I read an article this week about a high school coach working with students that struggled either with family, or school, or were in special education. As a focusing exercise he asked them to write their own eulogies.
Hmm.
What would I like people to be able to say about me?
I suppose it's reasonable enough to look at the actions and decisions I've made in recent years to conclude the answer, so far. Some of them, while true, weren't nearly as fun to write. Therein lies the difference between "liking" people to say something about me and "caring" whether or not they do.
Life's long, though. Ten years ago this list would've been much different. In a while maybe I'll come back and revise it. In trying to live a life that's as personally happy as possible, here's how it's been shaking out.
That I loved to write, to teach, to sing, to perform, to play, to read, to organize, to plan, to create.
That I was fanatical about freedom, and against anyone telling me what to do, unless I asked. And so when called to lead, I tried to do so by suggestion rather than command.
That I shared my sense of humor, which got more respectful as I got older.
That I was an open-minded about religion, politics, and other ways that people are different.
That I was picky about food, hobbies, spending, and friends. Invested little in relationships outside the walls of my abode.
That I didn't care to read fiction, talk on the phone, or hang out with groups much bigger than four for conversation.
That I kept myself in good shape. And that I avoided almost every other form of maintenance ("no plants, no pets, no kids").
That nothing brought tears to my eyes faster than a roomful of wild applause, or any generous gesture of appreciation for a humble and hard-working person.
That I became more peaceful, optimistic, and grateful through the years. And smiled most of the time.
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