My daughter recently stated that she hopes that my husband and I live to a ripe old age and that we die together, much like Noah and Allie in the movie based on The Notebook, by Nicholas Sparks. My daughter had just finished reading Spark’s novel, now a movie, Dear John.
That’s the great thing about reading books. They awaken us to parts of ourselves, hopes dreams and wishes, and those held for us by loved ones.
That my daughter, not yet 25, could offer me such a gift I find astounding. Most children, and rightfully so, want their parents alive for as long as possible.
Saying this to my daughter, she responded with, “I can handle my life, take care of myself as long as I know that you and Daddy are together somewhere in the universe, even if I’m not with you.”
She was also very adamant that she much preferred us dying together than one of us surviving and perhaps marrying another person.
I don’t know how our other two children will weigh in on this matter. I must confess my daughter’s comment has caught me by surprise.
Aside from my amazement there lives a story, that of our conversation in which she shared her hope, and how my daughter came to want this for us. That she does, says she knows my heart better than possibly I do.
Her statement also evidences that she has gained what every parent hopes and prays that develops within each of our children–the ability and stability to go on, to survive and thrive in life, after we, their parents, have died. No mother or father wants to bury her or his child. As such we expect to precede them in death.
We want to know that our children will make it in the wake of our absence. And yet it is our sustained presence in their lives transcending death that lays the foundation upon which for them to accomplish our hopes and dreams for them.
Stories are like children who, after years of observation, present a piece of our identity that we, the parent and/or writer, were too busy crafting the narrative to notice. Oftentimes this shadow of our personality or soul lay so hidden within us that only the writing of the narrative could exhume it.
Each dilemma a character faces holds the hope of salvation, and the possibility for transformation. Each crisis offers the opportunity for redemption, each climax the chance for epiphany.
Those within our lives who love us, and whom we adore and treasure offer continual promise of achieving resurrection.
The stories we write are but a direct chronicle, as in memoir, of our varied experiences in touching their hearts and their actions moving our souls. The dream and fantastical reality of fiction lies in never having to let go. Where one novel ends another begins.
Each story we write is but one more moment of incarnation wherein we the author, like primordial human throws her or himself into the ocean of life only to find her or his way back home.
Once there we find ourselves lost again.
Those we meet along the way remind and awaken us to this process that is living. And herein lies the story–what links us in the present moment of this life to those we love, and to the lives we have previously lived.
What are the most important relationships in your life–those outside of work and your profession?
How do they feed or fuel your stories?
How do you give thanks for them?
What are you hopes, and dreams for these relationships, and those with whom you are connected?