NOTES FROM A PRIVILEGED LOCKDOWN, DAY 12ish (but more like 16ish)

So yes, a few minutes before 10am I did have a list of 3 items to be accomplished by the end of the day;
but they mostly relate to grooming of house, pets, self:
a bit too trivial to be shared, even for a FB post.

– – – – – – – –

5 items for the bucket list: that was a challenge. Still is.
But then again, finding it hard to come up with things I want to do before I die, must mean I either lack any kind of imagination, or I have had a decently adventurous life. (Or I am really really old).

Anyone out there! Help with the bucket list, please!

In Italian there isn’t even a word for “bucket list”.
And if you can’t name it , you can’t think it.
I had never thought about that.
Definitely worthy of some more reflection.

For now, on my draft copy I am jotting down:
– having a returnable new baby, yet that I can call my own.
(But this one is entirely up to my children).

– – – – – – – –

For the “4 items by next Sunday” list:

1) Make the Fitbit proud.

(Apparently I can’t make the daily 10k. )
So I will compensate by keeping a cumulative weekly total of 70k by next Sunday.
After all there are 90 steps to the top of the tower: 5 round trips and a couple visits to the bathroom should do it.
I will pretend to be a hamster in a luxury cage.

That puts me in a fairly empowered mood: I can make up for my own unaccomplishments. (the grammar corrector doesn’t want me to use this word: “unaccomplishment”).

The trouble is that JUST MAKING A LIST of what I haven’t done might take up most of the lockdown time.
(And while I cannot work on that baby of my own, I do need to get to those urgent grooming projects. By today.)

To reduce this latter list, I must resort to a little shortcut: forgiveness.
So some shortages I will compensate, and some I will just have to pardon myself for.

BTW: here follows one of my favorite short stories about forgiveness:

“Two old gentlemen are sitting next to each other at a bench in the park. They converse amiably and reminisce of the good old days of hunting together as young men; and of as little ones chasing each other.
They share a sweet memory of their mother. So, they are brothers.
Finally satiated with memories, they keep silent for a while, and exchange a look of deep affection.

Then suddenly one asks the other: “Listen, I want to ask you a question. It’s been a long time, and I can’t remember how things went: was it you who killed me, or am I the one who killed you?”
And the other replies, shrugging: “I can’t remember anymore, Cain, I just can’t remember anymore.”

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