Memoir
“When you remember
me, it means you have carried something of who I am with you. It means you can
summon me back to your mind, even though countless years and miles may stand
between us. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear
my voice and speak to me in your heart.”
Frederick Buechner
I’ve
been writing stories lately about things and people from my childhood.
Memory is like time traveling. Yesterday, I wrote about snow and sledding at
Betty Lou’s house and now that whole event, except for actual conversations, is
bright in my mind. Isn’t it amazing that we carry memories so vividly? What
incredible creatures we are.
Our memories of friends
from high school that we haven’t seen in decades tend to be stuck in time. We
remember them as they were then, rather than how they look now. Sometimes I google
names and try to pick out which picture of an older adult might be them. When I
travel all the way back to elementary school, the memories are less clear, more
fleeting. I can see people from that era more as a suggestion of what they
looked like; their image is there for a moment and then gone. Like a camera
lens clicks open and quickly closes.
Memory is an amazing gift.
With every year of life, as we travel further and further away from people in
time, memories grow in importance. Which is why writing them down makes sense. Even if
you only write for your children and grandchildren, go ahead and record the memories you have of your life just as they occur to you. Facts are not as crucial as impressions, because facts are subject to debate, but your
impressions belong to you alone. I can recall events from twenty years ago, as
I remember them, and create dialog either as I remember it, or as how I imagine
it was, and come away with a complete story. You can, too.
Because we are such
emotional creatures, we overlay our memories with feelings. Our feelings also
belong to us alone and may not be questioned by others who were present. Writing
memories helps us to understand ourselves better—how we felt about life at
eight years old, in high school, in our twenties. We are able to see ourselves
as though our present consciousness is observing that child, that teen, that
young adult through a lens, one step removed. Like watching a movie about ourselves,
but as an objective observer. It is one way to understand how we got to be who we
are now. Most of the time, we gain in compassion for ourselves—and that’s a
good thing.
Memory is also a good way
to honor our ancestors. We can bring up their image and they become alive to us
again. We can remember the sound of their voice, the quirk of their
personality, and suddenly, they are standing before us just as they were.
Native American and Celtic people believe our ancestors’ spirits don’t go away
when they die, they simply change forms. We can still talk to them because they
are always present. They live in us, in our hearts. It’s a good way to heal
wounds, to clear up misunderstandings, to say I’m sorry, to say, I love you. I
believe that when we heal our own wounds, give up our grudges, forgive those
who hurt us, healing happens on many levels—not just in us, but in them, and in
generations to come, too. Memory lingers and strengthens just so we can do that. It’s a gift
that we should put to good use.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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