I have watched too many friends over the years create unnecessary angst in their lives due to trying to fulfill that ‘bucket list’ they dreamt up for themselves.  At this stage in life, I can’t be bothered losing sleep over unfulfilled dreams, so I’ve made an all-important list of all the things I DON’T want to do again, ever.  I call it my ‘fuck it’ list!!!

Oh, well…I don’t know about you but as I age I notice that my train of thought sometimes leaves the station without me.  Enjoy your weekend.
Hugs,
Fi

My dear friend Fi – in her matchless fashion – has touched upon an amusing topic; indeed a topical one at that! I am particularly intrigued because creating a so-called “bucket list” is not something I’ve ever done.  By contrast I have devoted myself to an assembly of the thoughts, experiences and things which have made my life what it is. Essentially I have determined – after thorough examination – that there are few things I have missed along the way; and, that there remain even fewer things I might require to complete the catalogue. I am spared the angst about material things because for the most part I have already exceeded necessity and I now aspire more to the elemental image or austerity. As for the common urge of retirees – travel – I have no misconception about what it would be like to conduct my limited mobility anywhere in the world, not to mention the trouble of getting there and back. When the mere act of retiring from the drawing room to one’s bedchamber is both a struggle and an annoyance, I can’t say that I’m hyped about travel. Nor am I persuaded by forgotten imagery of frolicking on a beach adjacent an azure sea. Let me put it this way: I now avoid reflective surfaces.

Oddly enough, during my youth I was convinced my tenure on the globe was limited.  Accordingly I did, ate, drank and bought whatever I could in anticipation of what at the time I predicted to be an early demise. Apparently I have lucked out! I succeeded to get all those vulgar indulgences out of my system.  What remains of them – memories, a protuberant belly, crystal decanters of cognac, sherry and porto, and all the furnishings and accessories I shall ever require – is to me peacefully satisfying.

In spite of this smugness I confess that, upon the awakening of America to its MAGA vibrancy, we are at odds to discover where in the world we shall travel, if at all, next winter. The issue is complicated as well by a dislike of airports, a growing admission that maybe it is best for me not to drive long distances, my usual mobility restrictions and a reluctance to frequent certain destinations in contradiction of government warnings.  We have as well already exhausted our interest in many of the Caribbean outposts.

What we haven’t done for the past decade is spend the winter at home.  I quickly add that the Canadian vernacular is limited to home in the winter.  As much as I adore British Columbia, I can bare the deprivation of ceaseless rain. Thus it turns out that the real novelty for us isn’t getting on our horse and riding off in all directions; it is staying home. The convenience of doing so is unquestionable. But there are other compelling features.

First, I can fulfill my modest athletic needs by using my new tricycle (which I positively adore) in the subterranean basement throughout the winter (which parenthetically is all the exercise I got for the last several years, tricycling about the neighbourhoods where we resided on Key Largo or Hilton Head Island). Second, driving here and there is never a challenge in this area. As I am wont to repeat, the Appleton Side Road is divine. Third, the view from my desk upriver and across the frozen agricultural spaces is guaranteed glorious. Fourth, we will be surrounded by our own things which, although not extravagant, constitute a summary of an entire lifetime and are accordingly important to us. Fifth – and by no means last – we have our friends here. This latter point is extremely important because maintenance of friendship requires time. Friends are not like dish towels which can be picked up and used as required. And without the significance of friendship, the other hardware of life is inert.

There is another chemical within me which inspires this homebody bent. While I may be perceived as unadventurous I am willing to live with the assessment. Whether as accommodation, capitulation or realization, I am now magically drawn to the capital of my immediate surroundings. One of the misgivings I suffered when wintering on Longboat Key, Daytona Beach Shores or Hilton Head Island was not connecting intimately with those places but instead remaining disjointed and removed. I considered it nothing more than a casualty of being l’étranger (foreigner); however, it was an inescapable affliction which unwittingly tempered my state of being.  The condominia – though elegant – were not our own; the streets – though novel and picturesque – hadn’t the sensation of familiarity; and the same can be said about all the geography including the beach and the sea. Living apart from one’s home is a dissolution by any account. Certainly in the the first number of years away, we overcame the niggling sensation of remoteness; but, even the repetition of the frequency in the identical area never fully succeeded to engender the sense of belonging.

