In her post on names and the importance of names, QuoinMonkey wrote that “When we are long gone, our names are the one thing that will live on through time. My great, great grandmother wanted to be remembered by the things she loved. What epitaph would you want next to your name?”
A rich conversation ensued. QM asked me if I had ever thought much about my epitaph, to which I said, “I haven’t thought about an epitaph, QM, probably because I have this notion that if I do something like that, then I’ll suddenly and completely unexpectedly die and everyone will say, Wow, and she was *just* talking about her epitaph!”
Well, today while organizing almost 30 years of journals, I opened up an old spiral notebook and found an obituary I had written for myself when I was 19 years old. It filled one-fourth of a college-ruled page and was written in the tiny, compressed handwriting that was my hallmark during that time.
Here’s what it said (my name is blanked out):
____ ________, the famous artist, died today at the age of 78. She was killed in Rome, Italy during a street riot in which she was involved. Ms. ________ began her career as a commercial artist in Seattle, Washington, eventually starting the successful ________ Advertising Co. Eventually, she sold the company and went on to become a controversial artist in New Mexico. During that time she and her family resided on the outskirts of Santa Fe. At the age of 62, she was offered a position to direct the School of Modern Art in Italy. There she drastically changed the art world and became world-renowned. She is survived by her husband, her two children, and five grandchildren.
I only vaguely recall writing this. I can’t remember if it was an assignment or if I was simply trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life and thought that writing my obituary might reveal what was really important to me. Underneath the obituary, on five lines, are the following:
Career goals?
What to give up
Why do I want
Goals narrow or broad? Why?
What could interfere w/plans? Enhance plans?
I’m left wondering, what does this obituary say about me? I wanted to be successful, controversial, world-renowned. I wanted to change the world and die fighting for what I believed in. I wanted to be sophisticated, a world traveler, multi-national even. I lived on the outskirts of Santa Fe, and here I picture Georgia O’Keeffe except not Georgia O’Keeffe, her alter-ego instead, a fiesty old woman who would take to the streets of Rome to die.
Clearly I haven’t done enough in the past 27 years to contribute toward making my obituary come true. I do have a husband and two children, but this whole part about drastically changing the art world…well…
I’m certain my obituary would be different were I to write it anew. I’d give up the death-by-street-riot, living in Rome, and drastically changing the art world. I’m not even sure I’d go for being world-renowned. The five grandchildren sound pretty cool, so I’d keep those. And I’d definitely add 15 years to my final age, just to make sure I’m around long enough to enjoy the grandkids if I ever do have any.
-Related to posts The Uses Of Sorrow – What Is It About Obituaries? and Reading The Obits.
Thank you for the reminder that sometimes our young ambitions get absorbed into older ones, and for giving me the new ambition of amassing 31 journals to which I can look later.
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Nah…I like this one…
____ ________, the famous artist, died today at the age of 94, perfecting her skydiving in a attempt to get a better view of those “wings and clouds” cell phone photographs that she made famous in the early part of the 21 st century.
Ms. ________ began her career as a commercial artist painting only in shades of apple green while living solely on a diet of Hot Tamales and coffee with cream.
Eventually, she became a worldwide phenomenon when she created the avant garde hair style “Orangutang Butt” and though wooed by everyone from Vidal Sasoon to Aquanet, she chose a path that led her to be selected as the first “Other Artist” to hang in the halls of the Georgia O’Keefe Museum in Santa Fe.
“My Mother’s Thighs” , which was view in long lines within the gallery, eventually sold at Christies for 20 billion dollars, the largest sum ever received for a painting in US History.
Her success continued with her writings and she won the Pulitzer Prize for her Novel “Wild turkey gone bad”.
She is survived by her husband, the inventor of the first palm tree fronds auto trimmer and her two children, a Nobel Peace Prize winner and our current Nominee for the Democratic Party.
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What an interesting find in an old journal. I have no idea how my obit would read. Maybe it would be better if someone else wrote it. A bit of perspective.
What do I want to be? How will I be remembered? I wish I knew. Some will remember me as a teacher, some, with their small picture mentality, as a prick.
Life evolves, as your old obit has shown. Once upon a time I wanted to be a novelist. I know that is unlikely. I wanted land and a lake to call my own. Now, I’m in China teaching children in a very small apartment, a part of the seething mass of humanity in a city of 13 million. Should I even dare to predict what the future holds?
