Living Well is our Legacy

It is World Childless Week. Learn more about it here.
Today we are talking about legacy. 

One of the hardest things to deal with when we are childless is to come to terms with the fact that living children will not be our legacy. I’ve had twenty years to accept this, and largely consider myself successful. During infertility, with ectopic pregnancies and an escaped cancer diagnosis, I came face-to-face with my own mortality. Shocking at first, I became comfortable with it. That, and supporting and caring for aging and dying parents and parents-in-law, helped me realise that my death and what happens after it isn’t nearly as important as my life.

There’s a freedom in that, a real freedom in not needing to leave a legacy. I saw my mother-in-law struggle with the idea that her children didn’t want her things, that strangers would live in her home of sixty years after she was gone, and that she had no control over any of it. She had never done the work, having never needed to think either about her old age, or the legacy that she would leave.

What even is a legacy? Is it passing on genetics, things, money, values, or joy? Or is it all and none of those? I’ve come to the decision, as I’ve said good-bye to parents and in-laws, to aunts and uncles, and even some cousins and friends, that legacies don’t have to be big, important, flashy, or tangible in any way. To me, legacy is the way that someone made me feel. That is how we remember people. And that is what changes the world.

My favourite aunt died recently. I never saw her often enough, as we almost always seemed to live in different countries, islands, cities. But I remember her giving me advice when I was a teenager that stayed with me decades later. Appropriately, the message she gave me was that things can be done differently. Stereotypes don’t have to be followed. We don’t have to lose who we are to be able to achieve. Her legacy to me was that good advice, and a later, kind compliment at a hard time in my life, as well as the fact that she almost always made me feel I was heard. A childless aunt-in-law left me some pearls, and I was touched that she had thought of me, one of many spouses of her many nieces and nephews. I remember kind comments or praise or advice from others, what they role-modelled, or simply the joy I took in their company. Their legacy lives on with me.

So maybe it is enough to have a legacy that just makes the world a better place, on a large or small scale, maybe even for only a fleeting moment. Perhaps we change the world through large-scale policy or ideas or actions, or perhaps we just make the world a better place by helping smaller numbers or even just one person, helping them live life more easily, teaching lessons (consciously and unconsciously), passing on a small kindness, unconsciously role-modelling a quality or value, listening to someone in pain, baking a cake, or making someone laugh. A legacy of simply helping one person at a time, one day at a time, is the kind of legacy I think we can all aspire to – whether as a parent (biological or not), or an aunt or uncle, or friend, or stranger on the internet, or on the street. It is within our reach. Part of my legacy has included volunteer counselling on an ectopic pregnancy messageboard, writing on my No Kidding in NZ blog, and supporting others in the childless blogging community. I believe that all who write in this field contribute to helping people feel less alone. That isn’t a small thing. To discount this, I think, is to ignore our humanity, to turn our backs on what we can achieve, and to squander what is good in ourselves. But in turn, we are rewarded with connections, and we feel heard. That makes us feel less alone. And so we become more than just our biology, more than our genetics. That is our legacy.

But will we be remembered for it? Probably not. Wanting to be remembered is, I think, simply ego. It may be natural, but I think that ultimately, once we have been forced to give up on the genetic or parental legacy, it is much easier to give up on our egos. This is easier as we start – necessarily, in this no kidding life - to see the world with different eyes. Or at least, this is how it has been for me.

The truth is that no-one can control their legacy, parent or childless alike. We can just do our best. I don’t really need others to know and remember what I did, as long as I did help someone, brighten their day, teach them something they may pass to others. I still made that impact. That’s my legacy. Maybe that’s actually better than simply a biological ability to pass on genes to a future generation. Leaving a legacy in thoughts or deeds or emotions is harder though, than simply being a biological ancestor. It takes more effort (even though we all know how much effort so many of us have put into trying to be a biological ancestor). It requires character, goodness, energy, and insight. Leaving a legacy this way is not the short end of the stick. We’re not lowering our expectations, or lowering the bar. No, we are raising it. Because it is our lives themselves that are the legacy. That’s a legacy of which we can all be very proud.

You can also find this post on World Childless Week's site, with comments, here.

 

Leaving our mark on the world

Only a couple of weeks after I visited my elder sister in the South Island, I had to get on a flight and head south again, this time for a funeral. It's been quite the month for family losses - a cousin's husband, my aunt, and now my father’s youngest sibling has just died. I’ve missed a number of family funerals because I live here in another island, but this was one I did not want to miss. Even though 1-in-100 year floods did their best to mess up everyone’s plans.

It was a lovely funeral, even though I now feel quite weepy about it. Not, I think, because he had died. As much as it can be, his death was a good one after a long life, and he was surrounded by his family at the last. Each passing, and each funeral, I guess raises issues for me. "Who will be with me at the last?" I always wonder when I write those words. But then I think, does it matter that much? If I’m conscious and aware, yes maybe. But if not, I’m not sure. It's not the end that worries me. It's the time leading up to that. But that's a topic for another day.