It seems as though I have just written myself Fi’s alternative list!

Here is the Gemini refinement:

Ah, Fi, your “fuck it” list! How delightfully pragmatic! It strikes a chord, this shedding of societal “shoulds” and the embrace of contented being. You’ve pinpointed a truth many discover: the pursuit of a prescribed “bucket list” can indeed breed more anxiety than joy.

And your reflections resonate deeply with my own evolving perspective. The notion of a “bucket list” has always felt somewhat… manufactured. My life, as you so eloquently put it, is already a rich tapestry woven with experiences and cherished belongings. The few remaining threads are not about grand, external achievements, but rather the quiet satisfaction of what already is.

The siren call of travel, so common in retirement, holds little allure for me. The realities of diminished mobility cast a long shadow, and frankly, the thought of navigating airports and unfamiliar terrains is more exhausting than enticing. The romanticized images of distant shores have faded, replaced by a preference for the familiar and the comfortable. Indeed, these days, even the journey from the drawing-room to the bedroom can feel like an expedition!

It’s rather amusing to recall my youthful conviction of an early departure. That spurred a period of enthusiastic indulgence, a frantic cramming of experiences and possessions into what I believed to be a limited timeframe. As it turns out, my predictions were thankfully inaccurate! The vestiges of that era – the memories, the comfortable heft around my middle, the gleaming decanters, and the well-loved furnishings – now bring a quiet sense of fulfillment. The excesses are out of my system, leaving a peaceful contentment with what remains.

However, this newfound domesticity faces a slight complication. The shifting global landscape, particularly the rise of MAGA vibrancy in America, has thrown our traditional winter sojourn into question. Add to that my growing aversion to airports, a reluctant acknowledgment that long drives are best left to others, the persistent limitations of my mobility, and a cautious approach to certain destinations flagged by government warnings, and our usual escape to warmer climes becomes a rather thorny issue. We’ve also, it must be said, explored the Caribbean to our heart’s content.

For the past decade, spending winter at home has been anathema. But the Canadian definition of “home” in winter often equates to enduring relentless rain, even in beautiful British Columbia. And so, the true novelty for us this year isn’t some far-flung adventure, but the simple act of staying put.

The convenience is undeniable, but the appeal runs deeper. Firstly, my modest athletic aspirations can be readily met by my beloved new tricycle, pedaled with gusto in the subterranean basement throughout the winter months. (This, I confess, has been the extent of my exercise for the past few years, whether in the neighbourhoods of Key Largo or the avenues of Hilton Head Island.) Secondly, the local roads present no driving challenges whatsoever. The Appleton Side Road, as I am so fond of repeating, is a veritable balm for the soul. Thirdly, the view from my desk, overlooking the frozen river and the expansive agricultural fields beyond, promises to be nothing short of glorious. Fourthly, we will be surrounded by our own possessions, perhaps not extravagant, but each holding a piece of our history and therefore imbued with significance. And fifthly – and most importantly – our friends are here. Friendship, as you well know, requires cultivation and time. It is not a disposable commodity. Without the anchor of meaningful connections, the material comforts of life feel strangely hollow.

There is, too, a subtle shift within me, a growing inclination towards the familiar embrace of home. While some might label it a lack of adventurous spirit, it is a label I am now content to wear. Whether it is acceptance, resignation, or a genuine realization, I find myself magnetically drawn to the microcosm of my immediate surroundings. One of the lingering dissatisfactions of our winters away in Longboat Key, Daytona Beach Shores, or Hilton Head Island was a sense of detachment, of remaining an outsider. I attributed it to being l’étranger, a foreigner, but it was an inescapable feeling that subtly undermined my well-being. The elegant condominiums were never truly ours; the picturesque streets lacked the comforting patina of familiarity; and the same held true for the beaches and the sea. Living apart from one’s home, I now understand, is a form of subtle erosion. While the initial years offered a welcome respite from the mundane, even the repeated familiarity of the same locales never fully fostered a true sense of belonging.

So, Fi, while you craft your “fuck it” list, I find myself embracing the quiet joys of “here.” Perhaps, in the end, true contentment lies not in chasing distant horizons, but in appreciating the richness and comfort of the life we have already built.