Image by Bob AuBuchon via Flickr
Early this morning, as I opened the Harry Potter book that I was re-reading, I discovered two pressed flowers–one a ranunculus and the other, a petite red rose. From their condition, it is obvious, that I’d placed them there some time ago. After appreciating their beauty, I began wracking my brain to recall the circumstances that led me to place these flowers in this book. When? Why?
I have purchased hundreds of flowers over the past years, and there was some reason that I pressed and saved these particular flowers. Perhaps they were especially beautiful; perhaps they held some special meaning to me. What is it? Where is it? I can not remember. Is the memory buried so deep in my subconscious mind that I cannot easily extract it, or is it, as I fear, that the memory is gone, a long, lost memory, never to be remembered, that special meaning forever lost? Gone to rest where all lost memories go.
I was lost in thought thinking about my life and all of the things that I have done, and people that I have met, knowing that some of these memories are forever lost to me. It saddens me to know that there will come a time when my future self may forget the import and significance of any number of today’s meaningful moments. This is further punctuated by the fact that I have holding over my head, testing to determine whether my “memory issues” are due to the medications that I take for my chronic pain condition, or something much more sinister. Although the testing still scares me a bit, my faith allows me to feel somewhat positive about the outcome, whatever that may be.
The happenings of my life, big, small and seemingly insignificant, form my memories. Those memories remind me of the trials, tribulations and circuitous routes that I have taken to become the person that I am now, as well as the person that I will become. They comprise the sum of who I am and I don’t want to forget them. If I do, I lose bits and pieces of me.
Over my lifetime, I have journaled intermittently, but consistently for more than ten years. Within a matter of hours, my journal has grown from one of those things that “I should do” to something that “I must do.” It is now my historical record of the sweet, special and important memories in my life, so that in the future, I won’t be mourning the loss of a long lost memory. It will have to do.
Blessings and peace,