the transcendent life

Sometimes when I look at my oldest son's face, when I stare a little bit, I think to myself that transcendence is a story that I tell myself. It's a lovely story, beautiful with nuance and design that inspires and gives strength. I think of my friend who approaches fatherhood with an eye towards legacy building. Then I think about my grandfather.

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I was the 5th of 6 children, so, by the time I was born, I'm pretty sure that my grandfather was dead. He was a cowboy. Something that I find funny--I was born about a million miles from here, in Seattle. My Dad was born a half-a-million miles from here in Denver. He grew up, learned to walk, and then run, and then jump hurdles, about 300 miles from here in Bellevue, Nebraska. But Dad's life took him places, and by the time I was born he was 54 (!) years old. And living in Seattle.

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So my granddad, I think he was born in Texas, was a cowboy, and lived here (here meaning somewhere between the Rio Grande and Alberta. My Dad lived in Bellevue, Lincoln, Chicago, Whittier, Los Angelos, then Ellensburg, Seattle, Ferndale, and Bellingham, where he finally died at a good old age. And though I was raised where the mountains meet the coast of the Pacific Ocean, I feel most at home on rolling plains. Here, a million miles from where I was born, but only about 300 from where my Dad grew hisself up.

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Did my grandfather think of me? Was he thinking of me when he was raising his sons? Will my great-grandchildren ever know anything specific about me? Will the civilization I am a member of last that long?