If we knew with certainty that life was ending, what would we leave as a legacy, a lesson we would want others to share? I suppose we might be too concerned about how we would be remembered to be as honest as we might be, even at this late hour. We would review how we had utilized time and energy, rejecting what had so far been its focus in favor of something else. We might see there is little to be learned and even less to be shared of what derives from survival needs and how we met them. Distilling life should come to more than thoughts of getting by, even if it is getting by in style. That, we would hopefully see, is not its essence.
It is an occasion to review life and we might do well to prepare the lesson before being required to present it. We might in the process come to a number of cliched statements, some of which might readily be disposed of, while others might seem of value. In the end it may be the person who has no legacy, who finds nothing so absolute, who has the best gift. Maybe when there is nothing to be said we will have attained a better state, and offering its silence may be what will be best.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
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