I don’t usually spend much time contemplating my death or the legacy I will leave behind, but a few weeks ago, I had no other choice. While others were making their weekend Costco runs or competing in the Birkebeiner, I was attending an obituary writing workshop at the Heyde Center for the Arts.

The morning of the workshop, I gathered around a table with about a dozen other participants – all strangers to me. I was the youngest in the room by a generation or two, though this was hardly a surprise. One man mentioned the irony of Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” playing on the radio as he pulled into the parking lot. Everybody laughed. “That’s a rock band from the seventies, Samantha,” another teased.

Our teachers kicked things off by asking what had prompted each of us to sign up. I went first – explaining I’d just written my grandma’s obituary and wanted to learn better ways to avoid clichés and honor those who have passed. Others shared their experiences of writing obituaries for their siblings, parents, and friends – and a few shared that they would likely be writing obituaries for loved ones soon to pass. Everyone seemed to want the same thing – to do a good job at it.

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TURNS OUT, SUMMING UP ONE'S OWN LIFE AND LEGACY IS NO EASY FEAT.

Each time I scribbled something down, I was hit by a wall of emotions. When I died, would the world really be losing a kind soul? What adjectives would my friends use to describe me? What about my exes? 

SAMANTHA KOBS

After a discussion on purpose, audience, form, and the overused but safe “formula” that most obituaries will follow (think birth, death, accomplishments, family left behind, and legacy), we read through selected examples written by children, partners, and even the deceased themselves that followed anything but this “formula.” Instead of lengthy lists of achievements or exhaustive directories of surviving family members, these obituaries included a blend of tender memories, quotes, and humor. One even served as a confessional for personal transgressions including national park vandalism and lifetime bans from both Disneyland and SeaWorld. None of these obituaries followed the formula.

Then, in true workshop fashion, we were given time to throw ideas on paper and experiment with our craft – drafting an obituary for someone we knew – including ourselves if we so chose to. Surely, it couldn’t be that difficult, I thought. Plus, then I wouldn’t have to choke back tears in a room full of strangers while thinking about the death of someone I loved.

That was wishful thinking.

Turns out, summing up one’s own life and legacy is no easy feat. Each time I scribbled something down, I was hit by a wall of emotions. When I died, would the world really be losing a kind soul? What adjectives would my friends use to describe me? What about my exes? Tears welled in my eyes as I crossed out and rephrased line after line. Across the room, I noticed others patting the corners of their eyes and sniffling, too. Maybe just allergies or the tail-end of a cold… or perhaps we just all felt the weight of the task at hand.

I eventually regained control of my amygdala. It wasn’t like I was writing an inauguration speech or selecting which sound recordings would go on the Voyager Golden Record. I was just trying to write a little bit of my own truth or what I hoped to be my truth. I needed to keep it simple and keep it real. Drawing inspiration from the obituaries in front of me, I eventually produced a patchwork of words, phrases, and memories that at least had some potential. And honestly, I was feeling sort of… inspired? 

After the workshop came to an end, I drove home with the windows down, the radio off, and the winter sun kissing my skin. I may have ugly-cried from Chippewa straight through Hallie, but that’s just life. It’s beautiful and weird and unpredictable. And we’re all here –  just trying to do a good job at it.