Legacy
A friend asked me to help with a project. He had written a
wonderful curriculum, helping people sort through their
desires and dreams for their lives, and he needed,
essentially, an on-camera guinea pig. I’d come to his house,
and a film crew would shoot us sitting at his kitchen table,
working through the curriculum together. I asked how I
could prep for it. “Nothing!” he said. “Don’t read a thing,
don’t plan a thing. Let’s make it really fresh and real and
present.”
And that we did. We began in the morning—goals,
memories, the plot points of my childhood and adolescent
years. We plugged along, sharing stories, laughing between
takes. And then toward the end, the conversation turned to
legacy, the end of life, regret. And with the cameras rolling
and the room full of talented, kind people I’d never met, I
looked up at my friend and began to cry.
“I don’t want to miss the actual fabric of the interior of
my life and the beautiful children growing up right this
second in my own home because I’m working to please
people somewhere out there. I’m afraid I’m missing it. I’m
afraid I’m doing it wrong, and I want to know that I can
change.”