiple directions to raise the nap. Some weeks I don't vacuum it at all.

But my heart is good, my intentions honorable, and I really want to learn to finish. It's just that the spirit is willing but the flesh, oh the flesh is so weak! What I want to say to you all, though, is please don't head for the parking lot just yet on this one. See that dot on the horizon? It's me, and I'm still running. Well, it's more of a slow shuffle; kind of a walk actually, but I'm still in the race. Cheer for me?

Speaking of finishing, I'm not sure how to end this odd confessional except to say that if you're a champion finisher, good for you! I admire you and probably watch you closely for tips. If you're in the middle of the pack, more power to you and keep on going. If you, like me, are a lagger, jog on over here next to me and let's commiserate. We'll get there one of these days. If not, then those who knew us best will stand by our graves some day and say, "Well, at least they finished something!"

lists

I've never been big on list making. Not that I have anything against lists, I just never really needed them. As a child of the 50's growing up in small-town Texas, life was pretty simple. Ok, it was real simple. We had a party line; our ring was long, short short. We got our mail down at the stamp-sized post office from a box with a little window and a brass knob that had to be turned just so to open. Ours was box 63. I went to piano lessons, to school, and to church, and those were about all the places there were to go. I 'm not complaining, because Salado, Texas, with its rolling hills and flowing creek, was this child's idea of heaven. But that's another story. The point is, our life was simple and my days uncomplicated, and my childhood list would have looked like this:

1. Wake up.
2. Play.
3. Swim in the creek.
4. Watch Popeye.

It's hard to lose your way in a day shaped like that.

Even as a teenager I didn't feel the need to keep lists. Life's rhythm was a slow undulation, day following day in a lazy loop of school and weekend, summer and not summer. No frenetic activity-packed schedule of enrichment opportunities kept me watching the clock or checking a well worn day planner. If I had been into lists, mine probably would have been short ones- a list of books to read, or cute names for the babies I would have in some hazy, indeterminate future. As it was, I managed to muddle through my teens pretty well sans list.

Becoming a young wife brought with it no pressing need for lists, apart from the occasional grocery list scrawled on the back of an old envelope. No siree, married life was one long, lazy picnic, and I was drowsing in the shade with a good book and a nice glass of chardonnay. Until the day I looked up and realized three of those hazy babies were real and had their unwashed hands in my picnic basket. Suddenly I was the lady of a house containing one husband, three children, a cat and a dog. They had needs; they had wants; they had lives with schedules. I began to feel like a one-armed woman in a plate spinning contest. How could I possibly manage this chaos which had furtively appropriated my amiable life?

It was then that I discovered the secret of the list. More accurately, I discovered my friend Jeanne who had discovered the secret of the list. She didn't just keep a list; she had a list system with lists, sub lists, and a Master List of lists. I was amazed! I was inspired! She had devised the perfect organizational regimen. In theory. For one Thursday as I was admiring her snappy little list for the day, I noticed that it was the same length as Wednesday's list. In fact it was Wednesday's list, but with a couple of things added to it. Flipping back, I observed that Tuesday's list had slinked forward onto Wednesday's page, just as Monday's had inched its way onto Tuesday's, until the whole thing had become a big To Do List caterpillar with no discernible beginning and no foreseeable end. Apparently nothing ever got accomplished, it just got promoted!

With that in mind, Jeanne and I developed a philosophy of The List: creating the list is at least as important, if not more important, than the list itself. There is a certain therapeutic benefit to the writing of lists. Lists are just words on paper, but making lists helps one prioritize life and distinguish the difference between what is vital, what is desirable, and what's just not worth worrying about. I've been thinking about those lists lately, and about what's really important in my life. Chaos, which I thought had only come for a visit years ago, apparently felt so comfortable it took up permanent residence in our house. I still have the husband, the cat, and the dog. But my hazy babies are grown. One celebrated her second wedding anniversy just this week. Another will begin her first "grownup" job next month in another city. In a few days the youngest leaves us for college. My days of having these women I love so very much in my house and in my life each day are numbered. So for now I have one very brief list:

1. Cherish the moment.