Great post, Bonesy. I hope you have 8 grandkids, not 5.
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Ybonesy – this is a great idea, writing obits as a way of planning a path through life. Throughout the various changes experienced over time, numerous obits are instructive to look at and see how one’s progress through life has been. as someone who has had a lifelong habit of reading obituaries, this post fascinates me. Yeah, I second the adding of 15 years, leave yourself plenty of time for enjoying the grandkids and to see the girls morph into their adult selves. G
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Heather! My family couldn’t figure out WHAT I was laughing my head off at. I LOVE your version of my obit, and I am amazed at your recall. Hot Tamales?! That was 100 posts ago, my dear, and still you hold on to that little tidbit as if it were a pearl. Which it is, in my world view ; – ). Thank you thank you thank you…that was a treat!!
G, QM first raised the idea of reading the obits about a year ago with the post I reference at the end of this one. If I subscribed to a newspaper every day, I, too, would read the obits every day. My mom did, and I have vivid memories of her lying in bed poring over each obituary. I have some interesting stories about the few times I’ve read the obits (like the time I saw the obituary of a guy who went to high school with me). But yes, reading the obits fascinates me, too.
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Andi, thanks for stopping in and commenting. I’d seen your blog and was pleased to see a fellow writer out there in the blogosphere.
I don’t actually have a journal for every year of my adult life. My first full journal is age 12ish. Then nothing until some scribblings in notebooks during my first four years of college. I started keeping a journal in earnest in 1984. Journals morph into writing practice in notebooks in about 1996. And since then I’ve written as a practice and held on to all the notebooks.
I do encourage to start amassing your notebooks. I’m not even sure why I would encourage that, since there is something liberating in letting go of all those thoughts. But for me of the-memory-that-needs-a-good-kick-in-the-pants, the writings can put me right back into a past scene I might have otherwise forgotten.
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Interesting. I remember standing on a rock up-north overlooking the lake in my early ‘youth’ thinking this is where I want my ashes scattered … I knew then that that place was where I wanted ‘to end’. …
Barbara Klunder, quasi-famed Canadian artist, and I were having dinner some years ago when her young handsome son came wandering into the kitchen. He wandered out the other side and Barb quietly noted – ‘There goes my greatest work of art’.
That remark has stuck all these years, and might be the best ‘obit’ yet !
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Stevo, I think it’s interesting that you wanted land and a lake yet there you are in China in your tiny apartment. I wanted to live abroad yet here I am with my land and pond. Hmmm…maybe we switched lives by accident.
I don’t know if you’re familiar with Stephen Covey (7 Habits of Highly Effective People), but where I work we used to read him and follow his teachings and buy all his expensive day planners ; – ). Anyhow, he proposed, I think, writing your obituary or thinking through what your funeral might look like. I sort of did that, although I’m not sure whether I kept any of that. But it was an interesting exercise, and I do think the whole idea was to envision who you wanted to be at the end (Start with the end in mind) and then live up to that vision. I love and embrace the concept, but it’s a bit too organized and “planful” (if that’s a word) for someone like me to actually achieve.
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Yeah, canadada, that is a great “obit.” It’s so hard to actually become a great artist or writer, to bring into the world the works that they do. So many make their works of art and writing their “babies” and forego having human children.
So to hear of someone who is both a great artist and a great mother, that’s inspiring to me especially, as I am so often torn between these passions in my life.
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I’m not so sure I could ever objectively write my own obit. More important is the impact I’ve had on others.
There are things I’d like to be remembered for, but it won’t do the world any good if I do the remembering.
Instead, I’ll keep living and struggling and impacting and, when the time comes, perhaps I’ll have made some significant dent and live on through those memories.
Interesting food for thought on this lazy morning . . . .
Brian
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Yb, I loved reading your words from a time past!
I tried to keep a journal over the years, but I was a complete failure. I have huge gaps of months and years. 😦 It is interesting when I read my words…like visiting an old friend.
As I’ve said before I am a little better at painting my thoughts and emotions. A canvas journal…maybe I should just stick to that. 🙂
This will probably sound bizare, but I have to ask if anyone else does this….
Since childhood I mentally make notes to “myself” of certain times, places, and events. Agreeing to revisit there in so many years or marked stages of my “future” life. Almost like messages to my future self (whatever that “self” energy is).
Occasionally, I mentally travel back to that time. Sometimes so the strong and happy woman that I am now can comfort the frightened and sad little girl/woman that I WAS then. Hmmm..mental time travel?