The funeral however, turned out to be lovely, because we caught up with many of our cousins. For those of you who live close to family, this may not be unusual. It wasn’t unusual for my sister, who is still in the same province where we all grew up. But it was unusual for me – with some of them, I’d barely said hello since I left school. We just never really connected again; when I was down in the South Island, my focus was on my parents and sister and her family. It still is. My eldest niece moved back to the town where she grew up about 7-8 years ago, and it has been an absolute delight having more to do with her and her family whenever I’m in town.

But a few years ago I reconnected with some of the cousins I had been closer to during our childhood at a reunion, and this was another opportunity to reconnect with some others. And that was really special. Our lives have all gone in completely different directions, and I think for a long time we were quite happy with that lack of contact. But we still have that shared childhood connection, and it is a bond (however tenuous) that will remain forever. We’re getting older now, and it is as if the bond is getting stronger again. It provided me with a bit of comfort to know that.

I guess I’m writing about this here because we often worry about our old age, our deaths, and who will mourn us. It seems weird to say this, but I know my cousins will mourn me, as I will mourn them. Even if what they’re really mourning is the end of those happy days of our shared childhood. That will be enough for me, I think. It's yet another reminder that we have already touched so many lives, and will continue to do so, just by our pure presence here. We don't have to have children to leave our mark on this world, on current and future generations, recognised, or silent but meaningful.

Anyway, that all feels quite morbid, but it's not meant to be. After all, I hope we all have decades yet to leave our legacies. Besides, there are still things to do and places to go and bloggers to meet!

Stuff and Sentimentality

We are still clearing out my in-laws’ house, but we can see an end to it now. My husband has had a huge job clearing the garage of building materials and tools, and is almost done. Whenever we discussed moving with my in-laws over the last 20 years, my FIL would say, bewildered, “but what will I do with all my tools?” And inertia won out. Many of the tools were his father’s, and one item in particular – a lathe – seemed to centre largely in his concerns. A wonderful solution was found. A neighbour (and one of his very few friends) who had lived next door for 40 years, with her boys raised alongside my husband and his brothers, sought the lathe for one of her grandsons. Yes, it is sad that FIL did not have any grandchildren in New Zealand who could or would take the lathe. But this is the next best thing. I could see the burden lift from my husband as the decision was being made.

 One of my brothers-in-law accused my husband of not being sentimental about his father. This particular brother has lived overseas for decades, and has made very few trips back to see his parents. I was furious at this, having watched the tenderness with which my husband cared for his parents, and then his father alone, in the last years. And pointed out that sentimentality is a luxury that perhaps comes from distance, not proximity over 30 years!

My latest task was to take all my MIL’s jewellery and send photos to all the generations to see what, if anything, they would like. Most of it is costume jewellery, but there are a few interesting vintage pieces. It has taken hours, and in this my husband has not been sentimental, as he suggests – barring a few things – he would just have given them to a charity shop. But I thought of the grandchildren, in particular the granddaughters, and how nice it would be for them to choose a piece or two from their grandmother. I have worked over it for hours –sorting the items, getting photos in the right size to send, compiling documents, etc – and wondered myself if I am crazy. But I do it for the grandchildren. Ironic, isn’t it?

Once again, I think about who will look over my jewellery. One or some of my nieces, I assume. It’s not as if I have a lot of expensive jewellery – I have few pieces that could not be described as costume jewellery, as I have always prized interesting pieces or interesting trips over diamonds! I hope that I will have any special pieces labelled or itemised, as my MIL did with her most precious four rings. It strikes me that I need to do this now, not leave everything until it is too late, as there are a couple of pieces that hold some sentimentality for me. After all, I could be run over by a bus tomorrow!

I promise I will finish these posts soon. We are about to engage a real estate agent, and put the house on the market. What then, I wonder? Will we feel empty, and need new projects? Will we feel ridiculously free? Or perhaps we will turn inwards, and begin some more “death cleaning,” this time with our own belongings? I suspect it will be a little of all of the above.

 

Cleaning up my stuff

 As we begin the long process of sorting through my in-laws' house, I once again sit back and wonder about our end of life. I'm not worried so much about who will want my stuff. I don't expect anyone will want it - and I'm okay with that. But who will clean up after us, in the way we are cleaning up after my in-laws? I look around our messiest room - the one I'm in at the moment - and think how awful it would be for someone to go through! I'

There's a thing called Swedish Death Cleaning. I can't remember where I first read about it, but it effectively means people in their retirement cleaning out their houses, getting rid of all their junk, and only keeping the relevant papers, and things that they need to live their lives. My mother did it. She didn't know she was doing Swedish Death Cleaning. But she sorted through all her closets and threw out clothes she no longer wore. She sorted through her papers, and (sometimes before I could stop her) was ruthless about what she kept and what she didn't. It made life easier for my sisters and I when she died - her small house still had plenty of stuff in it. But it was much easier to sort through. There was relatively little that needed to be thrown away.

