Legacy

Today, I was playing the piano, when my fingers tangled. I couldn't figure out the best fingering for a particular passage, and I kept making mistakes. When I get frustrated playing a new piece, I feel a little bit of sadness: my piano teacher died several years ago. She's not here to teach me any more.

Granted, she hadn't taught me since 11th grade. But when she died of lung cancer when I was in grad school, I felt the loss. For eight years, I had taken lessons on the Steinway in her basement. Even though I was no longer studying piano, I liked the thought of her educating the next generation of students.

I often think of her when I play the pieces she taught me. I remember when she would give me a piece that had meant something to her, such as Debussy's "La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin." Today, though, I thought of what a beautiful legacy she'd left behind her: countless students able to make music. She knew that few of us would be come professional musicians, but she wanted us to know the joy of playing.

The death of Anna Nicole Smith has been much in the news lately, and just this morning I'd read the newspaper and reflected what a mess of problems she'd left behind her. No one wants to leave legal battles and a parentless child in their wake.

It may be melancholy, but as I played the piano ("The Cascades," by Scott Joplin, written for the 1904 St. Louis World's Fair), I thought about legacies, and the kind of legacy I'd like to leave. As I write this, I can glance up at my mission statement: My mission is to live a centered life by helping others, by building and tending relationships, by teaching and learning, and by showing the truth of the world through my writing and my life. That's a good place to start.