Memories
“Memories
are not the key to the past, but to the future.”
Corrie
Ten Boom
A
funny thing happens when we age. We remember differently. Or,
perhaps, all the years of life that have been laid down, end to end,
change the way we recall and interpret events. I am reading a book at
the moment by Mary Alice Monroe, Sweetgrass, set in the low
country around Charleston, South Carolina. It's about a family—and
in the old South, “family” included all the aunts, uncles and
cousins, the grandparents and anyone who worked in the household. In
one scene, an older woman named Nona, who has worked for the family
for forty years, is ironing a tablecloth—one of those ancient
damask ones that lasts a hundred years. And as she irons, she
recounts all the memories the tablecloth brings back. The entire
history, her's and the family's, reflects in its soft folds, now
reinterpreted from the distance of age and experience. It's a
beautiful scene, and a classic example of how, like the tablecloth,
we soften with time. We now understand what we could not grasp back
then.
“The
richness of life lies in the memories we have forgotten.” (Cesare
Pavese) It is not necessary to hold on to every unfortunate event,
every unkind word, every slight. It's good that with time, they
change. It's akin to attaching a wide-angle lens to a camera and
seeing the bigger picture. We can see our own role more clearly. We
can include other events taking place in that person's life at the
time. We can bring into view their history and how they were affected
by it. Time is a great lens. Like the damask tablecloth, it holds
history in a softer, gentler light.
In
the Spirit,
Jane
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