What Are You Remembering?

On my stove the kettle whistles and suddenly I see my grandmother’s face in her tiny kitchen. A small, veined hand grasps the hot handle of an old teakettle. Grandmother is making cinnamon tea. She looks out the small window. Above the horizon, a blue mist, small and noisy songbirds. Her face turns to me.

Do dreams flow from memories or do memories become dreams? What are you remembering?

Certain images keep floating in my head and sometimes surprise me when I least suspect. Perhaps only a scrap or fragment of a long held dream resonates, but its incompleteness stirs a longing. I follow it. Maybe the inspiration is an aroma—Old Spice, a horse barn—or the prettyprettypretty sounds of a happy cardinal. Today the inspiration is a treasured photo–a black and white of Grandmother in her kitchen. Then, the whole story comes into focus.

Every year after I could walk, I spent two to three weeks in the summers on my grandparents’ farm.  A two-bedroom bungalow with a screened in sagging porch was their humble home. Two big fir trees stood as towering sentries in the front yard. All manner of wildlife homesteaded there—red squirrels, one lonely hoot owl, starlings, goldfinches, and grackles. On clear days, I would climb to the top of the tree and scout the horizon. Once, I saw a red-tailed hawk looking for mice in the cornfield—and getting one—before flapping away to the woods.   

Memory carries a strong emotional kick like walking past a playground and suddenly you’re mad again chasing Greg, the fourth grade bully, all over the school yard. These experiences are part of who we are, still inhabiting us sometimes like a summer cold that won’t go away. Experiences that are inside us beg to be freed. Remembering them can be a triumph or a challenge. What are you remembering?

Few rules existed at my grandparents’ house. Until sixth grade, Grandma let me run around without a shirt as long as Grandpa and Uncle Jim were in the field. Divine pleasures. I could eat as many Washington cherries as I wanted from the two trees in the back orchard. My fingers stained bright red. The hay loft was my secret place and it was there I became a little headstrong. No one climbed the ladder to the loft without my permission. Of course not many people asked, but I was always ready waiting for a special knock or the magic word for them to enter.

What are you remembering?

Writing/Creative Exercise:

1. Write or create about a treasured object. Take a walk through your house or, perhaps, in your yard. Reflect on two or three objects that you love. For each, consider the history, who gave it to you, what it means to you. Consider its shape, color or place where it belongs. Then, select one that is the most evocative and express your creativity through painting, photography or whatever stirs you.
2. Read Photo Album by Meenakski Iyer https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1187839/photo-album/Everyone has certain images that keep floating in their heads. How do we prime these and let them reveal themselves? Begin by scanning through an old photo album of people in your lives. What did they mean to you, to another? What were some of the special stories about them? What do you remember? Select two or three that resonates with you. Choose one. Consider using this line as a starter sentence: It was a day I’ll never forget or She/he had a face of _______. If you’d rather, choose a line that works for you. Then write, repeating the line several times throughout your poem or prose.

For more inspiration, check out our website www.thewritingandcreativelife.com.Or follow this link to purchase our latest book, The Fire Inside.