I WOZ 'ERE

A few decades ago, I woz ere seemed to be carved into every tree in my local park usually followed by initials, sometimes by a date. Now we have new ways of announcing to the world that we did indeed live, and lived here in this place, during this time and, hey, just might want to be remembered.

I was staring at some ancient ruins, enjoying a moment or two of my own insignificance in history, when it occurred to me that I treasure the realisation of time running backwards one way and off into the future the other way, more as I get older. I think it’s to do with the notion of extending time - the past where my ancestors lived and the future where I might live on in others.

So this piece is going to be about that crazy desire for immortality.

I don’t know many people who believe in the biblical version of an afterlife any more, but I do know a lot of people who wonder about some sense of themselves continuing - whimsically (a spirit, a reincarnation, feeding the roots of a tree) but more often as their genetic code passing on to grandchildren, or simply being remembered by loved ones. We wish this, of course, hoping that our lives have mattered and that our existence will not be lost to eternity…. perhaps wishing it more as time goes by.

I am not alone in this search for immortality. Consider the Pharaohs mummified, and their images carved into rock in 2000 BCE or, earlier, the cave art of our ancestors. Currently, if wealthy and mad enough, you can try to cheat death by cryopreserving your body so that you can be brought back at a later date. As Freud said, whilst we are all happy to consign our enemies to oblivion, we want an afterlife for ourselves and our loved ones (Thoughts on War and Death, 1915).

Personally, the thought of continuing, or coming back as, an ageing body appals me but I confess to holding a sweet hope that something (my soul, my spirit) will linger on in some way. If I think this through, it had better not be as in the Hollywood spirit of A Wonderful Life: the thought of being able to ‘see’ loved-ones continuing in life without me (an endless longing to be with them) or seeing them endure suffering and death and not able to do anything about it, would be horrible. Better perhaps the notion of living on in a spiritual ether with other spirits, or being transformed into a new life as a bird or a tree. Or finding there really is a God, benign, welcoming and, of course, non-judgmental.

If nothing else, my digital footprint is going to outlive me. Now that we’re online, we may not be able to control what we leave behind for others. I know this from friends who’ve recently had the unwanted task of disposing of someone’s possessions after a death, including their finances. Unless you’ve got rid of the evidence, someone else will see your bank accounts, your emails, your social media page. Do you mind? It might be worth thinking about what you want to delete before it’s too late.

I wonder if this fear of disappearing from view is also behind a slightly embarrassing trait that I note in older people: that of imparting their knowledge and experience to anyone polite enough to listen. I have seen younger people pinned to the ground by oldies insisting on telling their stories, despite the wooden expression on the young listener’s face. I vowed I won’t do it myself, but here am I going on and on….

Not many of us are famous artists, authors, creators of great works so it’s unlikely we’re going to be remembered in an obituary. Some of us are taking matters into our own hands, however: I can’t help but notice the drive to gather up evidence of our own imagined importance. This evidence-gathering might take the form of writing a memoir, compiling a family tree, exploring genetic heritage on a DNA website, returning to significant locations, going to reunions with ex-colleagues - I've done most of these and that’s only stretching backwards in time. Then there’s the stretching forwards: writing that last book (or a first one); composing or rewriting a will (amazing how many of us avoid doing that simple task); passing on precious gifts to others; writing a letter to be found after my death; having a last flourish at art, woodwork, embroidery; doing good works - anything that will live on after I’ve gone. And writing a blog, of course. What we seem to fear is oblivion - that no-one will notice our passing, that there will be no record, no sign that we mattered.

Which is all a lot of nonsense really because, if you listen to what mourners say at a funeral, they speak about how much that person was loved and loving, how much they made people laugh, whether they overcame life’s challenges. I have rarely heard anyone eulogised for their success at work except as a passing note, even those considered to have ‘done well’. What stays is not the literal account of our lives but the way we lived them: the joy we brought to others, the laughter, tears and love; the pride of a child in its parent, the pride of a parent in its child. An immortality of love, passed on from one generation to another in perpetuity: good enough really.