Thanks for the Memories

Memory is a mercurial staple in my life.  People often marvel at how I can remember specific details of long-forgotten events – a family trait my siblings and I inherited from my mother’s family. My head constantly swirls with faces and places and because I have accustomed myself to finding God in the ordinary, these memories are like open doors beckoning me to venture deeper into the vast mysteries of life.

Awareness of this trait has only come to me in my wisdom years.  In the first half of life, I did not realize that only some people (like me) are tirelessly fascinated with the past. My strong inner pull toward ancestral stories, vintage photographs, old books, antiques, and iconic spiritual artifacts, should probably have clued me to this realization sooner. Nonetheless, I am grateful to make this full disclosure now, educated no doubt by my deep dive into religion, the many tools I use for spiritual growth (like the Enneagram), and my long love of reading and writing.

Admittedly, memory is not altogether reliable nor verifiable and so I willingly acknowlege my own bias. Fortunately, though, I do possess original source materials for reference checking, having spent many years keeping handwritten journals. I even took several classes when I was in my thirties on how to use them for spiritual growth. Most often, I journaled to process the spaghetti-like jumble of thoughts and feelings that occupied my mind. As I matured, these scribblings morphed into prose poems, complete with prayer-like cries of the heart, quotes from saints and beloved authors, and the strange “God-incidences” that flooded my ministerial work. Trunk loads of these volumes were squirreled away in many nooks and crannies of my home and some were digitally saved. I learned so much from journal writing and am still a big advocate for this practice!

This summer, I purged nearly all the hand-written journals. Don’t sound the alarm! The crumbling oldies were mostly an embarrassment of self-absorption and not fit for public consumption. Despite some qualms about destroying my young, distinctive handwriting, a lighter and more peaceful mood came upon me after the ripping and shredding. I also printed out the many poems that had been saved on the computer and organized them by years into looseleaf notebooks, now in a metal file cabinet for safekeeping. These comprise hundreds of pages that I hope to curate someday. If not, I possess few worries as I doubt anyone will have the patience to read them. Am I officially done now? Not by a long shot.

The urgent desire in my seventh decade has nudged me to explore memoir writing. Many people my age feel compelled to try their hand at this endeavor and maybe this is more about “the doing” than some great legacy we hope to leave behind. Although I have done my share of writing our family history throughout the years, (I wrote a children’s book, The Photograph, based on a story about my grandmother, Remembrances of a Storycatcher, a documentation of our ancestors, and several whimsical self-published paperbacks of fun memories), there are many more unwritten personal stories my heart longs to tell.

I decided to begin by simply allowing the memories that want a voice to emerge. I am currently writing about my early college years as a theater major, focusing primarily on the USO Tour I went on while a student at the University of Minnesota. Since I already write for at least two hours per day, a spiritual practice I faithfully keep, finding time is not difficult. Writing about such intimate content is another matter. Memoirs require opening doors in the cellar and attic of life that have been shut for many years. Some memories have unprocessed pain and anguish attached to them. Some have joys that distract me from finishing! But so far, with a cast of invisible characters by my side, I feel like an intoxicated time traveler, swept away on a great adventure, ready for anything.

Each day when I sit down to write, I sing “Thanks for the memories. . .” and for the gift of living long enough to have the time to embrace this unexpected opportunity. Personal growth only ends when we decide to give up trying. Like a tireless cheerleader, the Holy One perpetually calls us to evolve and draws us lovingly into union, our deepest human desire.