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“Centering in the divine transforms us. It changes us. It produces what has been called “the fruit of the Spirit” and “the gifts of the Spirit.” It is what Jesus meant when he said, “You will know them by their fruits.” The fruits of centering are many and intertwined, but the most important are compassion, freedom and courage, and gratitude.
Sequencing or remembering them is thus not about their relative importance; they all go together to make your life matter.”
– Cynthia Breadner (modified from Marcus Borg)
Some pictures popped up on social media this week that I had to travel back in time to recall. These photos included me, and yet I do not have a specific memory of them being taken. I know they are photographic impressions of me and yet, not seen, I would not have had this memory brought forward in time. Literally, this was a snapshot in time. My time, my space, and my life. It is me in the photo and yet nothing physically of me remains today. I am a completely different body and person. It was an eerie feeling to be captured and not remember. My initial thought was, “Whoa, where did that come from?” I immediately recognized myself and began looking for clues as to time, year and location.
The first photo, I am seven years old. I am standing behind a stool where my brother sits holding a baby. I know the baby was born in July 1966 and it looks to be Christmas time with a tree in the background. The baby is in diapers, a sleeper, pudgy and dimpled. My brother is five years older than me so he would be 13 coming up February.
The second photo was a little more difficult. There were no obvious clues except, I am sitting in the grass and I have four children around me. The baby this time was born in August 1971 and is not an infant. I would guess this photo is in the spring/summer of 1972, making me 13 years old, the same age as my brother in the first photo.
At the time, my hormones were raging and I had just witnessed 10 years of the 60s. Being the youngest of six children, I felt somewhat invisible as my parents were exhausted from the raising of four boys alongside Elvis, The Beatles, rock n' roll, drugs, alcohol and psychedelics! Where are all these memories before we bring them forth? Where are they held so dear and buried like treasure? Is our brain truly like modern day computers with terabytes of storage in the hippocampus hard drive within the cranium? With all these memories stored, no wonder files become corrupt and we discover a virus has wiped some of it clean. Remembering can be painful and cause conflict.
These pictures surfacing did send me back to that time. Especially the second photo, because it was around then our grandparents started to die. Being the youngest of six and my mother being the third oldest of nine children meant the grandparents were always ancient to me.
In 1973, my 24-year-old brother died, leaving a very large and gaping wound in my parents. At 13, I could not process death very well and felt helpless to give comfort. Sorrow descended upon us, my mother never truly recovered, and there were lots of unanswered questions that left my 13-year-old heart wondering.
Seeing these photos also brings joy, as I see my daughter in myself. My 11-year-old grandson asked his dad, “who is that baby Danielle (my daughter) is holding?” My son had to explain that it was not Danielle in the photo, but me, his gramma! I look at the photos and see all these babies and children around me, who are now middle aged and have adult children of their own and I am in awe of the spiritual journey of memories.
The stirring of memories is often difficult. It can bring out feelings of joy, but also an element of loss and sadness. There is a realization that no one will be the same again. It is in this sorrow that joy peeks out and takes the hand of sadness and they walk together down memory lane. Joy without sadness just does not work! They are partners in life and memory and bring the dynamic contradiction necessary to the value to living.
Photographs are my source of conversation with the aging. When I enter a room, I am always happy to see photographs around. They can be topics of conversation and a mapping tool for a person I have never met. I use photos to have them tell me stories of their past just as they remember it. I do not know any story, I only know the version they tell me. It is here in this moment I choose not to be right or correct them, I choose to be kind and let them tell me whatever they like.
Memory, alongside awareness, is a fickle thing. As we take in our experiences and filter them through our values and beliefs, they become like a prism shattering the memory into fragments based on what we want to see and what we want to choose to remember. No story is factual, and no story is the truth because without someone’s witness nothing happens and witnessing makes it our story. All stories are our own interpretation of events and retention is based on what we choose to see.
The next time you are recounting from your memory or listening to someone else’s story remember there is no absolute truth. There is only kindness and love. When you have the choice to be right or to be kind, choose kind every time!
If you want an exercise in observation “Awareness test" use this link.
Cynthia Breadner is a grief specialist and bereavement counsellor, a soul care worker and offers specialized care in Spiritually Integrated Psychotherapy with special attention as a cognitive behavioral therapy practitioner and trauma incident resolution facilitator. She volunteers at hospice, works as a LTC chaplain and is a death doula, assisting with end-of-life care for client and family. She is the mother part of the #DanCynAdventures duo and practices fitness, health and wellness. She is available remotely by safe and secure video connections, if you have any questions contact her today!
