My Memory

Is Not What It Used to Be

I just can’t trust it anymore. My memory. Does it make me sad? Is it a sign of something else to come? I don’t know. I just can’t always remember things like I used to. Even after I retired, the folks at the office would call and ask me where something was. Mostly files. I could picture in my mind where it was last seen in the office; the third filing cabinet down next to the one in the corner. The third drawer down and two thirds of the way back. The file about tank wagons is in front of it. That’s where it was.

I saw it. In my mind’s eye. Now, so much time has passed, I am not sure. I can tell you where stuff used to be, but too much time has passed. The chances of it being in the same place lessen as time goes by.

I have the same problem at home. I will look for something and not know where it is anymore. Life got in the way. My husband came to paint, and everything got moved. I didn’t have the heart to go back in and put it all away. Four years later, it all still sits.

Many times, I just buy another one and do not worry about it. I adapt. What’s it going to take to put it right? I’ll need to take all the books down and put them on the bed. All the books. It seems like there are 3,000 of them. I’ll need to put them in categories. Language books, painting, and drawing books, writing books, historicals…1880s, 1300s, 1100s, crochet, weaving, sewing, knitting, dolls, origami.

Then, all the books of fiction I want to read. My favorites that I will sometimes just open at random to read a few pages. Just enough to get a taste of the story. A Whitman Sampler box of chocolates, just that taste of chocolate-covered coconut. That’s all I need. Or even just one page. Ray Bradbury or Stephen King talking about writing. Then, all the books I want to read but didn’t have time when I got them. Must be 200 of them floating around.

The rule of thumb around here for putting things away is when the cats start knocking over the piles. Emergency cleaning.

Then, my supplies: sewing, yarn, material, buttons, zippers (still looking for them), big needles, small needles, crochet hook supplies, knives, sandpaper, the burnishers. It’s been years since I made a crochet hook. I need some more. The act of making a crochet hook is soothing. Making something with a wooden hook has a different energy than a plastic or metal one.

What else? The stuff I want to do. I want to self-publish. I need to learn how to write better than I do now. I am so afraid just to put it out there. Why? I write like a fool now. I have to keep reminding myself that whoever is supposed to read it will come upon it. Whatever “it” is. Whether it is a book about how to get a job, how to grow up and not be unhappy with yourself. Or, how to awaken senses in yourself, the psychic senses that everybody already has, that you were born with.

I want to learn German and Spanish. I’d like to learn Norwegian and French. I want to find the waves that promise poetry. I want my mind to move that way, to sway, to be unafraid.

I want to learn graphic design and be able to make my own book covers. I want to put myself forward and be my own agent. I want to learn how to narrate my own books for Audible. I want to earn the rent. After this last year of health scares, I want to create steady income, so we don’t have to worry. I want our last years to be safe ones. Secure.

Security. No worries. Live in the moment.

The solution?

Lists. Post-It notes. Reminders.

The solution?

Take a deep breath. Fling yourself into the unknown and trust that whatever experience comes your way is the experience your higher self says is safe and an opportunity you will never regret. Just trust. You’ll have to remind yourself over and over again until it becomes a habit. Trust. Have that moment in the morning where you lift your arms over your head and stretch.

Thanks.

You’re welcome.

I have to say, in explanation, that the bit I put in bold italics above was from my guide, Seth. And, if not him, then somebody in Spirit who doesn’t right now need a name. Let it be Seth.

Are you needing to pin us down like a butterfly?

No. That sounds terrible anyway. It’s killing a butterfly and we need them, every one of them.

Then, draw one. Draw me a butterfly, Darling.

Who is this?

Seth.

No, it isn’t. It’s someone else. I don’t know who. You don’t talk that way.

Do you know what I miss?

What is that?

I miss passion.

I would say you’ve got lots of passion.

I guess it changed. I’m not used to this. Every bit of it hurts.

Well, that was different. I’ve pulled myself out of it. I’m back to myself. That’s how close Spirit is to me as a channel. They knock on the door. And sometimes they don’t like just now. Slip in and things change in the blink of an eye. It is cathartic sometimes.