Bucket List Simplified

Life is a terminal condition. Every wasted moment is truly that; wasted.

I came to grips with my own mortality when I was 18 years old. Nothing is a given when it comes to life – well, other than the fact that we all die. We are given anywhere from one day to one hundred and twenty years to suck in atmosphere and belch out carbon dioxide. What fills that time are the moments that make up your existence.

I'm not waxing philosophical, either. I mean this in a very basic sense. Every laugh, every tear, every sound, every sight, every joy, every fear, and every nuanced second in between is what life is measured by.

Knowing my time here is uncertain and limited is my main motivator for doing things.

I have two speeds: On and Out of Service. There's no real middle speed. Instead, I have my goals and desires in a perpetual triage. Passions drive everything for me, so, what hits me hardest gets my attention first.

There's a reason I live this way, though. Not only am I acutely aware that life will end, and no one really knows how long they have left, but that my abilities will degrade.

I am already profoundly hearing impaired (functionally deaf with a hearing aid), have vertigo attacks almost daily, deal with a mind that is impeded and muddled by combat PTSD, and suffer additional ailments which will become more difficult to live with over time. While all of that could knock me down emotionally, I tend to look at it a different way.

It's GO Time!

When someone creates a “bucket list,” they usually compile a list of places and activities they want to visit and partake in before “kicking the bucket.” For some, this further evolves into a plan for post-retirement, but I don't have that kind of time.

If I want to hear elephants trumpeting, monkeys howling, hear the lyrical chants of African tribesmen, (safely) travel solo, and have wonderful conversations in many different places, I am compelled to cram in a life's worth of bucket list into the next five years.

Things will change eventually. I am certain that I will still enjoy travel after I lose sound completely, but I will miss out on so much of the experience. Instead, I opt to do as much now – with hearing – as I can. At very least I will have the memories of the rumbling thunder over Mt. Kilimanjaro etched in my mind's eye. Those experiences are indelible.

In Tanzania, at night when the warm air cooled slightly and the sunlight finally faded into skies filled with stars, I would sit in the courtyard of my lodging. I would look up at the galaxies spread out across the canvas of night. I would hear the final calls of birds settling into their roosts. Every once in awhile one of the Tanzanian staff members would join me. We would talk about stories from childhood. She told me tales of her tribe and Kilimanjaro – of how they were watched over by the imposing volcano. When children were good to their parents, the mountain, in turn, would be kind to them. I told her about kids getting their thumbs cut off by tailors if they persisted in sucking on them too long into childhood. She and I agreed that German bedtime stories are nightmare material.

My heart sings at those memories. Even as I type this, I'm smiling.

Next up is my trip to China. I cannot wait to hear the cacophony of traffic in Beijing, the gongs and drums of various temples, and the cracking sound of a panda munching on bamboo (while being hand fed by yours truly). I have no clue as to the conversations I will have. But, I can tell you this; I will treasure every damn one.