Lean Forward Into Your Life. Mary Anne Radmacher

from you!”

      Awful. Awful news. Well, as testing progressed the news got worse. Frankie was now speaking of weeks, not months. Characteristic of her philosophy of retired life, she wanted to die simply, without a lot of stuff and only obligations to which she was most committed. She gathered a rather small circle of associates. I was among them. She laid down the rules in her fashion—truthfully and without qualification. She had just a few rules:

      “One. No assholes allowed. I've put up with them all my life. Now that I'm dying, I don't have to. So if somebody comes and they're an asshole, I'm not spending my dying breath on them. You can tell them anything you want. Just don't bring them to me.

      “Two. I get to listen to whatever I want. That means the music I want. Or quiet. And when I want to listen to quiet it means I don't want to talk to you, either. Nothing personal; I just want quiet.

      “Three. I get to eat whatever I want. If I want it and we don't have it—you'll do your best to get it. If you can't, I'll understand. But I'd love for you to try. And, also, if I don't want to eat, you won't make me. None of the ‘it's good for you’ business. I'm telling you right now what's good for me.”

      People could sign on under Frankie's rules or not. She made it very clear it was her party. I was in the rotation several times in those last days. Toward the end I had to lie close to Frankie because she had little breath to put behind her words. Mostly she talked and I listened.

      She asked me to promise her something. She said she knew I'd keep writing and sharing my thoughts with the world. She asked me to remind people of something they should know but kept forgetting. And, while I initially disagreed with Frankie's advice, I came to understand the spirit of it: I can either direct the winds of my history to blow and fill my sails toward a certain course—or, I can allow it to just steer me all over the map. I came to realize that Frankie was suggesting that we can negotiate with our history; come to a creative agreement and then move on with our lives, trimming our own sails in a chosen direction.

      Frankie believed that we're responsible for our own memories. That responsibility goes in two ways. First, if you had a childhood for which you did not much care . . . make up a new one. That's why you have an imagination. Just tell yourself a new story—a story that keeps you from living in the past and being bitter. Do what it takes to be happy with your history. And secondly, be responsible today for the history you are creating. Ask yourself how it is you want to remember this specific thing and then do your best to bring about those memories. In a great difficulty or a perplexing moment, it's a tool of perspective to pause and ask yourself, “How do I want to remember this?” It sings of personal responsibility and the kind of accountability that makes a big person.

      I told Frankie I would do it. That I would remind people as often as I had the opportunity. And I have with City Year in Little Rock, Arkansas, a volunteer domestic service program started by President Clinton, as well as with computer marketing professionals in Portland, Oregon, and folks in every spot I've visited and given a speech. Now, I'm telling you the story. I promised and I've kept my promise. And in tough spots I clarify for myself by asking, “How is it I would most like to remember this?”

      On the day of Frankie's memorial service, much of that small community shut down. I had my memorial service right next to Frankie and her failing breath. The day of her service I stayed home and memorialized her in my own way. Yes, I cried. And yes, I asked myself how I would like to remember the day of her memorial. I wanted to define the lessons I'd learned by living by Frankie as she died. That day I wrote the text, which has grown into the version that I use today. I wrote:

       live with intention.

       walk to the edge.

       listen hard.

       laugh.

       play with abandon.

       practice wellness.

       continue to learn.

       appreciate your friends.

       choose with no regret.

       do what you love.

       live as if this is all there is.

      She did. And I aspire to.

      Over the years this text has appeared through my company in posters in people's offices, homes, school rooms, and lockers. It's on websites and has been featured in newspapers and city mission statements, read at memorial services, and used in graduation speeches. Here is the most recent incarnation of the text:

       live with intention.

       walk to the edge.

       listen hard. play with abandon.

       practice wellness. laugh. risk love.

       continue to learn. appreciate your friends.

       choose with no regret.

       fail with enthusiasm.

       stand by your family.

       celebrate the holidays that make sense.

       lead or follow a leader. do what you love.

       live as if this is all there is.

      Richard Kesler, a MacGyver kind of man to whom I gave my father's pocketknife—because he knew so many helpful things to do with it and because he is a father figure to so many kids—has a different view toward his history. He never rewrites his history. He turns his experiences into types of tales, or parables, so that he and others might continue to learn from them. He explains his telling of his own history in this way: “It's not a scar, it's a story.”

      Anyone who has been blessed with having children in their lives will know this story well. My three daughters have enriched my life with six grandkids. The oldest is Austin. He is the real author of the quote above. I have a few reminders left from a well-spent youth permanantly etched onto my face, leg, and back. They are scars from car accidents, sports injuries, and the every-man scars we all get just living. My grandkids, like all kids, don't see me as just a person. One day I'm a horse giving rides to a place only a child's eyes can see. On another day I'm an amusement park ride, flying them through the air. And, of course, I am always Superman. On one particular day, lying on the floor, I am a racetrack. My grandson drives his toy cars up and down the three surgical pieces of artwork that resemble railroad tracks covering the length of my back. He asks how they got there. I answer in short versions. Just enough to satisfy his curiosity about each spot. Then, stopping to touch my face, then looking at my leg, then retouching the scars on my back, he finally assesses, “You know, Grandpa, you sure have a lot of stories.”

      From then on, inspired by Austin, I would tell anyone who asked about a particular remnant from my youth, “It's not a scar, it's a story.”

      Intention is not groggy in the morning. The day is met with a particular enthusiasm. The possibilities of the day are partners—not adversaries. Intentional living recognizes that, while accidents happen, life is not an accident. Days are built choice by choice. Intention savors moments of peaceful contemplation equally with production initiative. Intention knows each moment of the day as a precious investment.

      Life is not a series of accidents, and you are not a victim. You can exert power and influence over your own actions, attitudes, and resources.

       Be honest.

      Speak directly.

      Recognize it is more appropriate (at times) to remain quiet.

      Define your person in the context of that which is positive and possible. Do not identify yourself by your shortcomings or that which you are (as yet) unable to do.

      Choose your qualities. You can become the person you