Who Cares?

Warning. Some Hard Truths™ coming up. But someone has to say it.

You’re going to die—and there will come a time when no one even remembers you lived.

Trust me. I know this to be true. I help run a small cemetery with bodies dating back to the Revolutionary War.

This quaint, old graveyard lies on the route of my morning walks with my pup. As I stroll through the grounds, evidence of forgotten lives is everywhere—the same decaying Christmas décor adorning stones for countless years. Algae, lichen, and moss cover the names and dates etched in the tombstones. The marble, broken in two, fallen with grass consuming them like quicksand, pulling them closer to the bodies that rest underneath.

Whenever a new “resident” joins, I announce to the spirits that they have another neighbor, introducing them by name. Hey, you never know. They might hear.

But what I ponder as I try to connect with the bodies we our tasked with overseeing, is … who were these people? What were their dreams? What were their worries? How did they die, but more importantly, how did they live? And … who cares? Who cared for them when they were breathing? Do they still care … or are they forgotten forever?

Today, I found a stone so worn I couldn’t even make out a single letter. But it was stunning. Artistic and graceful. Was this person a lover of art? Did their family want that conveyed in the design of their grave marker?

I’ll never know. The soul under that stone has no name. At least not one anyone remembers.

But the artistry of it lives on. Just like your artistry can live on … but only if you take the time to create it while you’re still breathing. And only if you find a way to make people care.

Oh, I hear you—but Jeanne, what about my bills? What about my job? What about my kids?

I’ve analyzed hundreds of tombstones. I’ve never seen one that said, “Here lies Mrs. Smith. She meticulously paid every bill and put all her creative dreams aside to have perfect work attendance, and a house so clean, you could eat off the floor. A model of responsibility.” Some etchings have sentiments of being a loving parent. I’ll give you that. But who were they, really?

Sure, for a few decades, your loved ones will carry your memory on. But in time, they'll be gone, too. Then what?

We may forget those long-gone souls, but what can live on is our art. Our creations. Our heart poured onto the page.

Authors, filmmakers, and painters are talked about for hundreds of years. You don’t have to be a famous one, though. I popped into one of the funeral director’s offices to grab a check, and his lobby walls were enveloped in paintings his deceased father created, decades ago. Every single day being enjoyed by many. What a gift—for those viewing them, but mostly for his son. A forever reminder of his father’s greatest joy and escape: creating art.

You don’t have to whip up 50 scripts or a dozen novels. All you need is one—just one incredibly beautiful, heart-tugging, breathtaking piece of art.

I know. It’s not easy. I get it. But if you don’t care to create, how will the world you leave behind know anything about you? They know the obvious stuff, but that’s not the stuff we put into our art.

We bleed on the page. We weave our fears and hopes into our words. We create characters we wish we were, and ones we know we can never be. We expose ourselves, fully and naked.

We write to make people feel something. If you’re brave enough, your vulnerability and soul lives on those pages. And you live … forever.

So, I ask again … who will care a hundred years from now that you existed? This minute, the only one who matters is you. You need to care before anyone else will.

Choose to leave the world a gift instead of just turn to dust.

*Feature photo by Jeanne Veillette Bowerman