Metaphorically, like a nonfiction novel, life is nothing more than a collection of chapters, in order, from birth to death. The first of these takes place too early to be recounted, and the last of them is selectively forgotten until the page before last is written. As our story unfolds, unique moments (the ones we admit and the ones we deny) blur together with our general storyline, and combine to describe who we were and how will be remembered. Our lives then, our body of work as it were, frames the picture of us that others will see after we are long gone.
I have been thinking about this idea of “legacy” in recent months, partly inspired by the recent loss of two of my closest friends (their deaths only a couple of months apart), but also because they’re passing reminds me that any day could be our last so there’s never a bad time to take stock of where we are in life and whether or not we’re satisfied with the use we have put it to.
In the movie “Gladiator,” Marcus Aurelius wonders how he will be remembered, concerned that what he fought hardest to accomplish (the return of Rome to its former glory) will be lost to the memory of the brutality required to achieve it. And while it is true that the movie is partially fictional, some pieces are based on actual events, which allows for fair parallels to be drawn with our own respective lives. And as it relates to our respective life stories, the same question can be asked: how will we be remembered, and would we be satisfied, positive or negative, with the fairness and accuracy of it?
One of my favorite quotes from that movie suggests that “what we do in life echoes in eternity,” but it can be fairly said that what we don’t do in life likewise echoes in eternity. It’s a curious paradox to muddle concerns about what we’ve done in life with all the things we didn’t do. A sober reflection, however, suggests the better life is lived wherever the latter far outnumbers the former.
As your sensibilities rise up to protest against the nuance of that last sentence, take a step back and consider the human capacity to do terrible things. Then ask yourself whether the few good things you have done might be a smaller number than all of the terrible things our species is capable of. As your elevated heart rate subsides, consider not only the good things you have done for those you care about, but also any good deeds done for total strangers or people you’ve never met.
In my own life, I’m satisfied that I have done more good than bad, wives and estranged children notwithstanding, but this isn’t the full measure-or shouldn’t be-of how I will be remembered. Nor should it be for any of the rest of us. Human life is conducted between the guardrails of what we can do, what we should and should not do, what we’re required to do by human law and natural law, and what we convince ourselves we can get away with if left to our own devices.
Although statistically likely that I’m going to remain on this mortal coil a number of years longer, enough of my story has been written that I have a general idea how I will be remembered by family, friends, and loved ones. Some of it will be fair, some of it will be unfair, and the accuracy of these will definitely be in their respective flavors of perspective. The reality of this serves as a reminder that those things over which we have no control are not worthy of our concern.
I have accomplished many things, visited many places, written and published numerous words, made friends and enemies, and am partially responsible for many children, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. I’ve given money to homeless people and panhandlers. I’ve given financial support to aspiring writers and donated money to charitable causes. Bits and pieces of these things will frame the picture of how I will be remembered by others. But how will I remember myself?
I have written mostly jokingly about having had a face-to-face conversation with my mortality in my hospital bed after having survived my third stroke. I say “mostly jokingly” because it was that near-death experience that brought me to understand how fragile life really is.
The lesson I took away from it was that once it has visited you and left you still breathing after it’s gone, death is inevitable, leaving you free to find joy in the rest of the ride. In the years since, I have been committed, in the final leg of my journey, to spreading kindness and generosity to as many less fortunate people as I can reach in the pursuit of hope that at my own passing I will remember myself best for all the good I did for others that they will never know came from me.
The song linked below inspired me, in part, to write this piece. It conveys the message about the tangible things we strive to leave behind. Missing in the lyrics is the intangible; let not the fleeting works of greatness overshadow the quiet and subtle kindness that perpetuates into eternity.
