I read a wonderful poem this morning "I Remember, I Remember" by Mary Ruefle. It consists of her reflections as she remembers back. I will spend time with this idea today, and I suggest it to you too. Write "I remember", and then, bring forth a memory, and keep doing that. I remember this. I remember that. What comes forth as we remember back?
I was brought to tears by her memories. What will mine bring forth?
Yesterday I heard that modern Western medicine believes that three months is enough time to grieve. After that, it is depression. Ah, yes, call it depression and then drugs can be prescribed and money made. I believe we need time to grieve, that grief is always there in some way, that joy contains grief as well as happiness.
After my mother died, I wrote poems for her, to her. It was my way to grieve. I recently sent some of them to a friend whose mother died. Through that sharing of my mother, my memories revive. When we lived in Iowa, one special treat was when my mother made fudge. We didn't have a candy thermometer, so my mother would drop a spoonful of the boiling marvel into cold water as a test for the soft-ball stage. That would then be gathered up in her fingers, and dropped into my mouth. Yum! We would do that over and over again until the soft ball formed, and it was time to beat the fudge. I think she started testing way early so I would get lots of tastes. I can still taste and feel her fingers dropping sweetness on my tongue.
Today is a day for me to remember, to go through my own memory banks, my own files. What have I kept? What is important to keep? I feel vulnerable today, aware of the preciousness of family, friends, memory. I know at some point I will have to let go, will need to trust my memory to others, and it will be their interpretation, their need. I am with that today as I look out on the green of trees, the blue of sky.
In relation to that is this wonderful essay by Diane Ackerman, a favorite writer of mine. How do we integrate nature, our own, and what we see with this on-line world we share? I have no answers but I know that my insides are tender today, tender with memory, longing, and a need to understand when and how we attach, and when and how we let go. Peace. May every step of mine be peace, every breath.