What Do You Remember?
Someone recently asked me a very serious question about looking backward in my life. They asked me.... "What do you actually remember?" I immediately opened my mouth to tell them I remembered everything, but then I paused. I considered the flood of memories that came pouring over me. And I gave her question some serious thought.
If you look back over your life and really 'see' what you are remembering, you'll notice a few things stand out. For me, people and personalities stand out. Those sharp moments of laughter or fleeting joy that flood you when you are in the presence of folks you love.
Animals stand out to me. I can remember every dog, cat, and horse I've ever been blessed to have in my life. I remember how they sound, look, smell... the feelings they generated in me when i was near them.
Places stand out to me as well. I can immediately picture looking out over Dead Horse Point in Canyonlands National Park or staring at the stars in Panama while listening to the ocean compete for being heard over the sounds of land crabs fighting battles.
I remember my first kiss with a boy in Montana on the lawn of a Mansion that was hauled up a hill to be restored after we walked all the way up there and it got dark. The stars were unreal in Montana. They are even brighter there than in the tropics.
I remember the smell of rain after its been hot for a long time. I remember the taste of my skin after I've been swimming in the ocean. I used to look forward to licking the salt off my lips right after a fresh swim.
What I don't remember so well is the overall story of my life. It is virtually meaningless, really... maybe because I made no waves and published no post-grad papers. I remember the first day Miz was up and running and I will undoubtedly remember the last day when it comes... if it comes in my lifetime.
Think about it? I remember that butterfly or bee that perched on my wrist for ten whole minutes while I admired its beauty. I remember that strange call in the dark of the night out in the middle of the woods that you couldn't attribute to anything but reverberated through you so you know it was real.
I remember the first time I galloped on a horse and how afraid I was and then how thrilled I was and how I couldn't stop. All we wanted to do, that horse and I, was run the rest of the day. We were at Bumping Lake, part of the Alpine Lakes National Wilderness. I remember galloping across bare pastures up there that thumped like drums under my horses' hooves because they were old filled-in lakes. It was magical.
Thinking back on college, I remember so little of it other than those sweet spots.... drift netting fish in the Clarkfork river, visiting the national bison range, getting a rattlesnake caught in my boot. I can't tell you what it was like to sit in a classroom day after day, but I can remember every detail of managing the mammal museum and bug processing lab and the little mental breakdown that happened there. I remember sitting in the greenhouse at midnight and thinking how big the world was.
I remember meeting other witches, and that one time and elder read not my tarot, nor my palms, but he read the iris' in my eyes and told me that I was tied to Copper and it was my element more than anything else that ever existed. And I smile when I think of meeting David Zyla, a very famous stylist, and getting my colors done and him telling me I was a Copper Autumn.
When I was young I used to speak to plants and animals and they'd talk back to me. I'd whisper to the wind and it would whisper back at me. I could physically hear voices in my mind that had nothing to do with mental illness. And later, a Flathead Indian Shaman told me at the Ki Pow in Missoula after we'd danced half the day that I had a medicine ear. Can I see spooks and ghosts? No. Can I witness the unthinkable? No. But I can hear them when I am listening and can communicate. Born to the Bannock Shoshone tribe, and raised Pagan, I was told every child had three gifts. Hearing, otherwise known as a Medicine Ear, was one of mine. I have two others and I remember discovering them as if it happened five minutes ago.
I don't remember my birth. Who cares? My first real memory was of peddling a bike with training wheels oh so far from home and a lightning storm struck. I was so scared, but I kept peddling and made it to safety. Years ago, I asked my Grandmother about the incident. She said I was four... had stolen my brother's black BMX and was peddling about three houses down the street at a visit to my mom.... and that I turned around and returned his bike in tears so terribly frightened that he had summoned the storm. Three... houses... away... my memory is wrong because I was miles away and so very scared and alone and I just peddled and peddled and peddled.
So, you've made it this far in this scrap... either through sheer curiosity or dumb boredom and I bet you are wondering why I'm writing this scrap?
I had to go on and on about what we remember to make a point. And that point is about what we remember when we write on Miz.
I don't remember the big overarching plots. I don't remember the deep core drive that made my PC do this or do that. Not really. I mean I can talk about them if someone asks, and I generally am sure why things are ... but when I think of Miz, I think of the little moments. I think of the laughter and the interaction. I think of first-held hands and meetings in the wild. I think of Shiresses' 101 reactions to Shade being mean IC. I think of Tazrae interacting with the Ixam and how she trusts them more than people... a hundred little incidents of that. I think of all the scene setting some people achieve, writing circles around a setting like a painter vividly splashing paint on a wall to form an instant mural so you know exactly where you stand in the setting.
I remember the mean things too. The little in-character and out-of-character slights and the snubs. I remember how people act, react, and all the broken promises. I can 'hear' the truth or the falsehood in the typing when people lie... especially to themselves. I think it's one of the meanest things you can actually do... is lie to yourself. That's especially true if you know deep down that something is true but you won't acknowledge it.
People sweat the big picture and want a big scene. But the gift of Miz is in the little scenes, those irreplaceable moments that come so fleetingly yet become so important to us all. I challenge all of you with scraps... to write about what you remember when you write on Miz. What draws you in? What aspects of other people's stories do you remember the most? Are you like me? Or are you walking a different path. I'd like to know.
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