CHASING DOWN THE MUSE: Remembrances of a summer gone by

“Our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.” – Richard Brinsley Sheridan

What do we do with our memories once they arise?

Even in the flurry of summer’s end it has been a week of remembrances. Unbeckoned memories — welcome and unwelcome ones alike — sneak into the room of my mind as I go about establishing the autumn’s routine.

End of summer in Laguna brought a lessening of traffic woes and a return to what we call normalcy here. The festivals were all closed down. No more trams plied the streets. (The memory of riding them rushes in as I write this. I kinda miss them — the wind in my face; the chatter of excited strangers coming to town, sharing their stories.) Laguna politics and concerns move to the fore. Life goes on.

End of summer at our house brought a visit from daughter Kendall and her family from New York City. It was a busy rush of visiting friends in town for the Labor Day holiday. Seeing Kate and Abby and Grant and Kendall as parents together was quite a treat. Memories of younger versions of them in the same place wove with the new small faces of their sons, creating an interesting collage effect in my mind. Now they have all returned to their various homes and I return to my pre-autumn cleaning and clearing.

Packing away art unsold at the summer’s Sawdust Art Festival — clearing my work space — leaves my mind free to wander and wander it does. I hear the patter of bare child feet on the floor and a call of “Ga-ma, Ga-ma” with all its inherent urgency.

Our grandson, Christian, at 19 months, is experimenting with the power that language seems to have given him. “Cayon … Draw!” means right now we must sit at my desk with papers and pens and crayons. I think, “Why not?” and move to comply. What could possibly be more important than sharing this moment with him? This is the creating of new memories.

Sons, like my Christian’s namesake, lose their lives valiantly striving to save those of others. Accidents, floods, fire, senseless shootings, terrorism, wars, random acts, disease … so many sons and daughters are lost, leaving only memories and overwhelming sadness.

I am reminded of the words — recently repeated by his widow at a memorial on 9/11 — of a man on one of the planes that crashed: “We are going to do something.” His wife repeated the words: “Do something.” The repeated words linger in my mind. Yes, we can all do something, even if it is simply to reach out to those in pain, to show up and listen, to honor in memory those fallen or whose lives have been so dramatically altered.

At the same time we can celebrate life and the gift of the present, the hope for the future. We can help those who have suffered these losses to do the same. Memories are important, but they must not become a shroud that enfolds us and keeps us from living lives of promise.

Months ago, I wrote down these words from the book “Feather Crowns” by Bobbie Ann Mason and they seem to apply here. “...but I don’t aim to live out my days all hunched up over my memories. I want to watch the sun come up … see a flock of blackbirds whirl … making music.”

Samuel Johnson said that the true art of memory is the art of attention. Attending to the memories — both good and bad — and honoring the memory of those lost, while at the same time counting our blessings is a tall order. Memories come in all shapes and sizes. Memories are joy-filled and sorrowful.

Memories are of love and of loss. They will come unbidden at the oddest of times. It is up to each of us to attend to them and then to move on, creating new memories as we go.