An Open and Somewhat Closed Letter

The word “legacy” has become a buzzword for something epic; the story, empire, or inheritance you leave behind. Some people, for better or worse, have left huge legacies in their wake. Mother Teresa left a legacy of compassion, self-sacrifice, and love. Hitler left a legacy of hatred and destruction. Infamous people leave proportionately large legacies. The rest of us leave little legacies in our wake, throughout our life, some good some bad. They intertwine and fold in on each other and multiply until their effects are as far reaching as the remnants of historical giants. The process is just a little different.

When I think of the word legacy, the definition I concoct is imprecise, but a certain element stands out. I think not just of a story, or tradition passed on, but a mantle of responsibility. For some people, the responsibility is perhaps to ensure that a legacy of negative influence is not permitted to continue to wreak generational havoc. For others, the charge is to propagate the legacy. I could unweave the threads of my life and probably discover hundreds of little legacies all tangled up with each other, and spend hours following each thread to its origin. Not that I would subject anyone else to such a detailed, introspective journey, except for maybe my therapist.

There is one thread I would like to follow, however. It is not a matter of finding its source; I’m well acquainted with the starting point. It is more a question of figuring out how far into my life it spreads, where it goes beyond my life and into other people’s. A question of how many threads come from the one starting point.

When I think of the word “joy,” the very first thing I think of is a person. My aunt, known by many names to many people, but to me she is Aunt Kimby. As far back as I can remember, before I fully understood the word “joy,” if asked to define the word I would have simply offered her name, and perhaps an attempt to explain why she was my answer. I’m not sure I know what she looks like without a smile, because she always seems to be smiling. Not in a vapid, disingenuous manner, but one that is truly joyful, even when the circumstances of life are less so. She also is not greedy with her joy; she shares it and spreads it, in such a way that you can’t keep it from permeating your own soul. I tend toward an anxious personality, and as such I have always admired my aunt for her ability not to be carefree, but to not let her cares wear her down the way I so often do. I try to be more like her.

It is impossible to speak of my Aunt Kimby without thinking too of my Uncle James. He towers over me (and most other people) at somewhere over six feet, and he is as kind as he is tall. He is an incredible guitar player, though if you asked him, he would self-deprecatingly deny any remarkable level of talent. Yet he is the one who comes to mind when I hear a song led only by the skilled pickings on an acoustic guitar and a clear, superb voice, and the peculiar mix of melancholy, elation, and nostalgia that a good song can invoke.

There is one night I will never forget. My uncle was playing guitar and singing, at the request of my grandmother. He played a song I’d never heard before: Birches, by Bill Morrisey. You should listen to it. It’s a beautiful song, lyrically and musically. All songs tell a story, but this one is specifically a narrative song, which I happen to like best. A woman is enjoying a fire and a glass of wine, and invites her husband to join her, which he refrains from doing on the basis of practicality. She reminisces on her life and marriage, ruminating specifically on the difference between passionate love that inevitably dies out and the steady, reliable relationship that lacks the excitement and unpredictability that passion brings. I remember sitting there, listening to the song and watching the fire and feeling incredibly sad. Again, you should listen to the song yourself to know what I’m talking about; I’m not doing it any measure of justice. My uncle finished the song, and my aunt said that her mother told her once that, just like in the song, you have to choose between passion and stability, that you can’t have both in a relationship. And then she said she hadn’t had to choose, that her mother had been wrong, and with my uncle she had both. I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t choose either, that I would find someone who could be both, or I would have no one at all. There are few people that love each other as well as my aunt and uncle do, at least that I know of, but I consider myself fortunate to have their example to seek my best to emulate.

Another striking example of the legacy that my aunt and uncle have unerringly passed on is their fervent love for nature. Their love doesn’t end at enjoying the view a good hike brings, or the adrenaline of a river rafting adventure. They actively fight to protect the planet they love so much, and they faithfully have passed on the weight of responsibility to save the environment which they have loved so well, and that which has loved them back. I learned how to respect rivers from my uncle. He taught me not only how to enjoy the rapids of a river, but the quiet, peaceful stretches, as well as how to give deference to a natural force that can be dangerous if approached dismissively. Both my aunt and uncle taught me how to have feet like a mountain goat, to scramble up mountains to find the best possible view and to take the time to appreciate it. I’m writing this from a cabin on a mountain that my aunt and uncle gifted our extended family for the Christmas holiday, out of love and a desire to unify and celebrate with loved ones. The view is amazing, and I don’t think I would appreciate it like I do without the influence of my aunt and uncle.

There are a thousand more things that I could say, but I will end with what prompted all this in the first place. An offhand comment from my aunt, one that caught me off guard. She was voicing the thought that her and my uncle would leave behind no legacy when they were gone, partially because they have no human children of their own. They do have two wonderful furry children. To be clear, they are a very, very long way from going anywhere. It struck me because I don’t think she knew how wrong she is, even after my protests. They have both left a living legacy already. I have already passed it on to the children I work with in my job, when I have them help me recycle, when I take them on hikes and tell them the stories of my family, the stories that have shaped me, that are now shaping them. People my aunt and uncle have never met are unwittingly being influenced by the legacies of their lives, the things and the people that they love. Their impact is profound, and will only continue to grow. The thought that she believes they will leave nothing behind is utterly ludicrous to me.

It is worth considering the legacies we each leave, each and every day. The choices we make that grow either legacies of love or hate, joy or misery, selfishness or kindness. May we realize the impact we are all capable of, and may we intentionally seek to leave legacies of love and the things and people we love.

A profound, eternal thank you to my loving and lovely Aunt Kimby and Uncle James. I am one of many nieces and nephews who wouldn’t be the same without you, and in turn I have tried to pass on the mantle to the people within my sphere of influence. I love you both so much.