f.8 the fluidity of memories
memories
One day a couple of weeks ago I was driving down a road I’ve travelled often in life. It’s not a highway, but it’s a thoroughfare through the city in which I grew up and live. It’s only a couple of blocks from my parents’ house, it goes past both my elementary and junior high schools, and I can see several friends’ parents’ houses just looking down side streets as I drive past them.
It doesn’t take much effort for me to slip into the past and remember all of fond, humorous, and sometimes crazy things that I did growing up. In high school we drove past another friend’s house, rolled down the windows, and screamed unintelligibly at all hours of the night. (I’ve no idea why, but it was fun, regardless) Down another road is another house, wherein I spent a good number of hours playing games with friends. That house is now owned by strangers, my friend’s parents are both dead, and her family dispersed. But when I look at that house, I’m sixteen years old again in my mind. I can see the cars that were then parked in the driveway, and the colors of the house change to what they were when I often visited it, not what they are today.
In that nanosecond of visiting the past, I remember all of the happiness that happened in my life in that nexus, and then I blink, and I’m back in the present. This happens to me often as I grow older, I’ve found. People move, people change, and people die: such is the condition of being human. But our memories are our most precious commodity. Some argue that we’re all different people because of our DNA, and I won’t dispute that assertion. But while that separates us physiologically, even people with identical DNA (twins, for example) are different people. The differences that matter are in the things that happened to us throughout life, and these things we store as memories.
Like everything, not all memories are good ones. But, with a little bit of discipline, we can control our memories to an extent. Under no circumstances do I wish anyone to excise or attempt to exorcise a memory: painful as they may be, they define who we are and how we’ve become what we are. If we cut out the adversities we’ve faced in life, we are left with hollow shells that have learned nothing of merit.
The image I selected to represent this posting is the linear path of life intersecting with the exposure of a memory. That memory can be expressed in a myriad of ways, but I’ve found that the lenses through which they are the happiest memories, or the ones where in we learned something valuable are the best to use. Darkness and sadness abound, and we cannot avoid them entirely, but with our memories, we can hearken back to the happy times in our lives, and in doing so, make our own days a bit brighter, smiling and fond things remembered.
—memoria est fluidum —
f.7 the fluidity of measuring a life
aunt jean
Life is truly a precious thing; once taken away it can never be given back. We spend our lives analyzing life, pursuing “living,” and trying to understand (and largely avoid) death. Invariably, we all lose at living and we begin dying. What, then, is the difference between living and dying? Death.
March 28, 2014: a Friday. June 3, 1927: also, a Friday. Looked at differently, it is a span of…
- 2,739,830,400 seconds
- 45,663,840 minutes
- 761,064 hours
- 31,711 days
- 4,530 weeks
…or 86 years, 9 months, and 26 days. This is the numerical representation of my Aunt Jean’s life. To some that is a very long time whereas to others, it is still too short. How, then, do we measure a life as great as was hers? To steal from Rent, we measure it in love.
My aunt Jean was an amazing woman, and she cannot and will never be summed up in a blog posting. Like all people, she suffered personal tragedies and had great joys in her life. Her children, my cousins Michael, Mary Beth, Danny, Bobby, and Jimmy were unquestionably here proudest accomplishments.
My Uncle Jim, her husband, died 29 years, 1 month, and 14 days after they were married. She was widowed for 32 years, 9 months, and six days. She was a mother for 60 years, 11 months, and 27 days. During all of this, she exhibited unconditional love through the good and the bad. She understood that our legacy was not in words, but in deeds, and her greatest accomplishment was her love of others.
My aunt Jean had many ways of counting her love. Amongst them she was:
- Second eldest daughter and child, of nine siblings
- Mother of five children
- Grandmother of 9 grandchildren
- Aunt to 29 nieces and nephews
She was a cook of legendary quality, the true Italian kind to be certain. Meals were prepared largely, served with extra portions, and one never left her table hungry. She had nicknames for many of her family members, and all of them were given in a combination of love and humor. Even though her given name was Elizabeth, everyone called her “Jean” with various prefixes as appropriate.
Some would say that her life ended on March 28, 2014: I would say that she remains living inside of the remaining six children, 32 grandchildren, and countless great-grandchildren of her own parents, in her children and their spouses, her own grandchildren, and in all of the lives she touched. When I think of her, I will do so by reflecting on all of the amazing moments she provided to me during my life, and of the lessons she taught me along the way.
Now her spirit is free to roam, unhindered by the bonds of age. She rejoins her parents, younger brother Steve, older sister Rose, and at last, her loving husband Jim. A new star has been added to the sky and shines down upon us all, and for this, I am grateful.
—eternus pacis quod gaudium, martera jean—
Elizabeth Jean Cardille Wilson
June 3, 1927 – March 28, 2014
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