December 9, 2024
Greetings from the living testament,
Memories are held like water cupped in your hands, trembling, leaking, changed by the color and shape of the palm and the creases and scars on the fingers. Each time we scoop them up, we leave some things, find something new, sometimes gathering other moments that we’d forgotten.
In the moments we are living, we are also walking beside memories of all the living we’ve done.
A few weeks ago, I went for a walk with two friends who didn’t know each other except through their friendship with me. We tramped through the woods on a brisk autumn morning, no agenda, no limit, just wandering through time.
The conversations lilted like small streams, jingling and sparkling between rocks, turning for no apparent reason, ducking under mossy birch bridges, pausing to pool for a moment and then pressing between some new channel. Eventually these poured into a larger body of water, a topic perhaps we all have in common, or one that is larger than all of us. It may be comprised of other voices, other experiences that we know, or just heard and held onto them.
I walked ahead of them on the path, the leaves forming a damp patchwork under our feet. I listened to my friends get to know each other, asking and answering, laughing at things we would all find funny. They held out ideas like interesting stones they found on the path, asking, “What do you think of this?” As each of them shared the new things with the other I was delighted to hear it, even though it was not new to me. It was like rereading a favorite book.
This little slip of time, one of countless ribbons of memories that week, stayed bold in my mind for a few days and resurfaced again. It was a peaceful, beautiful time, where friendship was made and made stronger. The memory was a gift my friends and I wrapped to be opened later.
In each of our days are a million choices that shape how we feel about our lives, and perhaps most powerful is the record of what has happened so far. These memories come to us in images, in snatches of songs, in photographs or a letter. Inside those memories are how we lived and how we felt about that living.
Some memories seem minor, but none are insignificant because of how they are connected. The recollection is not always fair to what you think is important, and not always accurate, but even that is beautiful in its way. Often an arbitrary memory will surface and leave a shadow on some other. It is a comedy. “Why is it I can picture the inside of a garage from 1975 but I can’t remember the password to my AOL account?”
My last conversation with my sister Leslie before she passed away, trading questions that only she has answers to now, an afternoon in her sunny backyard that is as clear as this morning. Or standing with my dad behind the garage of my childhood home, watching him tend to the weekly trash fire. Or watching a man in a dirty apron sitting in the alley behind Café du Monde, smoking. Or holding onto Doug and Cali, all of us shaking with emotion, teetering on the peak of Mt. Whitney. Or one of my sons stumbling into my den, still asleep, and crawling into my lap to continue his dream while I write. Or seeing a cloud of starlings lift into the sky, changing the horizon into a living thing.
I didn’t search for these images, they were simmering right here waiting for me this morning, a mystery within a mystery.
I am not gathering a list of favorite memories, or even the clearest. I am simply noticing their place in my life. I try not to live in the past, but I recognize how it influences today, if in no other way than how I feel. Not every moment is pleasant, not every moment is saved, not every moment matters as much as its neighbor. But memories are a chronicle of how we felt. How others came into our lives, what accomplishments mean, how we handled challenges. They offer us insight, perspective, guidance, humility, encouragement. They are us.
Memories are held like water cupped in your hands, and when you look into that tiny, infinite pool, you will see your face reflected there.
You are known by others in various ways. They know your laughter, your roles, your shared experiences, how you made them feel, all held together in those memories they have with you. It’s wonderful to be remembered, but you can’t see those memories clearly, you are simply an actor in someone else’s recollection. It is only through your memories that you know yourself.
Sometime today an image will surface from last week or ten years ago. You won’t know why, and maybe it will not seem important. I urge you to wait with it for a moment, to hold on to the images and feelings, and remember fully. It can be like meeting yourself, which sometimes is a surprise. Sometimes it’s like rereading a favorite book.
Hope this finds you remembering,
David
Copyright © 2024 David Smith
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