Lately I find myself reflecting upon memory and it’s relationship with time, pain and recovering a sense of place in the world.

Memory can sometimes spark moments of grief for a life long gone, particularly when all I recall are small glimpses, fragments of image, as though my life has been suspended in time rather than fluid and present.

Often memory evokes a sense of feeling rather than seeing, placing my past just outside my reach. How important is memory in recovering a sense of identity, in knowing Self and understanding why it is we do the things we do, the way we do them.

It seems memory may have an agenda of its own, for on it’s own accord, it has worked it’s benevolent way into the creative non-fiction work that has my attention and devotion at present.

I cannot ‘will’ a memory to life, only glimpses of it appear. And yet a place, smell or sound can open flood gates and I am dowsed with image, impression and feeling that reveals lapses of recorded time – events that have shaped and molded my persona.

I cannot block memory, yet memory can block itself from me – it’s stealth like rudder guiding my life course. The duality of memory can render me powerful and productive or usher destructive thoughts of fear.

And what of collective memory? To what effect does this have on my sense of space, place and achievement in the world?

My confidence, decisions and fears are all born out of memory: unconscious recordings of time that silently determine the choices I make in life.

My unspoken history is locked in memory, it’s my dreamtime. Memory is who I am.

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Contemplating memory has awakened a new sense of passion for me, one that requires an approach of observation. Zen masters remind us that life should always be approached with a ‘beginner’s mind’. For only a beginners mind is open to discovering all possibilities.

If this were my first or last week of life what would I notice most about my world? In the quiet hours what would I most wish to commit to memory?

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

William Stafford