Youth is a funny thing. When you’re young, you think you aren’t. You are wise beyond measure, but for some reason, no one outside your own head will confirm this. Which is, frankly, so wrong.
At some point perhaps you admit maybe you don’t know everything. But at the very least, you tell yourself, you know what you want to do. And then, as if to prove the marksmanship of your own soul, you record your desires in some form of lasting tome: a “diary” if you’re female, a “journal” if you’re male, and a “log” if you happen to be at sea.
I penned many a to-do list throughout my 20s and 30s. At some unspecified time in the future, I was going to live on a kibbutz in Israel, start an animal sanctuary, get my Ph.D. in psychology, hitchhike through all of Europe, sing onstage, eat copious amounts of Fritos and dress like a grown-up.
I was also going to spearhead a therapeutic ranch for mentally ill adults. The most salient feature of the ranch was, in my mind, the homeless-dog component, whereby each client, upon admission, would be presented with a dog from a local shelter. An immediate, healing bond would ensue, and 28 days later, human and dog would leave the ranch together, one newly cured, the other newly adopted. (Don’t judge my foolishness harshly; at the time I was 23 and living over a barn.)
I did not get my Ph.D. I did not live on a kibbutz, hitchhike through Europe or sing onstage. I have eaten many Fritos (though what defines “copious” I’m not sure as the list was rather unspecific when it came to details). I didn’t start an animal sanctuary, but I am on the board of one, and I have, over the course of my life, adopted and adored seven dogs, three horses, two cats, one hermit crab and several tropical fish. The therapeutic-ranch idea went the way of the kibbutz and Europe, but I’m happy to report that I do sometimes dress like a grown-up.