musings on memories and words
Memories are so bound up in words, written and verbal; the ones we say and the ones left unsaid. Words connect us with poweful emotions, even more than photos do. Memories written down, and subsequently forgotten--and later remembered again, triggered by a re-reading--things we thought, at the time, could not possibly be forgotten. Jotted notes between friends, prayer requests, the phone number of an old crush, a travel itinerary, lists of christmas gifts, monthly expenses, programs, calendars. A book I read in my childhood, I now read to my daughters, remembering more of the plot as I go. Old sheet music stirs up the emotions felt when singing the song, and even the tune comes back to me. Poems stir memories of how I felt when memorizing it, or that time I recited it in a homeschool program, or when I visited the author's home. The sight of a signature brings tears to my eyes, and I feel the love of the person who wrote it. A greeting card has lain in a box for years--looking at it today I can remember how I felt about the person who gave it to me. Pet names of siblings, long unused; inside jokes, long forgotten; paraphernalia from political campaigns that only political junkies remember; that college paper slaved over for days and then never looked at again--all of these things weave the stories of our lives, when we see them, and remember them, and pass them on to our children.
Our lives are so short, and yet we forget so quickly. Honestly, this frightens me. I can't stand when I forget things I want to remember, things I should have written down: a phrase one of my kids said, or a milestone. How can I possibly forget? The written word provides me with a touchstone for those memories, and also helps cement them in my mind; I don't forget so easily the things I write down. I love scrapbooks and memory books for much the same reason, although I am terrible at keeping one.
For years I have kept boxes of mementos, unable to part with the visible reminders of things that were so important to me when they occurred. They are full of unimportant pieces of paper--and words. I used to think it was the physical objects that contained the memories. In some cases this is true. But this past week, as I sifted through those boxes, I discarded many pieces of paper that no longer hold significant meaning; inevitably, the ones with more writing, or handwritten notes, carry more meaning. The people I attempted to have pen pal relationships with in high school, my grandparents who have passed away, various co-workers and classmates--are all there. Many of these people have forgotten me I am sure, and most of them I will never see again. But words keep my memories of them alive, and I treasure the effect those words have on me.
In so many ways, the life lesson I have had hammered into me this year is that our memories are the only things we can truly hold onto throughout our lives. Things, and people, we can hold for a time, but eventually we part. I don't want to live in the past; some parts of it I'd rather not have even lived the first time. But I want to remember, even when it hurts.
Our lives are so short, and yet we forget so quickly. Honestly, this frightens me. I can't stand when I forget things I want to remember, things I should have written down: a phrase one of my kids said, or a milestone. How can I possibly forget? The written word provides me with a touchstone for those memories, and also helps cement them in my mind; I don't forget so easily the things I write down. I love scrapbooks and memory books for much the same reason, although I am terrible at keeping one.
For years I have kept boxes of mementos, unable to part with the visible reminders of things that were so important to me when they occurred. They are full of unimportant pieces of paper--and words. I used to think it was the physical objects that contained the memories. In some cases this is true. But this past week, as I sifted through those boxes, I discarded many pieces of paper that no longer hold significant meaning; inevitably, the ones with more writing, or handwritten notes, carry more meaning. The people I attempted to have pen pal relationships with in high school, my grandparents who have passed away, various co-workers and classmates--are all there. Many of these people have forgotten me I am sure, and most of them I will never see again. But words keep my memories of them alive, and I treasure the effect those words have on me.
In so many ways, the life lesson I have had hammered into me this year is that our memories are the only things we can truly hold onto throughout our lives. Things, and people, we can hold for a time, but eventually we part. I don't want to live in the past; some parts of it I'd rather not have even lived the first time. But I want to remember, even when it hurts.