Today I’m embracing my Black Jewish Mexican side, which doesn’t exist in my demographics, but does in my soul.
It’ll be Yom Kippur in a few days, Kwanzaa in a few months and Día de los Muertos in between. The celebrations are far different, of course, but candles and souls are crucial for all three.
Author David Kessler said that as we mourn people or recall loved ones, it often helps to look at how their lives were meaningful. “What part of them lives in you? What can you take into the future?”
If you prefer your quotes from “Hamilton,” try this: “What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.”
Kwanzaa has seven candles for seven principles, one for each of the celebration’s seven days, with a nod to the present and future as well as the past. I’ll substitute my own principles as I light seven metaphorical candles to honor many souls who live in mine. I hope they’ll help you cherish your own garden.
Inspiration
Barbara and Sam rarely came within two thousand miles of each other in the real world, but they’re shoulder to shoulder in my soul, planting seed after seed after seed.
Barbara was the closest aunt I had as a young adult, after Mom died. She and Uncle Paul captured my imagination with their adventures, showing me maps of all their roads well traveled. It’s no coincidence that the next decade was the most peripatetic of my life.
Sam was my first college journalism teacher, adviser to our student newspaper, who helped us be way more ambitious than any teenage journalists could have expected, from getting in to the Patty Hearst trial to meeting Henry Aaron to seeing a preview of “The Godfather Part II.” I have several teachers on my Mount Rushmore, but Sam’s the only one on Mount Olympus.
Barbara and Sam have something huge and wonderful in common: They silently reminded me of how much I needed to learn, to see the world through different lenses, to dream of what still might be, to cultivate a garden worthy of them.
Impermanence
Pete was one of my closest teenage friends, bonding over everything from basketball to poker to underage drinking. Then he moved away, back in an era before email or social media or cellphones. Instead of seeing each other weekly, we’d send out Christmas cards weakly.
Shittogetheredness
I didn’t know Janet nearly as well as the others I’m mentioning (and many I’m not), but I wish I had. She was three years ahead of me in high school and college, meaning that she was pretty much a ghost.
Eventually I caught up with her as a colleague, but we worked in different offices. Even from a distance, though, you could tell she was a terrific journalist, leader, author, spouse, mother. You knew she would thrive at anything, the kind of person you aspire to be, with a garden worthy of its own Instagram account.
Gregariousness
I respected Bill as a journalist, first as a rival and then as a colleague, but the young introvert in me admired how he brought people together, to share joy in one way or another, from liar’s dice to parties to Giants games. He didn’t just organize our activities, he was the spiritual leader.
Fate
Pete, Janet and Bill have something huge and horrible in common: They never made it to age 42. Bill died of heart disease, Janet from cancer, Pete by suicide.
When I think of them, I think of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s “love is love is love” acceptance speech at the 2016 Tony Awards, hours after the mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub.
“Senseless acts of tragedy remind us that nothing here is promised,” Miranda said. “Not one day.”
Seize the day. Every day.
Balance
Greg and Bruce were far different people who came into my life at far different times, both crucial not just on their own, but for what they added to the mix. Sometimes we go overboard about seeing our glass as half full or half empty, and it’s good to have a yin and a yang to yank us back to reality.
Greg saw the good in everyone, figuring the glass was three-quarters full, offering sunlight to help the garden thrive. Bruce saw the good in everyone who deserved it, but could also tell when someone was applying too much fertilizer.
Growth
As a nod to the 12 days of Christmas, our last candle is for a dozen gifts, souls young enough to be my children. All very much alive, thankfully, planting seed after seed after seed.
Jess and Ginny and Chad and Michelle and Robyn and Josh and Eric and Adrian and Gwen and Shwanika and Cat and Abby have something huge and wonderful in common: They silently remind me of how much I need to learn, to see the world through different lenses, to dream of what still might be, to cultivate a garden worthy of them.
Murphy Slaw
Something old: This New York Times column points to tons of things that Mark Zuckerberg and other tech leaders should be doing to improve the quality of life for older Americans. It might be pretty lucrative, too.
Something new: Helping young athletes get the most out of sports and life is a challenge. A former coach of such stars as Tom Brady and Nolan Ryan has some tips, which also might help parents and mentors in lots of areas.
Something borrowed: If you’ve ever written something for a committee and asked people for their suggestions, this picture is worth a thousand rewritten words.
Something blue: Tennis fans will always recall September 20, 1973, as the day Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs, but rock fans of a certain age might remember it for a sadder reason: Rising star Jim Croce died in a plane crash at age 30. His death triggered one of the biggest posthumous record sales booms in history, with more people discovering songs like “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” and “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim,” but this will always be my favorite.
Like the north wind whistlin’ down the sky
I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song
Like the whip-poor-will and the baby’s cry
I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song
And I carry it with me and I sing it loud
If it gets me nowhere, I’ll go there proud