reddirtlattes/ March 19, 2018/ Gulf Islands, Canada/ 5 comments



My son and I found this piece of bark on one of our long beach walks. It is completely whole, round, having fallen off and come apart from a tree without breaking. I imagine the log tossed in waves, smashed against rocks, water massaging and tearing at the bark little by little until it unhinged itself and floated back to shore. 

I’ve been thinking a good deal about memories now that the time for our next move is coming nearer and nearer. How we always have to start over, reinvent, find our footing, find our lives again and again and again. How this island that has been a stadium cry will become but a whisper. 

Moving from country to country, continent to continent, I have memories that have left me, others that have burrowed into my skin. I have felt like I was shedding each time, with each move, letting go of yet more things, saying goodbye to smiles that have touched my heart, and wanting so much to carry some of what I found with me, to not forget. 

Maybe it’s not a shedding we do when we choose to let go of something or have something taken from our hands.  Maybe the things we take off from, the people we leave behind, the lives we turn away from, the things lost, stolen, found are still there in the ocean of our life completely whole, surrounding us closer than we think, waiting for us to gather them up, piece by piece, slide ourselves right back inside of them. 

Maybe, even if we don’t find them again, it’s enough to know they are still there, floating by, perhaps to even catch a glimpse of, so that we can smile and wave and say, oh yes, I remember that so well. 

“But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long.”  –Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping

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  1. Nicely written… Time, the symphony of its movement in which we mortal things must endure… as we are fleeting so unto our time, these things become dust, for what frail fragments are these vestals within our mind, to be so firmament in the beginning, but then to be so lost upon its chord, like a final note struck, we are but an instrument in a greater design.

    Ominous and a chilling poem
    Neurons… but when we get right into it, we are something else, and that something is even more strange; and as we delve deeper into the construct in which holds us, it is more perplexing; we are the animus (animated matter: use) of the inanimate. We are the play to an audience we cannot see, we are simply the rain drops in front of a window for viewing, yet who views us, beyond the veil. Each drop has its time, before its caught into this ethereal web. We are simply held in a crucible, that has never let us go, and is ever enduring, and without end. It never touches us, but crafted us, in it a space in which all have convened… for its part… What did we really do, in this first venture, are we but marionettes in this construct? Memories…

    1. James, if you find the answer please let me know.

  2. Sabrina- this is absolutely beautiful! Your words feel like they wrap around my heart.

  3. We are the sum of all our memories. Time and place. Time is always fleeting. Never stops, only slows allowing us to catch our breath. Place, that way station allowing us to exhale preparing us for the next stop along our eternal path. When we arrive, where? When? Why? What the ……..! Whoa. Whew!!

    Time to go. The clock’s always ticking. Never stops. Ever wonder what happens to the time lost or gained by Daylight Savings Time? Where, when, why? Is it saved, is it spent, Does it have a memory?

    Is memory all we really have? Is it really real? Does it change with the passage of time? Is it worthy of our time? Is memory a waste of our time? Is memory time well spent?

    Memory and Time. This is all we have. This is all we will be. We can’t touch it. We can’t see it. We can’t control or shape it. We can’t or can we? Whoa. Whew!!

    1. Yes, whoa and whew!

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