Does this make any sense to anyone? Do I sound utterly insane?? :O
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I think I got off track somehow…sorry.
I think my obit would say “she was still in process” and as I commented in Yb’s post my epitaph may be “I’d rather be painting!”
Again…sorry I rambled off into la la land. :O See, this is why I should stick to painting.
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No need to apologize. I was following your train of thought re: mental time travel, and I do think it’s related in that memoir and memory is all about going back. When I wrote that obituary for myself, I was who I was, and this post is revisiting that. So you didn’t sound insane at all. Many adults today, myself included, were sad and insecure when we were children. Even if our childhoods were great, and sometimes they weren’t, there is something about feeling overwhelmed and alone, knowing that some day we’d have to navigate on our own in the world.
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Suz, I totally followed what you were saying about going back, revisiting places in time. It works both ways, too. We can go back to not so good memories and make room to heal. And we can go back and remember the good times when we felt safe, and change our current world view.
Mom and I did a guided meditation with a group when I was home last time. We were supposed to go back to a memory, a time when we felt happy, safe. Afterwards Mom and I checked in with each other – we had both gone back to people in our childhoods that had nurtured us and made us feel safe. The energy of all of us at the meditation doing that filled the room. It was vibrating. And it even made us both teary to remember certain moments of happiness in of our childhoods. One or two tender moments where the love was big.
I guess that kind of sounds out there, too. But that is the power of the mind, and of meditation and silence. The opportunity to sit in the moment with what is. Or to go back and pull the past forward.
ybonesy, when I read this post last night, I could not believe that you had found this journal entry. It’s absolutely astounding. There were no comments then. This afternoon when I checked in on the blog, the thread is rich!
Heather, Liz and I were laughing so hard at your changes to ybonesy’s obit. They are fantastic. And she’s right – you have an amazing memory!
ybonesy, what I find fascinating is that you were so willing to take the risk of writing your obit at 19, yet when we talked about it on the Name Game thread, it seemed to be scarier to go there. I’m just amazed that you then uncovered this little gem of a journal entry. Your imagination is such fertile ground.
You’ve accomplished so much more than your original obit. You make a difference with your work, your children, your intentions, your art and writing, every day. I think it was Stevo who said in the Name Game post, it’s the details of day to day living, our actions, that are remembered most by those we love. The big stuff – it can’t fill us.
ybonesy, what made you go back through your old journals yesterday? I’m going to be doing that soon as I unpack more boxes. Where did you put them?
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Hi QM. As you know, I’m putting together a writing room. I’m at the point of organizing the shelves, and I wanted to organize the notebooks in chronological order. So, while going through them to find dates, I came across one skinny notebook from my first year in college, most of the pages torn out except for a couple. And the obituary was one of the things I found. I was amazed, too, especially given that I tend not to think about my own obit or epitaph.
But, you know what, the obit makes total sense given how much I wanted to make a mark and have a unique life. Those things haven’t gone away completely by any means, but I don’t need as much flash now as I used to want.
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I am enjoying the last few days of my visiting daughter and grandchildren. She visited the Corrales graveyard with Noah.
He told me about the baby who was “electrified” and the little children who died from the flu in 1918 and a lady who was born on his birthday, 100 years ago.
I was most touched by the epitaph, she loved flowers and small children.
That is how I feel right now, folding laundry and listening half out of one ear for the baby, Toby.
I too love flowers, and small children. Never got famous. Oh well.
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That is a lovely epitaph: she loved flowers and small children.
I love the Corrales graveyard. Love the color and the statues that are often encased in headstones. We walk it at least one time each year, usually around Day of the Dead. I should go there more often.
Hey, re: that you never got famous, Linda, I’m not so sure. All of us who head to your place for healing think you’re pretty famous.
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yb: You are such a brave and honest writer. You could be the poster-woman for taking risks in writing. You help me, by offering your example, to be willing to do just that. Thank you.
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Thanks for the nice words, you are kind — fame is relative to what size pond you are in…my pond is pretty small but lively!
I did think it would be nice to die rich, if not famous.
At about 10 I knew I could never tolerate old age and intended to do the right thing and just commit suicide by age 53. It was simply unthinkable that I would live beyond that outer edge of the future. I think it was because my parents were already old by then, at least I thought they were. Now my friends and peers are turning 60, and it really does have an ominous ring to it. But then my friend told me the other day, 60 is the new 50…LOL! That killed me.