I'm barely retired (I prefer unemployed, as it implies I am still employable!), but I need to do this. Seriously. Let's face it - if I had kids, I would still need to do it. We live in a four bedroom house that is full of our stuff. When there is space, it seems we spread out to fill it up. There are hundreds of books and papers that need to go. And clothes that I keep "just in case." Yes, maybe I need to do a Kondo number on my house. Or maybe I just need a spring clean - clean it up AND clear it out. This has always been the case, and so it isn't really Swedish Death Cleaning. But with cleaning out the in-laws' house it has become more obvious now that this is a job that will need to be done at some stage, and preferably (for my own peace of mind) sooner than later. I need to do as I say. Because this office is a bit of a dump!

Thinking about "our stuff" again

Last week, Mel wrote about a book by a bookseller in Scotland. I'll summarise her post here, but it's worth going to read it in detail here.

Early in the book, the bookseller talked about going to the estate of a No Kidding couple to clear their books so he could resell them in his shop. He clearly found it sad to see the house of the couple who had no children, to know the books were going, and that there was no-one (his assumption) who would treasure the photos on the wall. He felt that the woman’s book collection was "as close as anything she left to some kind of genetic inheritance."

Mel had a hard time with this, and wrote: "Dismantling any person’s book collection is about releasing their character, and hopefully all of us are more than just our book collections."

I read both the quotes from the book (you really have to read Mel's post), and Mel's commentary, and felt slightly uncomfortable too.

Firstly, I reacted to the bookseller's feeling of sadness about taking the book collection of the couple without children. I was grateful that he acknowledged the loss in their lives, whilst at the same time irked that he seemed to think there was an innate sadness in lives without children, without knowing if they had chosen not to have children, or had had that situation forced upon them. It's confusing when we want understanding, but don't want judgement and pity! I appreciated too that he didn't dismiss their lives as unimportant, because there weren't children left behind to grieve, but saw them as real people, with characters and interests reflected in their books.

Then I reacted to Mel's comment that dismantling any person's book collection is the same, whether or not they have children. I will admit that I bristled a little, because it sounded to me a little bit like the "all lives matter" reaction. It seemed to deny the genuine empathy this bookseller seemed to feel for the couple without children, and it seemed to deny the realities of disposing of the possessions of those without children, compared to those with children. Because the truth is, not having children affects every aspect of our lives, and even our deaths, in a way that it does not affect parents. Our possessions are precious only to us, our history is important only to us, our joys are important only to us. We end with us. I end with me. Parents don't usually have to feel that.

So I couldn't comment on the post - except for a note that my book collection is largely digital or borrowed these days - because I had thoughts swirling about, agreeing and at the same time disagreeing with both the author, and with Mel. I've been a bit melancholy the last few days (for reasons which I may divulge soon), and I am sure that influenced how I felt.

I guess it made me sad that there will be no-one who will know which are my favourite books when I go, no-one who will want the pictures on my wall, or even necessarily be curious about those pictures on my way, no-one to pass on the things I love. So in a moment of pure indulgence, I felt sorry for myself, and for a while, I let myself feel sorry for myself.

I shook it off. I've thought about these issues when I've felt stronger, and written about them too (here, for example).  I know that I am more (as Mel pointed out) than my book collection, more than just my possessions. I've already written about my legacy being more than whether or not I have children. I have accepted that my possessions serve me and my husband, and only me and my husband, and I am happy if they work for us, and give us pleasure, because that's all any of us can ever control.

Still, sometimes, it all creeps up on us, on me. Sometimes there is an emptiness that seeps through the armour I've learned to wear against the outer world, against the losses that I've faced, and against the danger of my own thoughts and fears. It hits us when our defences are down, and reminds us of what we've lost. That's okay, too. We all need to be allowed to feel what we feel. As long as we can clear our heads, reapply logic, and regain our confidence. Our value and legacy does not depend on whether or not we have children, or on our possessions and who might want them. I know that. But it is an important reminder.

Recipes as legacy

A quick post today - the very reason Microblog Mondays is a thing - that grew from a comment I read elsewhere.

Someone noted (I've forgotten where) that they would like to pass down favourite or family recipes, but because they don't have children, they were grieving about that. It's a legitimate sadness, and one I've noted before too. But I have an idea, one I've been thinking about for quite a while. These days, it is really easy to put together recipe books online. And one day, I intend to put my favourite recipes - some family recipes, some my own - in a recipe book, maybe even take photos of the dishes for illustration, and then give it to my nieces and nephews - and anyone else who might want it. Or maybe I'll just download them all on a blog sometime. I have to be a bit more creative if I want to spread the things I love. But that way too, more people get to try them. So it's a positive both ways.

We don't even need to be particularly creative. I make a recipe regularly, that I always think of as "Aunty Kenzie's" recipe, because that's how it was explained when my MIL gave it to me. I never met Aunty Kenzie, and I don't even know if she was related, or a family friend. Aunty Kenzie may not have known me, but her simple recipe has given me much pleasure. Our recipes - and legacies - get passed on sometimes in ways we never expect, or perhaps even know about. But not knowing about it doesn't lessen the legacy that is left. And I for one take comfort in that.