"What you remember is a part of you."
I'm not a big fan of Wayne Dyer. Some of the things he writes make me want to smack him. So does his butterfly-holding picture on the cover of the book from which I took this quote.
But he also said, "Every memory I have is me...We each have the power to retrieve any piece of ourselves that we desire, and to experience it right here, right now, in this present moment."
Well, Dr. Dyer, I do take comfort in that. You see, I've always thought that was true. I was deeply disturbed, many years ago, when a friend pointed out to me that if I couldn't remember something, then it was as if it had never happened -- and even more disturbed when he argued with me that there were, indeed, things in my life that I didn't remember. I feel differently now, but at the time -- I was 23 or 24 -- I swore that I remembered every single moment I'd ever been in!
Of course there are things I've forgotten. I've forgotten where I put my red ballet flats -- the soft leather ones that fold up and fit into a little mesh bag. I've forgotten where I laid my tweezers -- the ones that belonged to my mom, the only ones I've ever had that worked worth a damn. Why, just today, I forgot twelve different things (at least) that I wanted to tell my daughter.
But other things -- the things I think Dr. Dyer is referring to, I remember oh, so well. Things like the Christmases of my childhood...
I remember Christmas Eve day being the longest day of the year, as we tried to keep busy and quit bugging Mom, as she kept suggesting we do. I remember eating dinner perched on the edge of my seat with butterflies in my belly because right after dinner, it would be bath time, followed by the sit-around-the-tree-and-open-one-present ritual. That Christmas Eve present was always new pajamas.
I remember trying to go to sleep in those new pajamas. I always shared a room with at least one of my sisters. We were able to share our visions of sugar plums long into the night.
I remember one Christmas Eve, miraculously having fallen asleep, waking up to the sound of banging and (gasp!) cussing in the kitchen. I was stopped at the kitchen door by my mom, who explained that Dad was a little upset with Santa, because Santa had just dropped some stuff off and asked Dad to put it together himself.
I remember Christmas mornings, being told to sit nicely and wait as presents were doled out one at a time. (With five kids, it must have been nearly impossible to maintain control, but Mom did a far better job of it than I've ever been able to!)
I remember going to church -- were we really there for four or five hours -- and then another six hours or so to get to Grandma and Grandpa's...Okay, I'm exaggerating, but do you get my point?
The picture above was taken at my Grandma and Grandpa Borg's house. My mom's parents. They lived in Garden City, about 70 miles from us. We gathered there every Christmas, along with all my aunts, uncles and cousins. Grandpa had a great basement, with long tables covered with white cloths. There was tons of delicious food, and the kids were given a lot of lee way during dinner.
Recently, my cousin, Rod, unearthed a trove of photos from these gatherings over the years and shared them on facebook. Here we all are in 1962...
and again in 1971...
Seeing these faces as we morphed from toddlers to young adults has allowed me to retrieve, if not the actual experience, then the memories of all of those childhood Christmases, and to realize how much a part of me they are. They are mine, they are me, and I am me because of those times with my family. That makes me feel happy and loved and part of something truly wonderful.
A dear friend wished me a Childhood Christmas this year. She couldn't have wished me anything better. I wish everyone the same!
