Something about today's disposition of ashes (many of us were snowed/iced out of attending services on Wednesday, so it was Ash Wednesday redux on Sunday) resonated with me and some of my recent ruminations: the freedom that comes with knowing you come from and will return to dust. A contemporary Episcopal riff on Henri-Frédéric Amiel says, "Life is short and we have too little time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us."
Life is short, indeed. From there I think it's really a matter of how we feel about our brief journey here. I have known people to concern themselves with building a legacy in their short time. To be fair, most of the those I have heard express that sentiment have wanted to leave behind a memorable contribution to society. I admire that.
I suspect my lasting impression will be a headstone in a field—unremarkable in its stature, location or general significance—as weather and time ware away even that. Maybe I have or will cross paths with some great person of our time and have an odd mention in a biography or two, in which everyone will surely mispronounce my last name. Perhaps at my university many years from now someone will find that I was responsible for the renaming of my program, probably from whatever the then-program was once, and say, "oh, that was his name," which will be mispronounced, again. Of my writing, there may be an essay I have written that a student turns to generations from now, finding something I said a useful footnote (silently mispronouncing my name, one final time).
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| Old City Cemetery, Lynchburg, VA (Photo by author) |
I leave my legacy to the ashes. Slowly, everyday I learn to embrace the transitory. A tasty dish or beautiful bloom lasts only a short time, so I want to soak in its pleasure; that's the whole point, right? Lest anyone think me trying pass myself off as very zen, I admit I hold onto scraps that remind me of moments and people past owing to deep sentimentality. Even still, I work every day to enjoy the moments whizzing by; that's why I take some many pictures of my daughter just being herself. French cuisine and spring bulbs do not my legacy make; my legacy like so, so many of our legacies, will lie in the other ashes: it will be "those who travel with [me]."
My legacy exists in my relationships; talk about an evanescent marker! In my work I meet some fascinating people who spend a few months in my class. Periodically I hear back from one, saying something positive about my brief time in their travels. Teaching aside, I have and will continue to enjoy meeting a number of fine, kind, funny, intelligent, helpful, and uplifting people. Every once and again I manage to be one of those things for them, even if for an instant. We will have no grand markers for gladdening the hearts of others, well, most of us won't, anyway (I'm excepting here memorable artists, thinkers, pioneers, and defenders).
Who ever said life was about our monuments? Ashes to ashes; we come from nothing and then return to them, scattered in the wind. If you and I only have these fleeting moments, let's enjoy them together. A laugh, a helpful word, a small act to make the day just a little lighter and brighter or at least less lonely, these are the stones in our legacies. They'll be forgotten in time, but I won't be there to care; neither will you.
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