"What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others."— Pericles If you’ve been around these parts for awhile, you likely know that I live across the street from a cemetery. I often walk its trails and use it as my grounding space. Since 2021, its trees and trails (and squirrels) have seen me through a lot of life. And in turn, I am a devoted witness to its cycles. In May I visit the lilac bushes on the easternmost fence, in October I know just where the sun will hit for the most magical golden hours, in July I enjoy the roses. For me, it’s a place to walk, but I always hold space for its true purpose as a resting place. I keep a respectful distance from those visiting loved ones, I smile at families cleaning up a gravesite, but mostly I make sure to notice and have reverence for my surroundings. Everywhere you look there are mementos left for those that have passed. These talismans of love hold so much meaning; the things that decorate the cemetery tell the story of the humanity within it and the love that persists. Colours of a beloved team, tiny figurines, teddy bears, incense planted in the dirt, a stack of coins on the corner of a headstone, acorns, ribbons, ornaments. We all must leave this earthly plane and when we do, our loved ones create ways to remember us, to connect with us, to keep our spirit alive. These objects tell stories, not only about the people resting there but about the loved ones who hold them close. We are remembered by what we lived for. On the 7th of the month I buy purple flowers, set out a tiny bowl of peanut M&Ms, light her special candle and place her photo on the dining table; a ritual to honour Mr. Glass Full’s mother. When we leave this world, it’s often the smallest parts of us that people hold onto. That’s why I don’t believe that a legacy needs to be grand and far-reaching. Sometimes it can be as simple as a recipe, a lesson, a favourite colour, or a song. Legacy is made of the many tiny things that make us who we are. When I last wrote, I shared about my family’s decision to move my grandpa into a senior’s home. Only five days after that newsletter, he passed quite suddenly surrounded by generations of family that love him. I had the honour of writing and sharing a eulogy at his funeral. At first the task felt daunting — how could I eulogize a man that lived for 54 years before I was even born? How could I possibly do justice to his whole being? But a eulogy comes together in fragments and stories. Everyone that knows and loves you has a different experience of you, sees you through their own lens. My role, as Leslie’s granddaughter and also as a Celebrant and Ritual Artisan, is to observe, to notice, to collect. To see him through a lens of tenderness and find words that would have made him feel known, seen, and loved. To reach those listening and make them feel a sense of connection - to each other, to the moment, to themselves. A daunting task, but one that I felt honoured to take on. The term ‘eulogy’ originates from the Greek word eulogia which translates to “praise” or “speaking well”. It’s meant to pay tribute, to be a summary of the best parts of us. In part of it, I wrote: Grampy loved Oh Henry bars and a good view. He loved a strong rum, a patty, a crossword, and a thriller novel. He loved his after dinner walk around the neighbourhood. He loved staying up late to watch the news. He loved jazz crooners, cookies (especially Dad’s oatmeal), and sleeping in. Every Christmas, we knew he wouldn’t wake until long after all the gifts were opened. Grammy would always start his morning with a kiss and coffee. Though he gave it up long ago, he used to love to smoke a pipe and would always smell of golden burley tobacco and Brut aftershave. He loved the Montreal Canadiens and Alouettes - he was an Alouettes season ticket holder, and, back in the day, he loved the Expos. But more than anything, he loved his family.
In writing and sharing his eulogy, I thought about how we deserve to hear these things while we’re alive. We deserve to get to witness the fragments of stories that come together, the throughlines that encapsulate our unique mark on the world. We deserve to know the small and large things that the people in our lives believe to be true about us.* And here’s the thing: you, dear Subscriber First Name, are in the midst of writing your legacy. Each day, you leave traces of yourself with the people you love. Someone remembers that you switch to decaf after noon, that your favourite colour is lilac, that you have a lucky ginger cookie recipe, that you’re allergic to hazelnuts, that you cry every time you hear that one song. These are the things we impart that become sentimental mementos, that decorate the altars of those we leave behind. It’s this version of a legacy that brings me peace. Society tells us that we should be remembered for the big things that are often external to us, like career achievements, prestigious awards, or financial success. And while there is certainly nothing wrong with these things, I find it so easy to be caught up in the hedonic treadmill of achievement. It happens to me almost weekly where I think some variation of “shouldn’t I be/have [insert arbitrary marker of status and success here] by now?” In these moments, it helps me to zoom out and take stock of the beautiful life that I’m already living. To reconnect with the simple joys. To remember that I can take nothing with me, but I can aspire to leave things better than I found them. To be proud of the person I’m becoming; a legacy built in the tiny acts of living. I hope that one day my grandchildren will remember that I loved the colour yellow, that I liked my tea with honey, that a good sunset always made me pause. I hope the gold rings I wear will become heirlooms, adorning the hands of my descendants. I hope my laugh will echo in one of their own. Until then, I will continue to live wholeheartedly, in full pursuit of a life to be remembered, piece by tiny piece.
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