Maybe You Don't Need a Bucket List to be Happy

Take a look at the bucket you've already got

Photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash

I lost a friend 47 years ago today, June 1, 1977. The car accident that ended Len’s life disrupted his world and everyone in it. Among those who knew and loved him, he is not forgotten. 

Although so many years have passed since he did, we speak of him often. For most of us, he was the first person close to us who died young. That sudden, brutal realization of our mortality had an enduring impact. It changed us forever.

A recently published memoir recounts the incidents surrounding Len’s death and the aftermath, although the focus of the book is on the driver responsible. When it was first published, social media platforms frequented by our former classmates were abuzz with ancient gossip, speculation, and fond memories.

Beyond that, what items would Len be anxious to tick off his bucket list if he had lived as long as most of his peers? Would he even have one?

A life well-lived 

Only 18 years long, Len’s life experience was regrettably small. He came from a loving family, the oldest child and only son with four adoring younger sisters. He was funny and sweet, a hellraiser, but never malicious or cruel. 

We used to grin across the aisle at each other at mass on Sunday mornings, remembering the underage partying we’d been doing the night before. Our large Catholic families were shepherded to church each week, without fail, by mothers of great faith and iron will. 

Len knew the thrill of skiing fast and the satisfaction of executing a perfect stop at the bottom of the run with an aggressive spray of icy Northeastern snowpack. He climbed mountains and explored caves, hiking the icy cliffs in slick-bottomed Frye boots, puffing weed like a Rastafarian. Like most young men, he courted disasters that never materialized and came away unscathed until he didn’t.

He loved the Allman Brothers Band and attended a Marshall Tucker concert with his leg in a cast. He was a licensed driver and a high school graduate. He chose no words of wisdom to print beneath his yearbook picture, only his name. He lived away from home for a spell in Colorado in his last year. He liked it and considered returning. 

The list of what he didn’t do is longer. He never got married or had a serious relationship (at least not one I know of). He was denied the joy of holding his newborn child or walking the stage at his college graduation. He had yet to find his life’s purpose when that life ended.

What more do you need?

Today, most of Len’s peers are privileged to be much further along life’s road than he managed to get. Retired, or nearly so, we work on our bucket lists and fret over whether or not we can afford to complete them. At this point, maybe not Antarctica or Machu Pichu, but Paris, surely, or London. Surely we can manage that. 

Some of us already have, and not just for a visit. Len’s friends and classmates have traveled the world, attained advanced degrees, started successful businesses, and had children and grandchildren. One was knighted in a foreign country for charity work; another held a White House staff position.

Yes, Len missed out on a lot of wonderful possibilities. On the plus side, he was spared a great deal of pain: divorce, the death of a spouse or child, bankruptcy, addiction, prison, Alzheimer’s, and the despair that drives those who deliberately end their lives. 

He never fretted about making the mortgage payment or saving enough to retire. He was spared the indignity of thinning hair and a finicky prostate. In that respect, he lucked out because these and more were in the future for Len’s peers that night in June when he ran out of tomorrows.

Maybe your bucket is already full

What would have been on it if Len had written a bucket list before he died? I can’t pretend to know his mind, but I suspect most of his bucket list items would have been things the rest of us have already experienced: a hand to hold, children to raise and be proud of, good times, good works, a decent job, making it on our own. 

Too often, when we near the end of our lives, we focus on what we didn’t do: the roads not taken, the unconquered fears, the missed opportunities. Those with the means and ability race around, trying to tip our satisfaction scales further into the positive position without realizing that, maybe, what we already have is amazing. Maybe it’s enough. 

I think those like Len, who barely scratched the surface of what the world had to offer in the short time they were here, might look at the fact that we’re still here, living life, and be green with envy. I’d bet they’d be happy to trade even our most pedestrian joys and sorrows for such an abundance of time. Let’s honor them with our gratitude and hope for a chance to recollect and rejoice along with them on the other side.

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