What kind of legacy am I leaving behind and is it even important that I leave one?
Four years ago, I started thinking about leaving behind something. I was turning fifty and was feeling forgotten. So I started Youtubing. I figured that if I took some video footage of me just talking about some things. I figured I would, if nothing more substantial, be leaving a memory of me behind for people who loved me. It seemed important at the time.
I had been writing for a long time already, but my words seemed to fall on deaf ears for the most part. Some have valued my written words, but most have just valued me. I guess I would rather be valued for me than for my words, but my words are like children to me. What mother doesn't want her children valued? I feel the same way about my cats.
As I venture more into skeptic thought and an agnostic understanding of life, my words seem to become more meaningless to those around me. I don't blame them. My words would mean nothing to the Ruby of twenty years ago. I was convinced that reading anything outside of my religious convictions was dangerous to my soul. I had almost no interest in understanding anyone who didn't share the ideology I carried. I say almost, because in my life there has been one woman who has never shared my religious ideologies, but has been my longest friend. I think she was an anomaly that I could have learned more from. I could have taken that relationship and made it my guide for my other interactions in the world... but I didn't. So the years went by and I stayed in my world.
When fifty came, I found myself wanting to leave a legacy, but without the one person who I wanted to leave a legacy for. "Who am I now that my words need to matter?"... is a question I often ask myself. That one person who I am without... my words didn't matter much to him either... at least enough to let me know they mattered. Maybe they did matter, but he died without telling me. But one thing I know... I mattered to him. Maybe that is the legacy I really need to leave behind. I need to leave myself more than my words. But sadly enough.... the only thing that will survive my death is my words. I just hope enough of me is visible between the lines and around the syllables. Maybe that is all a writer can hope for after they die.
Today, I heard the words of Charles Darwin. I saw some of him left behind in his words, and I could connect. His story is not unlike my own. But I wonder if most don't know his story, because, like me, they didn't take the time to see him through and around his words. This is what I am gaining in "Atheism for Lent". I am getting a chance to see the people behind the words.
