My greenhouse needs attention. It has suffered the slings and arrows of nature in the last couple of seasons—a powerful storm ripped the back door off, the front door is rotting on the hinge side, and the greenbrier vines have clearly been plotting a takeover. I had a few line items related to rebuilding the back door on my to-do list this week, but I've been feeling rather overscheduled of late, and yesterday morning, I was conflicted about getting started.
We've established a few Christmas traditions over the years—dinner on Christmas Eve is strictly an Austrian menu and the main meal on Christmas Day features prime rib and Yorkshire pudding—but my favorite tradition is watching A Christmas Carol after we've had breakfast and opened our gifts (and only the George C. Scott version will do). We've done it for more than 25 consecutive years now, and I always start tearing up when Ebenezer Scrooge accepts his nephew's invitation to Christmas dinner. By the time he's telling Bob Cratchit that he's getting a raise, I can hardly see the screen. Scrooge lightens so many spirits—including his own—by heeding the messages the three spirits deliver to him.
Yesterday, as I wrestled with the demands of my to-do list and my desire to lie down for a nap instead, I realized I had already received three messages in the last few days—both literally and figuratively—prodding me to choose rest over activity.
First, I received an email inviting me to a winter solstice gathering. I've always loved observing the solstice, but a dinner party had already claimed the evening. Although the dinner and conversation were wonderful, I missed the special time of quiet reflection I usually take each year to bask in the glow of a yule log fire.
Then I received a text from a family member letting me know that he'd been at urgent care getting treatment for pneumonia. I immediately started worrying about his well-being. Then I pondered the possibility that the illness was a result of him not taking time to rest.
The third message was from a friend who announced that she had written, "Go on a hike with Becky" on her to-do list. I was flattered that she wanted to prioritize time with me during her holiday break. I was grateful too—spending time with her is always restorative for me. Her name rests squarely in my "safe people" column for countless reasons, but the most important is that I can be wholly myself without judgment when I'm with her.
As I looked at her message, though, I thought about my to-do list—the never-ending mental or handwritten accounting of tasks I think I need to attend to. As soon as I check items off the list, new ones show up to claim the vacated real estate. I don't recall ever adding a delightful task to my list—like "Spend the afternoon at the High Museum of Art" or "Relax on the sofa in the reading garden and lose myself in a book." And if I'm honest, if I did include such items, they'd probably keep slipping below other things that seemed more pressing (but probably weren't), if only because I've long bought into the idea that doing (and by extension accomplishing) somehow increases my value more than being does.
Let me be clear about one thing, though: A person's value is predetermined, unshakable, and infinitely higher than we're likely willing to believe. No amount of doing or not doing moves the needle on that. Doing can help move us forward, for sure, but doing too much without filling our tanks regularly will negatively impact us and everyone around us.
Luckily, my moment of catharsis came from a dear friend's simple message rather than a visitation from a dark specter apparently in need of some WD-40.
What if I gave up trying to manage a to-do list for a few days and focused on a to-be list instead? How would it work, and what would a to-be list example look like?
Here are a few to-be list ideas I've come up with:
Sit and admire the Christmas tree.
Enjoy a cup (or pot) of tea.
Listen to music.
Cuddle with the dogs.
Read.
Take a nap.
Relax by the fire.
Knit.
Wander the property with the camera.
Play Yahtzee! (And give a high-five to anyone who rolls a Yahtzee.)
Paint.
Go for a hike with a beloved friend.
I found it rather reassuring that I could generate a long list of to-be list ideas just as quickly as my to-do list fills up. Obviously, everyone's menu will be unique, and it will likely evolve over time, but I want to encourage everyone to give it a go. And let me leave you with a few important things to remember:
Guard your to-be time. Everyone has a right to relax. It's okay to claim time for yourself—even if your schedule is full of activities or your house is full of guests. In fact, you can set a healthy example by announcing that you're going to step away for an hour or so for some quiet time. Your guests may just take your cue and do the same.
Don't tackle your to-be list like you would a to-do list. If we think of a to-do list as a set of orders, we need to think of the to-be list as a menu. That means there's no need to do everything on it. It's just a delicious offering of restorative activities to choose from.
Try not to worry about the to-do list. It will always be lurking around the corner, so you can return to it easily, but if you let it dictate every part of every day, you'll never get the rest you need.
I'll get to the greenhouse. In the meantime, I'm going to peruse my menu and choose something relaxing instead. It seems a better way to ring in a new year. I hope you find something on your menu you just can't resist.
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