I often wonder what kind of legacy I'm going to leave behind. As a writer, of course, I want to leave behind a few books that people are still reading fifty or a hundred years after I die. As a father, I want to be remembered by my daughter and son as a presence of love and support. I want my daughter to remember the nights I read
Charlotte's Web to her, doing character voices, making her imagine the manure pile in Wilbur's barn. I want my son to remember the nights I sang him to sleep, rubbing his head and back like I was polishing a delicate flute of Waterford crystal. As a teacher, I want my students to remember me as a person who taught them how to live better lives (and hopefully avoid comma splices). As a Christian, I honestly don't know what my legacy is going to be. It may be this blog, floating out in cyberspace like a note floating in a bottle in the Pacific. Forever unread.
The saints who intrigue me the most are the ones whose biographies start out something like this: "Not much is known about Saint Joe Schmo..." It's as if their entire lives are empty chalkboards, and, yet, they're regarded holy enough to be saints. That's astounding to me. That would be like me winning the Nobel Prize in Literature because the members of the Swedish Academy heard from a friend's cousin that I'm a good writer. It just doesn't work that way.
Last night, I started teaching a spiritual journaling workshop. It was a good first night, with a lot of sharing of stories and backgrounds. The focus of the session was trying to define what our "present periods" are and how we all go about trying to preserve our histories and pasts. At one point in the evening, we discussed cemeteries and how visiting one gives you a sense of clarity and peace. I have been a cemetery stalker for a long time (not in the Ouija board, chicken blood sense). I find strolling among headstones, reading names, noting birth and death dates, grounds me. It reminds me of how trivial most of the things that occupy my days really are. And it also reminds me that, when I'm long gone from this little rock of a planet, the only physical reminder that I've walked, breathed, spoken, took craps, loved my wife and children, or wrote poetry is going to be a piece of marble with my name chiseled into it. That's it. For a majority of the residents of cemeteries, that's the sum total of their legacies. A slab of cold stone.
That's not a very comforting thought. To be honest, it scares the shit out of me. I guess I haven't quite left behind the ten-year-old boy who wanted to be the next Stephen King. I can't shake the fantasy that, one day, some huge literary agent is going to stumble across my blog and send me an e-mail with these words in the subject line: "YOU ARE THE BE$T WRITER I'VE EVER READ! PLEA$E LET ME REPRE$ENT YOU!" Or something like that. I'm not sure if this scenario is a reflection of my stubborn refusal to accept reality or a genuine possibility for a lucrative, successful writing career. I just don't want to give up my dream, because, without my dream, I'm just one step away from being Al Bundy in my own version of Married With Children.
Which brings me back to my original question of what my legacy is going to be, the thing or things for which I'm going to be remembered. If I'm remembered at all. I'm not a saint. I will never be a saint. I can't imagine doing anything for a sustained period that even remotely resembles being saintly. Let me give you an example: today's feast is for Namatius, a man who was the Bishop of Clermont, France, in the 400s. Namatius and his wife (yes, Catholic bishops were allowed to marry at one time) are best known for building cathedrals filled with beautiful artwork. His wife created the Bible of the Poor--"sacred images figuratively transcribed from the revealed texts." Basically, she created picture book Bibles on church walls for the illiterate poor. By the way, none of this information is first-hand. This stuff comes from stories told by Saint Gregory of Tours about Namatius and his wife, which, in my book, is like being nominated for sainthood by a nephew of the chief saint-maker committee guy. (There's an actual title, I believe, but you get the idea.) The point is: legacy is tied to memory, and memory is subject to human failings (like too many Jell-O shots at a Halloween party). I'm not saying Saint Gregory got it wrong on Namatius. He probably didn't. But who's to know?
So, I'm just going to keep writing my posts, taking care of my family, and dreaming. Who knows what could happen? I don't think there's a patron saint for bloggers yet. Now I just have to find someone to nominate me after I'm gone.
You know, the nephew of that chief saint-maker committee guy.
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