I am a compulsive list writer. It’s in my blood. It all started when we lived on Victoria Avenue in Oak Bay. On Saturday morning breakfast would be on the table, my Peter Rabbit egg cup holding my soft-boiled egg, toast fingers surrounding the egg cup and along side my plate, The List. The list of Saturday morning chores, one for me, one for my stepfather both written in my mother’s flowing and unreadable hand. (For some reason my little sister didn’t get one. Although she may have as she grew older.)

And so, when I grew up and had three children of my own and was working, I would leave them with their Saturday morning list. Unlike my mother, I never had the temerity to leave one for my husband. My writing was even more indecipherable than my mother’s which gave my children an easy excuse for not doing the chores. Although my younger son, who makes his living deciphering archival information, credits me for honing his ability to read poorly written script.

And I still write lists. Lists for myself. I start the morning with a list of what I hope to achieve that day. I have lists for household chores, phone calls to be made, writing to be done, things to buy and I highlight some with pink or yellow highlighters, depending on my current colour choice and I dutifully tick each one off as they are completed. I carry some through to the next day if they’re not done. This keeps me organized and accountable and offers a boost of satisfaction as I tick each one off. It’s like getting clicks of like or love on Facebook posts, feeding ones self worth. It also creates a certain amount of anxiety and self judgement when the tasks are not ticked off. This feeling of failure blossomed recently when other life events were sucking up my energy, and I couldn’t live up to my ideal self.

a rainy day outing

Then this happened.

I stopped making lists and suddenly I was free! I was free to do whatever I wanted with no judgement. If the sun was shining and Grant and I felt like going for drive, or to the ocean or out for lunch, we would go. I had nothing on my agenda holding me back. And if I felt like cozying up on the sofa with the fire going and nestling down with a book, I did that without feeling guilty. I even did a little gardening on the sunny days because I wanted to get my hands in the earth. I did whatever I wanted to do, binge-watched Shetland and other British series and enjoyed every minute. Pure self indulgence. This is how I expected retirement to be.

Ah but La-La land doesn’t last forever. It was a great sabbatical, but reality slithered in. I have a third memoir to finish, the one that’s sometimes called And the Dog Came Too and sometimes Under a Salish Moon. You know the one. I’ve been banging on about it forever. I’m embarrassed about how long I am taking. However, I just finished reading a recently published memoir by a ninety-eight-year-old woman; it took her twelve years to finish it. And she’s working on another. I have hope.

And I am back to writing lists. Wish me luck.

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~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes