As I continue my decluttering and discarding frenzy, memories flood. (Actually they are more like landslides and avalanches.)
As I am physically “editing” my life through discarding objects, I have noticed how I edit my memories.
There are plenty that have ended up on the cutting room floor only to resurface unexpectedly as I come across a letter or a photo or even a pay stub.
Memories have morphed into versions of the truth. Recollections are like fabric remnants – residual memories with silhouettes cut out, and holes where there is a missing piece needed to complete the picture.
We can change the story. We can justify or defend or chastise in hindsight. To consciously recall an event, we can assign whatever emotion we want to it. A picture of a distant time and place can be looked at fondly or with regret.
But when memories surprise us, when it “invites itself, and is hard to turn away,” when they turn up to crash the party, they can awaken latent feelings of nostalgia, guilt, grief, and sometimes forgiveness.
These are the memories that make me pause and stay. These are the memories that I have tried to discard or bury but surface when I need them. They force me to connect to this moment in front of me, to return from a past that is done.
Where the stress falls.
Where do I want to place emphasis? Where do I want to turn my attention? How do I want to remember this one life and all its memories?
What do I want to edit in order to save my life for myself?
Hoping to answer some these questions tomorrow right here…
100 scribbles…hurriedly writing the here and now.
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