Memoirs tell the story of our lives and every celebrity believes his must be worth telling. I’m not so sure. Is any life that has to be meted out in words and paragraphs that significant?
Isn’t the truly valuable life the one that is lived in such a way that its impact on the lives of others is, in itself, the only true memoir? Pouring one’s self out for others goes unnoticed in this world, yet balanced on a scale measuring gold versus kindness, I believe kindness endures. Small acts of kindness, every day, create a living memoir.
Words at best denote symbols from which language is derived. In themselves, meaningless, unless we ascribe them value. For example, “car” is not a car. It just means a car. The word itself costs nothing to say, cannot be driven, cannot be sold, cannot be owned. The physical car, the driving of the car, become the basis of real value. Without getting all Jungian here, I’m just reflecting on how inconsequential words become when bandied about all day long.
I want to be remembered for home schooling my neighbor’s children, for sitting with the dying, for listening to a child’s prattle, for meals to the sick, for caring for grandchildren, for teaching the young…for all the insignificant things I do, things that accumulate into a life well lived. I want to live my own memoir.