I've Given Scoreboards to the Things I Love

I saw a Mississippi kite sitting high up in a willow oak when I walked Penny this morning. It called out that unmistakable high, keening two-syllable whistle, and Penny and I both stopped in our tracks.

I watched the bird ruffle its feathers, cock its head in our direction, and then, just as it stretched out its wings, jump from the highest branch and catch the wind. It circled over us, still keeping one keen eye on the dog and me, its tail twisting and turning as it rode the sweltering August air current.

Then it just soared away, off to do whatever Mississippi kites do during the day, which probably doesn’t involve phone calls or emails or trips to the gym.

As I watched it disappear over the neighbor’s house, I felt a hot, bubbling jealousy swell up from somewhere under my belly button. Not because I wanted to fly. I’m pretty scared of heights, and I have a hard enough time getting my hair in a ponytail, so I don’t think I could pull off all those feathers.

I was jealous because that bird was just casually soaring away without toting any bullshit on its back.

Meanwhile, I needed to hurry up and do something. I had a step goal and protein target, vitamins I needed to swallow, editors to email, drafts to finish, phone calls to make, tomatoes to harvest, dinner to cook, a life to optimize.

While I’m so busy trying to be a better me by lunchtime, the kite just gets to be a freakin’ kite.

It’s so unfair.

Do you want to hear something ridiculous? I actually love most of those things. Maybe not the phone calls or the emails. But the other stuff, for sure.

I love walking the dog (although I wish she wouldn’t stop every ten feet to sniff a new blade of grass). I love writing. I love gardening. I like cooking and taking care of my body. I love building a career I’m proud of.

But the reason I felt so exhausted as I watched that bird soar away, wishing it would take me with it, was because I’ve allowed everything in my life to come with a checkbox.

It isn’t just a morning walk outside. It’s steps.

Eating isn’t just eating. It’s calories and protein.

The garden isn’t just a garden. It’s food that needs harvesting, processing, and preserving.

Writing isn’t just writing. It’s assignments, word counts, deadlines, and pitches. It’s a paycheck.

I’ve somehow turned everything I love into something I’m trying to win. I hate that I’ve put a little scoreboard beside each one.

This is probably why I get so itchy for hunting season this time of year. Sitting in a treestand for four hours watching nothing happen in a beanfield sounds like absolute heaven. Because I can’t optimize that time, and there’s nothing to count except songbirds and clouds until sunset.

And I know I’ll walk away from that first long, boring sit, feeling like I finally actually lived.

To somebody who doesn’t hunt, four hours staring at browning soybeans probably sounds like torture. To me, right now, it sounds like freedom. I’d have an excuse to just be. I wouldn’t have to answer anybody. I wouldn’t have to worry about tomatoes or deadlines or how to perfectly turn a phrase. I wouldn’t have to take a single step or count a single calorie.

I wouldn’t have to succeed. I wouldn’t even have to make the day count.

I could sit there until dark, eat my Little Debbie snack cakes, and come home with nothing but a sore butt and a handful of observations about squirrels and grasshoppers.

The problem isn’t that I want to accomplish things. It’s that I’ve forgotten how to do things without turning them into accomplishments. I really do like being the kind of person who gets things done, who is constantly trying to be better, who goes big or goes home.

But sometimes I think it’s okay to just go home without being big.

What if I stopped experiencing every good thing as proof that I’m succeeding?

And that beautiful, graceful Mississippi kite is out there living its best life. It probably doesn’t feel behind. It doesn’t have to set goals, build daily habits, or optimize its time. It probably never worries that it might not be living up to its full potential.

It just gets to be a kite.

That stupid bird doesn’t even realize how good it has it.

Neither do I most of the time.

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