My husband, bless his heart, cannot resist a list. Toothpaste. Cereal. Cream Cheese. Bagels. If an item is on a list, it must be duly noted, pursued, conquered. Oatmeal. Raisins. Dish Soap.
See, he does most of the grocery shopping. (Sweet guy.) He'll make his weekly list the night before, referring to the kitchen white board. Butter. Potatoes. Apples. Sour Cream.
I've been known to add things last minute. Celery. Scouring Pads. Kidney Beans.
What's most fun is sneaking over to his desk, finding his list and inserting, "Unconditional love," next to Yogurt. Or "Hugs and kisses" below Paper Towels. When he returns from Winco, he'll tease me about what aisle he had to search.
We'd just had one of these exchanges, when Theresa read a great musing on lists in Memories on Fire Class:
"Wouldn't it be great if we could list our other needs on a piece of paper and travel to a store and pick them off a shelf and pay for them and leave? Would we be able to manuver the cart out the door? Would they fit in the back of my Volvo? Some days they barely fit in my mind."
She deftly touched on the deeper needs we have. Then she turned this piece into one of her first blog posts. I'm so glad we have this writer in our midst, using creative power, which transforms the mundane into the significant.
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