memory – Page 11 – In the Woods

strawberry fields

Wondering Rose, this post is for you! I remember when someone visiting the museum where you work asked, “Where’s the museum?” even though he was already in the museum. I was sympathetic to the poor man as it is usually me who gets confused when overwhelmed by crowds, but when we visited our daughter and her boyfriend in New York over the weekend it was my husband who wasn’t keeping up with our guides for the day.

I wanted to see Strawberry Fields, a garden in Central Park that is dedicated to the memory of musician John Lennon. Larisa & Dima led the way into the garden from our first subway stop and there were plenty of signs indicating that we were indeed at the memorial. But Tim was lagging behind and decided to ask a busy gardener, “Where is Strawberry Fields?”

“Never heard of it,” the gardener replied, smiling. But then he pointed over to where Larisa & Dima were standing, a few feet away. It made me wonder how often the good-natured gardener (above photo) has to field such questions! It’s all right, though, the snowdrops surrounding the Cornelian cherry tree (below) seem to be confused as well. They do not usually come up until near the end of February, but our winter has been so mild who could blame them for thinking spring is on the way?

photos by Timothy Rodgers

by moonlight harder still

biggest, brightest full moon of 2008
12.12.08 ~ Groton, Connecticut

Should at that moment the full moon
Step forth upon the hill,
And memories hard to bear at noon,
By moonlight harder still,
Form in the shadows of the trees, –
Things that you could not spare
And live, or so you thought, yet these
All gone, and you still there,
A man no longer what he was,
Not yet the thing he planned…
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
(Wine from These Grapes)

memory is fragile

"Reading Woman" by August Macke — “Reading Woman” by August Macke

At times I feel as if I had lived all this before and that I have already written these very words, but I know it was not I: it was another woman, who kept her notebooks so that one day I could use them. I write, she wrote, that memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously. … That’s why my Grandmother Clara wrote in her notebooks, in order to see things in their true dimension and to defy her own poor memory.
~ Isabel Allende
(The House of the Spirits)

sea love

May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours. And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life.
~ John O’Donohue
(Echoes of Memory)

The use of this digital painting is a gift from Val Erde. Thanks ever so much, Val!

memory and logic

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Arthur Rackham — “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” by Arthur Rackham

It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.
~ Lewis Carroll
(Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.
~ Lewis Carroll
(Through the Looking Glass)

the chestnut tree

lower branches of Dad’s chestnut tree in his garden ~ 6.21.09 ~ Storrs, Connecticut

“We lost the chestnut tree.”

My sister delivered the most important news first. On Sunday we had last talked on our cell phones, and she let me know then that they had lost power at our father’s house, courtesy of the freak Halloween Nor’easter that caught Connecticut by surprise this past weekend, dumping over a foot of heavy wet snow on most of the state. Dad had a cold, and they had the wood stove going trying to keep him warm. Then her cell phone went dead and I heard nothing further.

This afternoon, two days later, she finally was able to make it down to her office and call me from work. They have their power back now, but still no land line or cell phone service. Beverly says I won’t believe the damage up there, although I am seeing many news reports on TV. Apparently the state lost more trees in this storm than we did during Hurricane Irene. With the wood stove they were able to keep Dad’s room at 70°F (21°C), although like many elderly ones, he doesn’t feel comfortable until the temperature is about 80°F (27°C).

When my father was a young man – he is now 89 years old – he found the chestnut sapling in Pennsylvania and brought it home with him, transplanted it in Connecticut soil, and nurtured it to a full-grown, gorgeous tree. When his short-term memory started disappearing several years ago, he would tell me the story over and over, every time I went up for a visit, which used to be several times a week. He looked forward to seeing it outside his window every morning, and was very attached to it, his special tree.

In June of 2010 it bloomed! A lovely scent filled the air. I’ll never forget it.

We used to decorate it with flower garlands for Midsummer.

And now the Halloween Nor’easter of 2011 has uprooted it. Beverly reports that when Dad discovered what had happened he simply said, “This is demoralizing.” I cried when she told me. The storm also took the tops off several oak trees and the yard and the roads are a mess. Poor trees. They’ve taken such a beating this year…

pomegranate seeds and stories

"Persephone" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti — “Persephone” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

We have all of us eaten the pomegranate seed of language, and we are its Persephones in its ways of structuring our experience of ourselves and the world.
~ John Moriarty
(Turtle Was Gone a Long Time)

They weren’t true stories; they were better than that.
~ Alice Hoffman
(The Story Sisters)

Memory is the way we keep telling ourselves our stories – and telling other people a somewhat different version of our stories. We can hardly manage our lives without a powerful on-going narrative.
~ Alice Munro
(Sport & Memory in North America)

The world is shaped by two things – stories told and the memories they leave behind.
~ Vera Nazarian
(Dreams of the Compass Rose)

mother and child

mourning dove family by Watching Seasons

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Many thanks to Tracy at Seasons Flow, for permission to use the above photograph, found on the Late Nesters post of October 1, 2001. When I first saw this touching picture of a mother mourning dove and her squab it warmed my heart and filled me with joy. Today I have a perfect opportunity to use it – in memory of my mother, who would have been eighty years old today. I miss her still.

The vegan adventure continues, although it’s been challenging not being able to chop vegetables or lift heavy pots and pans while my hand is on the mend. And it turns out that I also cracked a rib when I fell two weeks ago… (Finally decided to check things out with a doctor.) Six more weeks expected for everything to heal…

We had an encouraging surprise from Tim’s brother, the one who just had a heart attack in September. After doing some of his own research he’s also decided to become a vegetarian, so we may get a meat-free Thanksgiving after all!

And this weekend we found a local Asian cuisine restaurant. Tim had the Vegetable Delight with steamed tofu, and he ate it, all of it. I wasn’t sure I could believe my eyes!

harvest moon

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

~ Carl Sandburg
(Under the Harvest Moon)