Made of Memory

I’m not the person I was ten years ago, yet somehow I feel like I haven’t changed.

My attention ruminates on this thought as I look at my friend who is perched upon the rocky bank of a creekside. The endless stream of water carves its way through ridges of compacted dirt and lush greenery with a gentle yet deliberate progression; its flow imposing itself and forging the in-discernibly slow transformation of everything in its path. Interwoven through the banks are reclining roots which appear to emerge for air before forcefully descending back into the earth. Their firm grasp supports the branches and leaves of the creek’s neighboring trees which clamor over the higher ledges as if to reach toward the water for a drink. Yet while they grasp for nourishment below, they concurrently appear to posture themselves toward the sky in an attempt to be satiated by the sun’s warm embrace. Our environment is kissed by this late morning star - radiating directionally but not yet revealing the totality of its afternoon prowess. It filters through the canopies which render luminous rays that pierce the atmosphere and cause the unfolding of distorted shadows across the earth. The light dances off the water’s surface in a rhythmic play of sparkling reflections and refractions while the stream’s audible emanations tickle my ears most reassuringly. They are not quite lively enough to be playful, nor still enough to be somber; but rather serene in their persistence and familiarity. As the water speaks to me in this soft voice, it also blankets and conforms around a scattering of large round rocks - strewn about in a sort of randomness but still resembling a structured bridge connecting the dry land.

My friend’s gaze remains fixed ahead. There is a tangible confidence beginning to manifest as his eyebrows scrunch together, combining their strength to pull the thought just idling behind them in his head. Despite the effort to articulate whatever mental form happens to be passing through, he remains quiet. Instead, his hand grasps a small flat rock sitting adjacent to the bent foot of his squatted posture. With a swift backhanded flick of the wrist, he tosses the piece of earth in a low trajectory toward the stream. We stare intently at the cascading ripples of each brief impact upon the water’s surface as it skips across to the other side. My attention is drawn to their outward expansion, merging and interfering with each other as their collisions render new formations – ones that still mirror its parents in shape and direction, though quickly dissipating and soon lost in the current moving downstream. He looks back down and continues to scan the ground for other suitable candidates. I begin to follow suit, though it’s not long before my attention is drawn away by the environment once again narrating its story. Like a breath being exhaled from the lungs of the earth, I feel a breeze suddenly disrupt the stillness of the air. The canopies of nearby aspens are made alive as they majestically dance with the wind. I can see the tips of the highest branches almost swirling - gesticulating with the breath that simultaneously draws them toward the trunk that grounds them and the sky which beckons them. I breathe in response - my shoulders rise and fall as my abdomen expands and contracts. My lungs become full with the outside world and release the world inside of me, allowing the two to intermingle in an inseparable unity. The breeze reciprocates once more, though it remains unseen and becomes known only through its interactions with the environment. As the trees continue their dance, I also feel the tactile sensation of the same air elevating the hairs on my skin. Downstream is the low but audible sound of wind chimes harmonizing against the percussion of creaking limbs and brushing leaves. There is a deep emotion which physically manifests in my stomach and heart as I contemplate the memories ignited by their song. While out of sight, I immediately know the house they reside at as well as who they draw to the forefront of my consciousness. It’s difficult to tell just what feeling has captivated me as it is something of a sorrow and longing paradoxically nested within an even greater sense of peace.

As my attention once more shifts from my mind’s portrait to the external canvas before me, the increased wind draws my gaze to the sky beyond our babbling brook. Distinguishable on the horizon are the clouds I’ve seen so many summers before. They posture themselves soft and tall, filtering whatever sunshine is able to escape through their round feathered edges. In its desire to reach the landscape below, the light stretches out in a beam of golden radiance. I can’t help but think that this ray wants to indicate that it is but a narrow sampling of a much more powerful light; one known, but not perceived directly; a light which will some day break through. Underneath the clouds, however, is darkness. Such permeates the flat bottom of these crowns, commandeering the horizon and underscoring the billowing wisps emanating overhead. There is a familiar anticipation welling up inside my core as I know exactly how this story plays out. Ominous but not wholly foreboding, this face of the clouds cues me in that the darkness will soon cease its life as a potential on the horizon and become a localised reality. It won’t be long before it consumes the sky overhead while releasing itself in a violent fit upon the earth. Despite such chaos, however; I know the beauty to come in the subsequent dispersion of clouds and renewal of the earth. It’s as if these ornaments will pour themselves out not merely to fill the creek, but rather to become the creek. The cyclical narrative they relay, as well as their very existence, is certainly nothing more than water having a relationship with itself; an interaction which will call forth the earth’s mycelium to peek its fruiting heads above the ground to survey the land it has been so diligently recycling.

I close my eyes and feel the first small drops of moisture descend upon my forearm. It migrates down the skin where I feel the contact yet cannot tell quite where the water ends and where I begin. I look over to my friend once more and notice that he is just as still as I. We find ourselves immersed in this moment together, experiencing a common essence through our divergent frames and both carrying the understanding that we’ll soon be off again on our separate paths. This moment it seems is very much akin to the stream, having no clear beginning and no perceivable ending; an immeasurable portion of time prescribed with an identity - dissipating slowly - flowing like the current and transforming like the world it touches. And just as soon as the moment is upon us, it also passes by and becomes no more than a memory. Of course there would be no memory without one to remember, and there would be no one to remember without a memory - so maybe in the end we are all just made of memory and memory made of us.