AFTERBURN

It is said that the benefits of one workout are experienced in the body for up to 72 hours. How much more, then, can 17,262,720 sacred minutes transform my cells.

______________________ 

I am at once jealous of and thankful for a husband’s memory of our boy—

of specific words whispered to the Father that always included prayers for a someday mate,

of his shenanigans in Idyllwild’s November snow,

of the sprawling out on the grass after making his first goal.

The jeep, overflowing with suitcases and a certain longing for exactly what I’m not clear, makes its way from Seattle to Idaho: Four-and-a-half hours is not nearly long enough to pack in all that needs saying and recalling, just so you know. 

We calculate 17,262,720 isolated minutes from his first breath until last Saturday’s “I Do.” In the larger scheme, some of those seemingly not so significant. Joined together they are a masterpiece, tour de force, an opus running through our heads.

I am reminded by a daddy’s stories, of the tangible seconds of a family’s ordinary days. We drive. He shares. I struggle to mentally visualize the colored-in illustrations. It’s my heart that draws the soft outlines on life’s unabridged pages instead.

I am not in need of vivid word pictures. My body does its own miraculous remembering, carrying within it the DNA of a baby boy’s infinite cells. Recent science informs he will always be a part of me. I knew before science did.

Shall I tell you with no shame at all, that I have viewed the wedding dance with my son at least a dozen times?  This seemingly obsessive part of me apprehends that in some distant future I may not remember, while every bone in my body implores, “How could you forget!” Still, as I watch, I am etching the memory into my head—

his hand once so tiny grasping my fingers,

a mama once guiding, now gladly allowing him to take the lead.

I have written in these Journals [mostly] of an independent woman’s life…what I hope and long for, what I have marveled in, celebrated, and endured.  But these last few days have instructed that being a mother is the lifetime achievement for which I wish to be remembered, above and apart from everything else that I am.

Even before the cancer, I have lived the reality that every moment is sacred, as long as we have breath. But this one when the mothers are peering out the window to witness a groom’s First Look, is now elevated above the rest.

Memories are not only what the eyes capture. They are a picture the heart takes. I may not remember what it looked like. But I will remember how it felt. This above all is the genesis for the way I enter into the world—the way I design, write, speak, create.

I unpack my bags in slow motion. I’m distracted by something haunting and unnamed. This is something we can all agree on—No one leaves a wedding unchanged—

Perhaps it is the vows that are spoken.

Or maybe more, the new promises to ourselves and others we are re-inspired to make.

What promises have you broken? I’m not asking you, but myself.

One sacred day. Countless hours to plan. Can we not carry forward its intention at least for what remains of a life? That intention being, that we commit to becoming the best of who we are for someone else.

This is what I crave to remember—

Above the beautiful dresses and sprigs of cedar tied with ribbon on a chair.

Love is the afterburn that lingers, in the curled and faded corners of the snapshots of all the years ahead.

NOTES:

Let’s begin with a sidenote for those of you who are eager to move on from the wedding thing—this, I promise, will be my last post. In the end, these words are not about my life but the common ground we all share:

Afterburn—My definition: what we do with what we experience, how we assimilate and allow it to transform who we are.

Some say a wedding is about letting go. But I believe it’s more a letting in.

To gain [a new daughter, her family] is so much more abundant than loss. It’s the way I look at life, every little beautiful and hard thing. What about you?

If anything, this Journal entry is about the adding rather than subtracting—the gathering of memories, both the ones we carry in our mind’s eye and the ones buried in our heart.

Throughout my life I’ve had friends say, “Don’t you remember?” And then they proceed to share the adventures of my own life and I listen as if hearing someone’s else’s story played out in great detail.

This must be why the tangible world is so important: Places are my anchor, my grounding, when emotions sweep me far off and away.

There are those of us who are more likely to feel a certain way about a person or place without remembering exactly why. We are the ones who store memory in an implicit way.

If you want to learn more about the miracle of implicit memory and how we’re wired, this link will fascinate and delight you—https://bitly.ws/3cKvg

Typically, when we humans see something, the neurons in our brain fire and create a memory trace. The more often we see something, the stronger that memory trace becomes [see my mention of repetitive viewing of the dance above].

Thankfully, in addition to this repetition, there’s more that we can do to improve our memory. Here are a few ideas—

Pay attention to detail: When you are seeing something, take the time to pay attention to the details [Cameron’s hand in mine]. This will help to create a stronger memory trace.

Practice recalling memories: The more you practice recalling memories, the better your memory will become. [Talking about what the wedding on our long drive home].

Use mnemonic devices: Mnemonic devices are memory aids that can help you to remember information. There are many different mnemonic devices, such as acronyms, rhymes, and visualizations. [One Hundred Years, our dance song, running through my head].

Memories are the afterburn, our Creator’s way of extending and multiplying our minutes and expanding the time with the ones we love. And I think that’s miraculous.

IMAGE: I love how the cross simply “showed up.” He is in everything. He delights in every detail. I had just walked in after being in the freezing temperatures and was still draped in my velvet hooded cloak, a piece that used to be my mama’s—oh how I loved having her presence permeating the room. I think I look a bit like a priest…my stance and the way my hands are placed…and I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. This was a sacred moment after all, the mamas and families peering through the window at the groom’s First Look. Taken by my Daughter-in-Law, Erin Kraft.