My friend Louise, also a blogger, has a new post up about obits, and what we might share if we had unlimited space. Here’s the link if you’d like to read her post in full.
I’m mindful that Minga had no obit. There would have been no place to post one, since there are no print newspapers in the village, and most people don’t have regular access to computers. I doubt any of the family gave a eulogy at her funeral. Sounds as if they relied heavily on Padre Raphael to conduct the usual Catholic service, in which personal remarks from the family do not play a part.
I suppose my blog posts from Thursday might constitute something of an obit.
Minga would have found the concept of an obit odd, I think. The people who needed to know she’d died, knew. So much for the informative function of posting an obit. I think if I or someone had asked her what she wanted shared publicly about her life she would have smiled and shaken her head. Talking about herself, or having someone speak for her, would not — I suspect — have felt right. She did talk a lot one-on-one about her early life, the challenges of being left motherless at five, the grueling day to day struggle of feeding nine children often on her own, and what she hoped her legacy would be. Her legacy to the world was her family: nine independent adults, all of whom had a way to earn their living, and with the obligation to be good and generous human beings.
I’m of two minds about an obit. Jerry had one, in what was then the print edition of the Rochester Democrat & Chronicle. The informative function was a high priority. He died very suddenly, and professional colleagues, clients, neighbors and friends needed to know what was happening and where and when they should come to pay respects. When you get older, like I am, that informative function shifts. Like Minga, the people who need to know when I die will know.
My two thoughts are these: an obit is a good way of drawing together the threads of a life and sharing with everyone how, in the end, you made sense of your time on earth. That’s easier for someone left behind who is going to speak for you to carry out if you’ve first laid out the framework, maybe even written the thing ahead of time. Louise and I have a friend, Julie, who does “legacy writing” with clients — and writing a sample obit is part of her approach.
My other thought, though, is to look back on the creation of sacred mandalas — intricate sand paintings — by Buddhist monks. A group of monks visited Rochester years ago, and I went to watch them work. They skillfully array grains of colored sand into a complex pattern, working for hours every day without appearing to tire. The construction of a mandala takes weeks. When done, they ceremoniously sweep up the gorgeous creation and dump it in the river. The message is something about the beauty and fleetingness of our material existence.
If you think of the mandala as representing the complex elements of a life, while it’s there in front of you it’s there, and visible for all to see. When it’s done, it’s not there, and can be conjured up only in memory. No one tries to say what the mandala looked like, or what anyone is supposed to remember about it. Each person in touch with the mandala carries his or her own memory. Nor does anyone try to preserve the mandala. It’s there in all its glorious color and complexity, and then it’s not. That’s the preciousness of life and the sadness of loss, all in one fell swoop.
I’m still going back and forth between these two contrasting notions. Glad to hear your thoughts.