I like to write. I still write on non electronic wood based paper as a first preference, and it is the river of the flowing emotional memories stirred up by living, transmitted through my fingertips with a slight bit of force to a keyboard. I have bottled written thoughts on paper…. pieces of time in large envelopes sectioned off by units of time. This has been occurring since 1993. What was the catalyst for this decision? I do not know. However, I do know the result of this decision.
I like to think of my writings as contained in a year. My year is not marked by the bookends of the bitter times of the calendar, January 1st to December 31st. My writing year begins in September and concludes in August. It has always been this way. The oncoming breeze of fall in September as the whisper of arctic chill and diminishing sun begin to turn the trees a splendor. Through the dead cold of November, the magical Christmas blanket of white in December…..through the melting snow and ice of March as the green of April gives way to renewed hope and dreams seemingly as real as a summer thunderstorm.
Each envelope when opened is a telling tale of what my life was like, what my fears were, and what made me feel wonderful. The picture of a bright spring day in 1999 rises like a Phoenix and is instantly recalled. The feelings are remembered. People long forgotten are remembered. Heartbreak wanted so badly to forget, hits for a moment like a needle. Reminding me of lessons learned and not. It all comes back.
I find that as much as I think I know why I am who I am today, any reading of articles in whichever envelope time will rekindle emotions so strong that the present, feels like the past.