Every Friday, there will be a prompt to lead us to the weekend. I would love to see your responses or thoughts about process in the comments. Or, even better? Leave us a link to your own blog and response there!
I challenge you to sit, breathing just like you do, and just see the world around you. Just a few minutes, a few breaths. Then, set a timer or page limit (for however long you want), and WRITE! Just put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard). Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just ground yourself in the prompt. Come back to it if you need to. But, for all that is good in this world, tell us your story.
This week’s prompt was inspired by the fact I feel like I’m not remembering a lot of things that need to be happening – just small things. But, the I remember/I don’t remember is also an old standby of a prompt that always brings up interesting things!
I set the timer for 10 minutes.
I remember the cool of the autumn, the crunch of leaves. I don’t remember when my love of summer shifted from the rays of sun to the winds of in between. I remember the list of to dos, but don’t remember to add everything on there. My memories float in and out of my day and I creep along, wondering if any will be surprises. I remember what the table was where we had that incredible conversation over a late dinner, but not really what we were watching when I asked the question that changed everything. I remember the feelings of camaraderie and I remember the joy of feeling like I had a place. I don’t remember when that changed. And I remember to call on practice in these moments. I remember that memory is difficult some days and I remember that “I don’t remember” and “I forgot” and “I don’t know” are all different.
I want to explore the nooks and crannies of memory, want to see where it takes me, drive the roads of my memory, the gray matter and synapses and the neurological stuff that colors and transmits previous experience to the here and now memory of it. What do I remember? What don’t I remember? How does that map look in my brain and how does it play out on the skin of this body?
The scars and tattoos tell a tale of survival of thriving of love and of loss. I’ve sketched out a map in words, but the words aren’t the texture of 3/4 of life in school, with a certain place and role. Words aren’t the feeling of being in this body that I’ve hated and still work to try to love. Words aren’t necessarily equivalent to the memory of remembrance but they are the closest thing I have to reach out and share what lights up neurons and fires the cylinders of brain power, of memory of what has created this woman in front of you.
Who does that make me?
And in my memories of you, what I (don’t) remember shapes you and who does it make you? I can’t be certain that that’s who are you, or even were.