PERSONAL ESSAY | WRITING DOWN OUR LIVES

We Are the Keepers of Time

Writing preserves the past

I once stood, mesmerized, at the edge of a high cliff overlooking an ocean so vast and glorious it took my breath away. I specifically tried to burn it in my memory so I would never forget the way the light reflected off the sea as it undulated out to the endless horizon; the way the wind with its salty tang felt rushing past my face and how I felt. I wanted to save forever in my heart the way the surf boomed against the lava rock, throwing up spray that sparkled like diamonds, sounding like the very voice of God.

But of course, you can’t. Even a video doesn’t preserve the actual physical moment.

That cliff was on the island of Maui, overlooking the magnificent Pacific Ocean. We’d taken a small trail ride to the top, winding through lush vegetation, under a perfect sky. I stood alone atop that cliff, gazing off into infinity as if there were no one else in the world, and it was a deeply spiritual experience.

But as Heraclitus observed, we can never step in the same river twice. I can never stand in that exact same place at that exact moment again. It’s gone forever, just like the man I was married to then. Pictures, though lovely to have, pale in comparison and won’t recreate it; even recalling it to someone else falls short. I suspect if I were to travel to that spot now I would be disappointed. But when I write it down, I feel that moment bloom to life again in my heart. The process of writing allows me to access deep stores in my memory, to resurrect those feelings once more.

No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man. ~ Heraclitus

My recollection here won’t move anyone else to tears, as I was moved that day. But for me, this simple act of writing about it brings all those emotions up to the surface from a well deep within me — my feelings of awe, of being so small in this Universe, of so grand a thing as an ocean. I’m not there, cannot step in that river again, but this is close, and I’m grateful for it.

I regret not recording my life more carefully. As we go along, the days have a way of overwriting each other, superimposing the new over the old, moving relentlessly forward. We’re so busy living we forget all the little details, but of course, that’s where all the meaning is. When we’re young with young families, it seems endless — we spend those days like pennies, without thought, eagerly anticipating progress. But in reality, every day is priceless, unique. And in the end, we realize how we spent our days is how we spent our lives.

I’ve learned a lot about myself by going back over the few journal pages I do have. I read about the young woman I used to be, who tried so hard, who gave everything she had and it still wasn’t enough — and my heart fills with love for her, overflows with all the compassion she never showed herself. I’m glad to remember her, celebrate her journey. Rarely do we get to see ourselves as we are becoming.

Memory has many triggers. We hear a song and are immediately transported back in time to high school. Sometimes I bury my face in my old snowmobile jacket that still smells faintly of a two-stroke engine and I’m instantly back on a dark and snowy trail. All those memories have stories behind them. But it’s when we write the stories down that they come to life.

We’re the fortunate ones, you know, the ones with the ability to tell those stories, to write them down. We writers are the historians, of lives both small and large. We’re the keepers of time, preservers of memories that might otherwise be lost; providers of a looking glass reflecting what once was. Whether we realize it or not, everything we write is a small piece of history.

I stood on the top of a cliff a long time ago and felt the heartbeat of the ocean. I never want to forget that, and I think this is why we write. We write to share our story with others, yes; but more so that we remember.

Thanks for reading. I appreciate you, always. May we never stop remembering.