Not just the facts, ma'am!

I never know what to expect when I talk to my Mom. She is constantly surprising me. Then there are other times I can see it coming. Recently, one call went like this:
“Hey, Mom. Guess what? I just wrote my obituary!”
---silence--
“Did you hear me? I just wrote my obituary!”
After another pause, Mom said in that voice of hers (the one in which I can sense an imminent maternal lecture), “Now, Carol...I think you should leave your brain to medical science.” In effect, she thought I was nuts.

Well, maybe I am. But writing my own obituary was an enlightening experience. I wanted to save my family the chore of creating one when the time comes and they are in fresh grief. So I did it myself.

A friend of mine, though, had another experience with obituaries. She said that when her father died, her mother and the immediate family sat down together to write his obituary, and the occasion was emotionally helpful for them, as fond memories brought them a measure of comfort. I thought that was sweet, and I can see her point.

However, I don’t think my family could reconstruct my life to my satisfaction even now, much less later, without some prompting. So I sat down a couple of weeks ago and reflected on my life thus far. (One always has to have that disclaimer, of course. My life is hopefully far from over. I am reminded of Matthew, when he first saw the movie “Hook.” As he exited the theater, he gushed, “That’s the best movie I’ve ever seen in my life so far!”) What do I want to be remembered for? What things would I prefer to omit? What things should be described that may seem inconsequential to others but are important to me? I don’t want just the facts...I want my story to be personal - something that validates my existence as a unique human being in a world of millions of other human beings.

Ed and I are reading a biography of John Adams, and we came across an interesting fact about Thomas Jefferson. This is from the Monticello web site:

It was Jefferson's wish that his tomb stone reflect the things that he had given the people, not the things that the people had given to him. It is for this reason that Thomas Jefferson's epitaph reads:

HERE WAS BURIED
THOMAS JEFFERSON
AUTHOR OF THE
DECLARATION
OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE
OF THE
STATUTE OF VIRGINIA
FOR
RELIGIOUS FREEDOM
AND FATHER OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
BORN APRIL 2, 1743 O.S.
DIED JULY 4. 1826

No mention of his being the President of the United States, a glaring and deliberate omission. This was Jefferson's last chance to summarize the importance of his own accomplishments in his own opinion, and only his opinion. This was, in a way, his last act of control.

Of course, I’m not writing my epitaph; I’m writing my obituary. I am, however, fortunate to live in a small town in Maine, where obituaries are usually long and detailed, some even listing the deceased’s hobbies, pets, and favorite teams. I am not limited to a short list of my alma mater, church affiliation, occupation, and survivors. I can be lengthy and altogether boring, but I don’t care. It’s my obituary, after all. It’s my last chance to leave a written summary of my legacy, such as it is.

As I looked over my life, detailing the events that I deemed worthy of remembrance, I was shocked to discover how important music has always been to me. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, since I was the daughter of a choir director, took piano lessons and then organ lessons, planned to major in music in college, as an adult sang in several church choirs, then took up the Celtic harp after I moved to Maine. But somehow it was a poignant moment for me to realize its prominence, probably because music has fallen by the wayside in my life right now for various reasons. Writing your obituary is helpful in that way - you examine your life (so far!), and you make discoveries about the occasions and hobbies and people who have enriched your life, or at least given you a unique identity. The process will make you cry and laugh and wonder if you ever will live long enough to accomplish the things that are important to you. You can stand back and observe how you have evolved.

I’ll also tell you what writing your obituary won’t do. It won’t be bad luck, it won’t change the past, and it probably won’t make your Mom very happy. On the other hand, it will give you some important introspection, a feeling that your life did matter in many ways, and a feeling of gratitude that you ever got to go on the journey of life - your life so far, that is!

There is a lot more for me to experience, and I'm sure by the time I pass away, I'll have many edits and additions and rewrites. The story has yet to be finished. Oh, and regardless of my mother's comment, I really don't need to leave the world my brain. I'd rather leave it music, some silly poems, handmade quilts, pretty cross-stitch, amazing kids and grandkids - and a doozy of an obituary!

Rules

I have always had a love/hate relationship with rules. I realize the world is not black and white; indeed, I tend to scoff at naive people who have that world view. The truth is, though, that sometimes I fight against rules and other times I welcome their restrictions.

Rules can make us feel safe, for instance. Ed once preached about a psychological experiment where they had kids on two different playgrounds. One playground had no fence, and the little children were generally afraid to venture out into what was to them a wide expanse of the unknown. They pretty much stayed huddled together in the center of the playground. The second playground was just as big, but had a fence. Can you guess where all the children headed? For the fence, of course, with some even trying to climb it.

Experts say that children (especially the young ones, but older ones as well) love to test boundaries. They do this because the boundaries of their lives are sometimes ambiguous (how I hate that word!), and other times because the rules may be clear, but they want to see if the fence will give way every once in a while. Rachel has had many a frustrating day as Caroline and Charlotte test the limits.

Some things in life give us a good mix of rules and freedom. My favorite quilt store, Keepsake Quilting, has a quilting contest several times a year. Called the Keepsake Quilting Challenge, it has just a few rules and a lot of leeway. The entry rules give the dimension measurements. The rules state that you have to buy a certain packet of fabrics from Keepsake Quilting, and your quilt has to incorporate most of those fabrics. You may get to choose one or two other fabrics to complete your design. It has to follow the theme for that specific contest, which varies, but which is usually a big enough umbrella to encompass whatever interpretation you might want to use. With these few rules, many quilts are made that on first glance seem to have little in common. They are marvels of workmanship and creativity.

Then there are the hard-and-fast rules versus implied rules. When she was a little girl, Rachel once entered a coloring contest at a restaurant. She was given a standard picture of an outdoor scene to color, and she did a good job, as did many other children. After she won the contest, the manager told her that she had impressed the judges because she had drawn and colored in a sun where there was no sun. They admired her creativity. I guess the rules did not specifically state you could not add anything, and her creative license saved the day.

I have usually been a dutiful follower of rules in my life, even as a teenager. I followed the school dress code, I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, usually got my homework in on time, and generally behaved myself. My one big irritation, though, was being told what to do in certain instances. I loved to read, but if a teacher demanded I read a certain book, I immediately developed a hatred for it, sight unseen. If I had picked up the same book on my own, I might have enjoyed it, but to be forced to read it sucked all the pleasure out of it for me.

When time came for our senior graduation picture, we were told to wear our graduation attire and to be sure to wear black shoes. Why that irritated me, I have no idea, but as a last defiant gesture to high school, I balked. If you look carefully at my class picture, I am in the front row wearing white shoes. It probably made me feel a semblance of control in what was a very, very anxious time. But I will say this - one has to know the rules in order to choose to break them.

In our simplicity journey, we make our own rules, and our journey is unlike any other. It’s a roller coaster, it’s a maze, it’s a walk in the dark, it’s serendipity, it’s adjustment, it’s regret and disappointment, wonder and delight.

I’m being featured soon in an online-only new women’s magazine (www.vivmag.com), where I will give highlights of my individual journey to simplicity, and three other women will give theirs. They will talk about their own rules and their own goals, and I am anxious to see the various quilts we are each making with our lives, using a few basic rules and a mountain of creativity. I’ll never be totally at peace with rules, but it certainly is nice when you’re old enough to make your own. I can live with that.