by Alice Lowe
- I once was secretary to a man who, first thing every morning, dictated a list of people he wanted to talk to that day. Next he would prioritize the calls. As the day went on, we would review and revise the list, eliminating names, adding others, rearranging them. Our co-workers laughed at his idiosyncrasy; I found it a reassuring anchor for each day.
- I’m lured by the possibilities inherent in new beginnings. In early December my focus shifts from its usual in-the-present orientation to anticipation, as the first of January beckons with its promise of a clean slate. I start with the mother of all lists, a list of the lists I will compile for the coming year: people and projects, obligations and acquisitions, travels and tasks, home and garden, health and fitness, writing and reading.
- A liste, from 13th-century Middle English, was a border or edging, later signifying a catalog of names in a row or series. As a verb, the act of putting something on a list is just one of several meanings. A ship lists when it leans or tilts; in poetry list is an abbreviation of listen. An archaic definition is to please or be pleased, to provoke longing, from the Old English lystan, to lust. In December I lust to list.
- From the mother list I draft its components, which then drill down into sub-lists. For writing alone I maintain lists of work in progress, new ideas, submissions pending, deadlines looming, publications to review. My record of published work scrolls down the side of a bookcase next to my desk, from most recent—with room at the top for new additions—to my first published piece. A source of pride and validation, this ever-lengthening list is a lift when I need it.
- I’ve always made grocery lists, jotting down items as they occur to me, criss-crossing the store as needed until I have everything. When my friend Geri was critically ill some years ago, I took over her weekly shopping. She gave me lists, tailored to our neighborhood Trader Joe’s, not just aisle by aisle but in the order items are found on the shelves, from juices and sparkling water on the right as I enter to a wall of chips at the end of the last aisle before the registers. It was a revelation, efficiency beyond my imagination, but I didn’t change my ways until the age of Covid. Then shopping became an exercise in skill and speed—get in and out of the store in the least possible time without forgetting anything. I adopted Geri’s method, my methodical lists perfected to an art as I engaged in weekly contests between myself and the clock.
- Lists are tools that help me maintain mental equilibrium and a tranquil environment. I’ve been accused by some who are wary of my ways—maybe threatened or envious?—of having control issues. If seeking order in my life is the giveaway, then I’m guilty as charged. That I lack spontaneity, but is that a bad thing? Maybe spontaneity is overrated. That I’m obsessive-compulsive: no!—and I can make a list of the ways I’m not to prove it.
- I’m not alone. We are legion, enough to constitute a niche market for goods and services. From pre-numbered to-do pads and “listmakers anonymous” notebooks to sophisticated systems that proliferate in print and electronic form, as well as hordes of personal coaches and professional organizers who have carved out profitable careers helping people get their shit together. “There’s an app for that,” we’re promised, but mine are rudimentary lists in pencils and color-coded markers on paper or whiteboard that I can tack to the wall over my desk or affix to the fridge with magnets. Lists I can refer to at a glance, draw lines through the to-dos as they’re done.
- Because that’s the payoff, the thrill of it all—crossing things off, making that bold checkmark, that definitive stroke that speaks to accomplishment, that gives you permission at the end of the day to pour your first glass of wine and enjoy the sunset. And when you do something that’s not on the list? Add it and check it off. Instant gratification.
- I said to my husband one day: “I don’t have a list.” He knows my predilection, that I have lists galore, so what on earth did I mean? I explained my play on words: “I’m feeling listless,” lacking energy and enthusiasm. Coming full circle, you could reason that if you’re lethargic, leaden, listless—make a list.
- There’s one list I resist, even though I’m of an age for it—the bucket list. The concept, coined in the movie of the name, is that death is closing in, and you have to knock off some big-ticket items, chalk them up, get them under your belt before it’s too late. The things I want to do now and next year are about living, not dying, not racing against time. No bungee-jumping or kayaking down the Nile, it’s everyday stuff that gets me up each morning. And with December in my sights, I’ll soon be lusting and listing for next year.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alice Lowe writes about life and language, food and family. Her essays have been published in more than eighty literary journals, this year in Bacopa, Change Seven, ellipsis, Epiphany, Burningword, (mac)ro(mic), and Superstition Review. Her work has been cited twice in Best American Essays “Notables” and nominated for Best of the Net. Alice is the author of essays and reviews on Virginia Woolf’s life and work. She lives in San Diego, California; her work can be read at www.aliceloweblogs.wordpress.com.