On Creating Our Legacies

Watching "Sunday Morning" on CBS this morning was a haunting experience, as two stories unintentionally, coincidentally and accidentally juxtaposed  to make me think about our mortality and our legacies. 

The first piece was predictable. Today we mourn the death of Whitney Houston and ponder her life, both over its entirety and in the most recent years. I made sure to catch the show early. I guessed from the news the night before that the show would be devoting time to her, and there it all was: The MTV-era clips that would conveniently serve to chronicle her rapid rise in the 1980s. The snippets of her soaring vocals that seem extra-human at times. (My God, could a person really sing that beautifully AND so powerfully?) The accounts of her troubled times, including her marriage to the sure-to-be-vilified Bobby Brown, and her descent into drugs and alcohol. The diminishing of her prodigious talents, marked most recently by her inability to scale the record charts again and a humiliating concert in which she could not remember her lyrics or hit the notes that were once so effortless. It was all there, all so sad.
But the second segment threw me for a loop because, rather than a tragic and definite end, it was a hardship in progress that we will be able to witness sadly. The popular country-pop singer Glen Campbell is on his last tour. These are not his final performances because he is retiring willingly, but because he is receding from the world around him. At age 75, Mr. Campbell has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. While Mr. Campbell, like Ms. Houston, also lived a wild and woolly and sometimes reckless life, it is this wretched disease that is bringing him down.
Fortunately, as the segment showed, Mr. Campbell is not on the last legs of his journey alone. Several of his children are there, performing with him, gently guiding him to the stage, but most importantly, helping the man maintain his dignity in front of the audiences that have come to say goodbye. The results are mixed. He launches into his familiar and highly expert guitar riffs, as though his fingers are acting independently of his psyche. Teleprompters help him remember his once-familiar lyrics. But then he will launch enthusiastically into a song that he has just finished, and he stands revealed, solitary in his own perceptions and ultimately depending on the kindness of friends, fans and family to exit the embarrassment gracefully. 
Ms. Houston's fate seemed predetermined by a life on overdrive. Even her singing was white hot, seldom nuanced. Deep down, you could somehow sense that it would be impossible to maintain both the intensity of her performances and, later, of her life choices. On "Sunday Morning," commentator and music critic Bill Flanagan asked compassionately that "Whitney Houston be allowed to rest in peace." As an admirer, he is naturally afraid of the onslaught of salacious news that is sure to arise from a variety of sources, such as her autopsy, eyewitness reports of her increasingly erratic behavior, and more. Of course, Ms. Houston's reputation will not be spared, and given our 'breaking news" culture and social media overload, it is naive to think otherwise.
Still, as I look at Glen Campbell in his final days, I am reminded that we can have much more control over our legacies than we often allow. It is wise to remember that every act, every word uttered, every kindness offered all stand as testimonies to who we are. Tweets, Facebook posts and, yes, even blogs like this one are ephemeral. Resumes may be impressive, but they are only paper; people are much more likely to remember us for things that are more substantive, whether it is as monumental as a building or a bridge, or as accessible as a pathway or a garden. We have opportunities to change the lives around us and leave people with a material contribution, a piece of advice and maybe even a song. 
David Bowie once pointed out that he was lucky to have been afforded so many years in his career to make an impact, while the great blues artist Robert Johnson lived only to age 27, his reputation resting largely on one recording. I think that is great advice, which resonates so much more clearly to me as I get older: We get only so much time and only so many opportunities, so let's choose our actions wisely.

Note: I am indeed a big admirer of Whitney Houston, so I would like to direct you to this tribute to her that has already popped up on YouTube. God bless her.