PS you probably have read my poem Amazing Grace, it was posted on Jan 8, which tells about the grave Noah saw – only I had typed it wrong, he said the baby was ‘electrifried’ – kind of a gruesome ring to that.
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yb, I also enjoyed this post & found it fascinating that you had written your obit at such a young age.
I am especially touched by the words of Linda “my pond is pretty small but lively!” I feel much the same way & yikes! Considering suicide by the age of 53? That is how old I will be this June. I like to think that 60 is the new 40 & 50 the new 30! I surround myself with a pond full of all ages. The pond is small, yet full of wisdom from each & everyone who wishes to swim in it! Lively indeed! Aways….D
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Linda’s latest comment also hit me, diddy, and I’ve been meaning to get back over here since I read it.
When we think back on what our young selves thought and believed, it kind of blows me away. That you at 10 would be pretty sure you didn’t want to live past 53 — I can picture that kind of certainty. I have a 12-year-old who seems very certain of what she wants and doesn’t want in the future — she wants to adopt a child, for example.
Jim turned 50 last year, and he was truly depressed by the notion. I think it might be a generational thing, being as how he was part of that generation that didn’t trust anyone over 30. So to be 50, to finally reach that age that he was thought was ancient (he and his friends called their parents “fossils”) was monumental, in a bad way. I, on other hand, don’t really see it as a big deal, and I think it’s because I just missed that wave of feeling toward old-ish age.
But yes, 60 is the new 40. I’ll take diddy’s version.
Oh, and Linda, I mean to comment before on the baby being “electrified.” I had to read that a couple of time before I realized something was amiss with the verb.
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A few days ago I went to hear an author speak. He talked about the outcome of his book and how it took on a life of its own after he wrote it. On the way home, my friend and I came upon a cop car with its lights on, blocking a street. The next day I found out a young mother was going for an ice cream run for her family. A drunk driver smashed into her, and now her two sons no longer have a mother. It seemed terribly random. Had we not had our books signed, had we taken the route two streets over–it could have as easily been us.
I went to the spot today. There is a makeshift memorial that is already coming apart. There were marks in the street identifying where the two cars came to rest, bits of windshield glass by the curb. I wondered if the poster board with the victim’s name and picture with some scratched “We’ll miss you!” notes were going to be the sum total of her epitaph.
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Sinclair, that is a somber realization. An epitaph on poster board. What I take away from your comment is how important it is to live this one moment. And try to steer clear of regret about the past, and worry about the future. It’s so hard sometimes to stay in the now. Writing does that for me — keeps me present to my life (when I let it). But some days I just spin around.
It’s always strange to hear things like you described on the news and know I was only a few blocks away. Or that it’s next to my home or a neighborhood I used to live in. And that it could just as easily been me in another time or place.
I remember we read an essay by an author for Taos last year. I can’t remember the name of it now — but the writer wrote about going back to a place he had once lived, and about everything that had happened there since he left. I’ll have to look it up. It makes me want to read it again. Your comment would be a good start to an essay.
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Your comment, Sinclair, reminds me of the makeshift cross we set up in a neighborhood in Albuquerque where a friend of ours was killed on his bike. As you might know, in NM we have a tradition of setting up memorials to honor those killed on highways. A memorial is called “descanso” in Spanish, which means “resting place.”
Well, we set up a descanso for our friend, with a cross and attached to it various things that reminded us of him. We painted it in bright colors. We planted it into dirt near the intersection where he was killed by a car that came too fast around a blind curve. The neighborhood speed limit was only 25, but witnesses reported that the car was making about 35 or 40. (Nonetheless, witnesses also said that our friend was wearing headphones and didn’t look both ways before clipping into his pedals and taking off after stopping at the sign.)
Anyway, what I want to say is that when we went back, the descanso had been mostly taken down. Putting it in a neighborhood was probably not the best idea. Kids and people who really mean no harm had taken things off of it, and the cross was mostly broken up. On highways, these descansos are not messed with at all, and in fact, the families of the people killed actually tend to the descansos in the same way they tend to graves in a cemetery.
Thanks for coming back and commenting on this post. It brought home the ways we honor those we loved and how most ways are impermanent, no matter how hard we try to make it otherwise.
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[…] 3) Read Old Obituaries (1920’s – 1950’s) & Write Your Own […]
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