The thermometer on my car reads 108 degrees F. I snicker to myself, crank up the AC, and order the first pumpkin spice latte, with the glee of the holiday spirit filling my chest. The thermometer may still read three digits, but change is coming. I can feel it in my bones. The idea of change tickles my skin and makes me antsy. What ways can I reinvent myself, as the world reinvents itself anew with the seasons? Is it a new haircut? New outfit? Is it crossing off another bucket list item?
I’ve always loved the idea of a bucket list. I have a whole Pinterest board brimming with adventures. I envision myself climbing Kilimanjaro one day. Cheeks ruddy and wind whipped as a stake my flag in the claims of physical and mental accomplishments.
But I have to wonder, what is the purpose of a bucket list if a bucket can only contain a finite amount of things? I feel like my proverbial bucket is constantly overflowing with the pace of life. There is always a staffing crisis, a pile of laundry, and a child that needs to be shuttled to their next activity.
I yearn for the version of myself that can throw caution to the wind as I traverse up a mountain, laughing as I launch myself in a repel off the other side. I picture myself lying on the beaches in Tahiti whilst folding the latest load of laundry. As I fold the miniature-sized clothes of my children, my bucket runs over with the thrill of opportunity to show my children the version of myself that used to lean into an adventure. The version of myself that indulged with delight, devouring the flavors of Italy and gazed up at a smoldering volcano in Guatemala. And when I close my eyes this time, I can see myself pulling all of my children into the selfie we will take atop Kilimanjaro.
As I reach the bottom of the pumpkin spice latte, the burst of flavors that collect at the bottom compel me to kick the bucket over, let everything flow out, and hop on to enjoy the ride of life, wherever this season will take me.