I was just talking with a co-worker who brought in pictures of her self at age 18, standing against a drab wall in her military get-up. She was just a baby and it was interesting to see.
As she was leaving my office, she said that she's collecting these pictures of herself to divide among her children so that one day, down the generational line, someone can look at the picture and say, "that was great-granny who?".
I felt it in my gut and for a second, I lost my breath in this indescribable pit of fear.
The pieces we leave behind are the legacy of our existence, our impression upon the world and others...
This fear I felt as she reminded me that, one day my time here will be marked with only pictures and recollections of those who knew me, was palpable but I'm not sure I could state exactly what I was afraid of.
Scared that I won't be here, scared that it won't matter, scared that it will?
How can I be so threatened by an event or period that I won't even be present for?
If nothing else, this should be my inspiration to live with more zeal, to love with more passion and to kindle that fire of life while I have it.
This life, this time, is so precious--so very, very precious and this conversation bit was just the reality check I needed.
1 comment:
I was just thinking about this the other day. I document everything. I have a daily journal, but I just record what happened, no emotion or observation. I write down developments for each boy every week in this journal. I write specific captions for all my photos.
Maybe it's the historian's daughter in me, but I figure this will be all that's left, some day, and I want it to make sense.
Ego? Desperate grab for immortality? I dunno, but there will be a record...
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