gone but not forgotten?

One of the nights I missed my daily blog entry I was watching Out of Africa. Again. It's one of my favourite movies, and one of my favourite books. Haunting, poetic, adventurous, stylish and from a time long past - it creates the perfect storm to capture my imagination.

This time, we watched with the commentary on. Director Sydney Pollack talked us through the trivia, the behind the scenes anecdotes and some of the major themes they tried to bring out in the making of it. It was then that I realized more consciously one of the reasons I connect so well with the main character, Karen Blixen: her desire to be remembered and her fear of being forgotten.

Everyone wants to leave a legacy on some level. For some, the outlet is politics. For some, the siren song of fame lures them to Hollywood or Nashville. Others put their efforts into doing their best at work, or raising offspring that will hopefully make positive contributions to the world.

I suppose that's partly why I write. I mean, aside from the creative outlet, the love affair with words ... there's this niggling little urge to put myself down on paper. Or into cyber space, in the case of this blog. To connect with someone in that way. To be known. Even if it's not me I'm writing about, there's always a part of me that's present in what I write - which is why I have a distaste for writing just-the-facts-hard-news (even though it pays better).

Like Karen Blixen, I wish the memory of me would live in the walls or spaces of places I've lived, or frequented. That even after my things are removed, a little piece of me, my laughter or my tears, would remain. I sometimes wonder if memories of truth or dare and flying books and cup after cup of Irish Cream flavoured coffee live on in my room in Moor Close. If the floors remember my footstep or the walls remember my touch.

Of course I know that's not the case, and I suppose that what's more important is that these things remain in us. Rather than some ethereal part of me continuing to exist in England, or Korea, or the neighbourhood in which I grew up, there's a part of these places - and others, many, many others - that continues to exist in me.

Recently, Oliver has taken an interest in my past, and frequently asks, "read about when mamma was a little girl." So I tell him story after story and he sits, entranced, always wanting more. I don't know if he'll always remember these stories, but there is a legacy burgeoning from it all, because some day he'll tell a story about how, when he was a little boy, his mamma used to regale him with tales of her past over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a cuppa tea.

And maybe, just maybe, in the grand scheme of things, that's one of the grandest legacies a person can leave - a personal connection with someone else. Friends, family, readers.

Christina Rossetti, in her poem, Song ("When I am dead, my dearest"), said, "And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget." I relate with half the sentiment, anyway: And if thou wilt, remember.