In The Day After Opposite Day, Pt. 1, I shared my revelation that I was in desperate need of a new lifestyle—one that was active and full of new stimulations. It was easy for me to fall into lazy habits when I moved to a new city. Honestly, I think I was just scared to get settled into a new place, because I did not consider my new one-bedroom--though cozy--my home. But after the day of the death of my lovable lab Caffie (Opposite Day), I did a lot of reflection. Besides the obvious grief of loss of the family dog, I made some discoveries about my childhood, my life, and what the heck to do with myself.
Our childhoods define us. It's totally cliche, I know. But in these days for many of my friends and I--twenty-somethings-- physical and emotional elements of our childhood are disappearing, and I am realizing why the statement is so tiredly used. When I think about who I am, a lot of my thoughts go back to my mom, my dad, my sisters, my house, my school days. The lessons I learned as a child from my family and the childish mistakes and my first embarrassing moment are the foundations of my moral fiber. They are the basis of how I mentally approach life. A lot of things in my later life define who I am now, but my childhood is what defines who I will always be.
My childhood stays alive in memories, and it stays alive in physical embodiments. Eventually, however, some memories will fade away. As I get older and my life moves out of transition this transitional phase and into full adulthood, I fear the that little, special details of my memories will be pushed farther and farther back until they are inaccessible.
Thus, with the fear of my memories fading as I grow up, I cling onto the physical embodiments of my childhood, like my house and my old things. I think that is why I cherish old things. They remind me of myself, of who I am. I love going back and reminiscing, holding things that belonged to another time and place. I love hugging and smelling my blankie, which accompanied me every single night in bed until college. I loved just sitting in my childhood house, thinking about the memories that the walls held. But when Caffie died yesterday, it hit me hard that representations of my past are dropping from my reach. I realized that my attachment to Caffie, combined with unconditional love companionship, was related to the fact that when I looked at her, I saw my childhood in her glassy eyes and greying hair. Most of her memories embodied my own, for she lived almost her entire life with me.
Thus, with the fear of my memories fading as I grow up, I cling onto the physical embodiments of my childhood, like my house and my old things. I think that is why I cherish old things. They remind me of myself, of who I am. I love going back and reminiscing, holding things that belonged to another time and place. I love hugging and smelling my blankie, which accompanied me every single night in bed until college. I loved just sitting in my childhood house, thinking about the memories that the walls held. But when Caffie died yesterday, it hit me hard that representations of my past are dropping from my reach. I realized that my attachment to Caffie, combined with unconditional love companionship, was related to the fact that when I looked at her, I saw my childhood in her glassy eyes and greying hair. Most of her memories embodied my own, for she lived almost her entire life with me.
I used to think that those physical embodiments of my youth were the ones I could really count on to hold those memories for me. I guess I underestimated my memories and thus depended so much on the tangible things that held them for me. But I am quickly learning how foolish that was. The physical elements of my childhood are dropping away one by one like they are in line to walk the plank, falling away and lost forever.
A box of my belongings that lived in my bedroom and soaked up the sights and smells and smiles and tears of my childhood in a house that is now on the market now sits in a stuffy attic. Once the house sells, that will pretty much be all that is left. And now that Caffie is gone, when I go home to visit, that is one less reminder of my childhood that will be there.
It occured to me that perhaps this is why I had my 'revelation' of a desire for a new and improved lifestyle. I need to grab onto something--onto my life today, which is moving forward at a pace that I sometimes can't keep up with--to fill my life as the things of my childhood, my old life, cued up on the rickety slab of wood.
It occured to me that perhaps this is why I had my 'revelation' of a desire for a new and improved lifestyle. I need to grab onto something--onto my life today, which is moving forward at a pace that I sometimes can't keep up with--to fill my life as the things of my childhood, my old life, cued up on the rickety slab of wood.
Maybe my attachment to things and my obsessions with childhood memories is exorbitant or just plain crazy. But as I sit here, writing about all this, I realize that my memories have impacted me in an even more devious way than I realized: they inspired me to be the artist I am today.
I think my attachment to things and memories is why I picked up photography as a teenager. I absolutely loved getting my prints and putting them into photo albums, accompanied with ridiculously specific captions (date, place, name of every person in the photo, what was happening in the photo). Enter the digital age, and to this day I will not publish my Facebook photo album until it is in chronological order and properly tagged and captioned to my liking. And when photographs cannot suffice, I write. I require myself to capture the feelings, the thoughts, the reflections of one moment or event in time and immortalize it in words. It started with my own personal diary, and then a journal I took with me to my travels to Italy. Knowing that I would cherish those moments forever, I was painstaking in my detail to description of my time there. That journal turned into the blog to go with the times, and here I am.
Clearly, my sentimentality can get the best of me. But as I grow into my adult self and accept the fact that I will never be able to hold some of those things again, I will cherish the memories and objects that do stay on the boat.
So, I can say with content, nostalgic thoughts, and infinite blank pages ahead, that all is not lost.
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