Don’t you find that the more you try to forget the more you seem to remember? Like cleaning out a closet, the more you throw away the more there seems to be. This last year has been a gigantic clearing house for me and it isn’t over yet. What makes it so very different however is the fact that unlike clothing or other tangible objects which can be sent or given away, memories not so much so. Nor do I think that I would really want that anyway. What are we if not our memories? What would we be without them? A blank canvas devoid of shape or color, a mound of raw marble laid waste in a studio, a life form awaiting its birth.
I can tell you that life is beautiful, but that is in the moment. Or I could tell you that you are beautiful but that is my perception. I could merely say that memories are beautiful because they last forever and only improve with age like a fine wine. Memories are magic. They are the song of our souls. They sing to us of other times when life was newer and less tarnished. They tell us stories of better days when the sun shinned brighter and they embrace us in times of sadness and despair.
My memories are also dreams in which I live from time to time, a safe place where I can fly if I like. They are a place of magic and mystery of my own creation, a planet on which I am master of my fate.
If we don’t have dreams then the memories begin to disappear, slowly as if being swallowed by some black hole of despair. It is a kind of antimatter that exists in part in all of us and the universe itself.
My memory today, this morning, was that of a year many ago when the sun had turned its head southwards again and began the annual journey into autumnal magic. The crisp and clear morning air was light and ethereal, and our pilgrimage to the changing leaves up north was underway. With a picnic packed and Jack by my side, we and two good friends would set out for the quest, talking and laughing and napping along the way. How many times had this ritual been performed I can only guess. But each time there was sadness along with the beauty that someday it would in fact only be a treasured memory of times gone by.
As I look in the mirror and ready myself for this new day do you know what I see? I see a face that while weathered by the passage of time is still a vibrant reflection of all that has gone before. What are we if not our memories; I would not wish to be anything else …
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