1: a gift by will especially of money or other personal property, a bequest: “She left us a legacy of a million dollars.”
2: something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past: “The war left a legacy of pain and suffering.”
The definition of “Legacy” is something that is passed on. But Legacy can take many forms. A Legacy may be of one's faith, ethics and core values… A Legacy may be monetary or your assets… A Legacy may come from one's character, reputation and the life you lead – setting an example for others and to guide their futures.
(Merriam-Webster, 2022)
I guess it is a function of this particular time of year, when it is somewhat the norm, cliched as it is as we lay one year to rest while welcoming the new, to take stock of one’s life via “the year in review.” The practice, at least for me, is a melancholic and deep kind of intraspection and reflection. It is also humbling in the realization that more could have and should have been done to better the world—or at least my little corner of it. Oh well, there is always next year…until there isn’t.
And then what?
Yes, “then what?” It is precisely that question that brought me to this: the other day, actually, on December 29 to be exact, I was thinking about “legacy.” Not mine, Dad’s. I had just transitioned Dad to Trevor and Clary at Snoqualmie Pass to give Dad a few days’ mini vacation from me, and on the way home, while listening to a streamed podcast by one of my teachers of depth and soul, the late John O’Donohue, I began to wonder about Dad’s legacy. What is he going to leave behind such that others will remember, and benefit, from having had him in their lives in some capacity?
He’s got nothing tangible left to leave behind although he does have an up-to-date Last Will and Testament and each of us boys know Dad’s intention in bequeathing to family anything left of his modest estate and monetary holdings. He’s not leaving land behind—he left that decades ago. Same with all the equipment needed to do well by it (anything left of his tools is already in the possession of others who felt they had a need for it; I wonder where that big green propane tank is right now though—it of many a weed burned!). He never wrote a magnum opus or poetry so he leaves no literary legacy—no journals, letters, or diaries. He didn’t build or design architecture; or write and pass laws; or produce any music. So we won’t have much luck in trying to sense, through sight, sound, or touch, anything, like I said, “tangible” by way of legacy. Well, except…
There is a bit of a monument in his honor though. And this points to one aspect of a legacy worth noting—for on the grounds of the Holy Rosary Catholic Church, between the church and the Hall, there sits a bench that bears my Dad’s name that is adjacent to a tree that was planted in my Dad’s honor. Both are there, one an inanimate object, the other a living being, to honor and recognize Dad’s decades-long service to the Parish as not only the Parish president, but a devoted servant and caretaker of a sacred place. My Dad, in his humble way, took great pride in the campus and facility upkeep that is Holy Rosary Church and Hall. And so it was fitting that Dad be recognized in some fashion—the irony is that such a public recognition, the memorial itself, is out of character considering Dad’s reserved and humble nature. Although he was heartened and surprised by that gesture from the parishioners, that public memorial, (even though I am immensely proud of my Dad’s devotion to something larger than himself), has always felt a bit odd to me in that my Dad NEVER did one single thing in his entire life from which he wanted recognition or public acclaim. But he’d gladly and with pride show it off to you and share a story about how both came about. So, yeah, like all legacies should, this has meaning for Dad.
Special thanks to Trevor who rushed over to snag some pics in time for publication.
So, yes, that bench and tree, as a memorial, and what they symbolize about my Dad, represent a worthy, yet partial, legacy. The bench and tree, though, aren’t the actual legacy in and of themselves; they are symbolic—the actions, Dad’s actions and dedication that led others to be inspired to create the memorial on his behalf, are the true legacy. Like the definition states: “A Legacy may come from…setting an example for others.”
And yet, it won’t take but a few generations for a future parishioner, maybe an alter server like I was, who steps outside to get a breath of fresh air minutes before mass, to look at that bench, and wonder who the heck this “Wally” guy was: “Some old dude, probably, who did something to warrant his own place to sit. I wonder what that was?” But they won’t wonder for long—their own life will intervene and intrude and they’ll be concerned with other things. Eventually, trees will die too; and even benches will crumble back into earth.
Which is why, when I think about legacy and my Dad, I think of something different: an engraving, if you will, of a different, tender, and tenuous kind.
An engraving on hearts.
“A Legacy may come from one's character, reputation and the life you lead – setting an example for others and to guide their futures.”
As I was driving home that day, and thinking about his legacy, and allowing my thoughts to roam into, out of, and through the silken Irish brogue of John O’Donohue’s sentiments on Soul and Belonging from the car’s speakers, I realized that Dad will leave behind hundreds of legacies that I will never see. But I know they are “out there.” Of this, I am certain. Each one unique and perfect and special and, with loving care, long lasting and meaningful. Because…
You each have become caretakers of Dad’s legacy. Within your hearts, whether you are family, friend, distant acquaintance, or only have come to know him through the stories from others (or maybe only from these posts), you have engraved upon your heart, and carry within you now, a legacy of his that will escort Dad forward into our lived futures and into his past.
Can you see how this is true? You carry a piece of my Dad. I am amazed and in awe that that is true. And I am so grateful.
Perhaps when we meet on some future day, some unknown number of days after Dad’s left his physical earthly manifestation and returned to the Universal Soul, maybe that will be on a cold and grey December day between Christmas and New Years (which is when I’m writing this), when the fecund fields of hops lay dormant, and we sit together holding the sacred silence of memory between us as we sip oatmilk lattes and munch on vegan blueberry muffins, you will share with me the unique and special legacy of my Dad that you have carried lightly and entrusted to your heart so that I can be proud of him, yet again. And I’ll share more of my own inheritance of his Soul with you as well. And then we’ll part with the added warmth in our hearts of a shared legacy that will live on just a bit longer—memorialized forevermore within ourselves. And THAT will bring a bit of joy to our world. It will, certainly, mine.
Let’s plan to do that, shall we?
Please?
Eldering 101
Elders state the obvious—but only in a manner such that others take notice, for understanding. That’s the Elder’s role in a culture that has lost its way, or forgotten how we can impact the lives of others, or fail to remember that we always do in one form or another—whether we intend to or not. Because the exact same is true for all the rest of us, right? Just like my Dad’s legacies, we, too, will leave hundreds if not thousands of legacies behind us via the lives and souls we touch, simply within the wakes from our navigation on this earth. The piece of Dad you carry with you is unique to you—no one else has that same piece, that same recollection, that same warm (hopefully) memory…that legacy. Dad never, ever intentionally set out to design and build his legacy—he had more important things to do. Yet, they were built nonetheless simply by his living. By his kindness. By his devotion and hard work. By his lived example. And whether or not you knew personally my Dad, if you’ve only read about him here, because you have an awareness of him, a piece of his spirit resides in you.
And Dad, as our elder in residence, might say right now for our benefit: “Wake up, you’re building your own legacy now. Right. This. Very. Now.”
And with that, just one question remains and matters:
“What exactly are you building?”
T plus 194 days…and counting. And adding to Dad’s legacy because that never really ever mattered to him. He just wanted to put in a good day’s work, lose himself in the fields of hops and soil, and be quietly proud of his family. He’s done all that…and so much more.
