Fall is here. I can no longer ignore it. With the windows wide open last night, I cuddled up with my book in flannel pants, a long sleeved shirt and my wool slippers. I had to dig for the slippers. They were way in the back with things like boots and clogs, the likes of which I still refuse to wear. I will don open toed shoes and flip flops until it snows. And even after that, the jury will still be out. I've decided that I must get over my irrational fear of winter or I'm not going to enjoy the fall. I catch myself wandering into the past or future and have to force my thoughts back into the moment. I try so hard to capture the present moments. I have to. It slips by so fast.
I've always loved photo albums. I pore over them every time I visit my parents. My friend Carrie seems to remember everything about us growing up. She can rattle off the names of plays that we were in and what parts everyone had. She remembers where our orchestra trips were, what the show choir did each year and where we all lived. I can't. I used to think there was something pathologically wrong with me that I couldn't remember anything about my childhood. And then when I dug deeper along that vein, I discovered that I don't really remember anything about even my adult life. Remembering last year is a process of going back through my blog and computer files. Of course, I was convinced I had some sort of long/short term memory loss problem, but no. I simply have not been able to stay in the moments that I'm in. I have always been so self conscious, lived so bound inside my thoughts, that I can't experience what I'm living. I hate that about myself, so I drag my head into the present. It wanders. I drag it back. And it walks away again. I don't know how to do it yet, but I'm trying. That's why I love pictures so much. I need them to take myself back there. And it's why I have put the albums with The Dead Guy in the bottom bin in the hall closet. If I want to see him, I have to excavate three very large and heavy storage bins. He needs the weight to keep him buried down there where he belongs. My journals are in there too. Pictures and words. That's how I keep my memories in order.
The changing of the seasons always brings him to the forefront. I'm not sure why. But I didn't get him out last night. I'm not sure I have what it takes right now to look and read. I'm much better at knowing when I'm fit enough to do so these days. Some day soon, though. I will take out each one, attach the memory to it once more and then pack them away again. Bury them deep. Getting ready for winter.