Explainations, memories and my #3.

*** So, I suppose I should explain myself... This blog stems from some work I have done over the past 4 or 5 years. I was wandering around Chapters one day and stumbled across a book called "Old Friend From Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir" by Natalie Goldberg. Although at first glance this book appears to be a novel, it is not. Instead each page walks the reader/writer through the business of writing your memories. It is an entire book devoted to unearthing, uncovering the essence of you. I have been slowly working through these exercises over the years and kept my musings tucked away until now. Each blog post is the result of a ten minute exercise. Ten minutes. That's it that's all. So, although these entries are far from perfect, they do offer you some insight into my somewhat chaotic brain. 

With all this said and so many hours spent plunking away at a keyboard putting words to thoughts and letters to paper,  I do encourage anyone who can type, write, think and feel to try free writing at least once. Take ten minutes. Time it. Write everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, that comes to mind as it comes. If you are thinking about chocolate chip cookies one minute, the magic of bubbles the next and the stench coming from your neighbours backyard the next, well so be it. Write it all, put it away for a few weeks and go back and reread it. See if you make yourself laugh.... I bet you do. ***

 

The Third Thing: We all have a #3.

I am not alone.

There is me. There is writing. Always.

I know I can’t write about writing. Can I?

My mind, I think it’s my mind, tells me I should say my third thing is pictures or my kids or my husband. I guess those things are all third things, or first things depending on how you look at it.
One thing I know for sure, my third thing is not work.

Memories. I think this is my third thing.

I want to remember. I want my kids to remember. I want the world to remember.

So very much has been forgotten.

I can honestly say, memory is a concern for me. There are some things, many things, that I remember with vivid clarity. There are other things, things I should remember, that I do not. They’ve vanished into the abyss. For some, retrieval is possible but only through tremendous effort, endless searching and, more often than not, my memories must be triggered.  For others, no matter the importance, retrieval is impossible.

For  example, I do not remember what happened immediately following Niven’s birth.

I don’t remember the first time I saw my sister. 

I simply cannot remember important details about the most important times in my life. Most of the things I don’t remember I can’t even tell you about because I don’t remember their significance or importance, if that makes any sense at all. 

I require reminding. In fact, I think my mum remembers more about my adult life than I do.

Because of this, I desperately want to create something I can leave behind for my children. If it is the nonsense rambling on these pages, so be it. But I need to be able to give them a part of me even if perhaps I am unable to give them a part of me exactly when they ask for it or when they can appreciate it. I don't think it is until we have children of our own that we realize the importance of our past and what it might mean to the next generation.

Come to think of it, I think I have written a fairly substantial amount on these pages (in my journal) thus far and for the life of me I probably can’t tell you half of what I wrote. I usually remember it once I start reading, but sometimes, even though I am the author, I feel like the reader instead. Is that scary?

Although it is unlikely these musings will ever be published, it is my sincerest hope that one day I can present my children with a diary, a journal of memories, that they can read and say: THAT IS SO MY MUM… even if she can’t remember anything anymore.