Recently, my friend Ara Tucker over at The Art Dealer’s Daughter posted about nostalgia which is quite the coincidence seeing as how a recent project had me quite nostalgic. Or at least, the project had me attempting to be nostalgic.
It wasn’t until the last few weeks when I began working on a sentimental craft project for my brother’s 40th birthday that I began riffling through old memories, stories, photo books, letters trying to muster up some good ole’ memories.
Let me explain for those of you that don’t already know how this will end. It will end badly. I will have high hopes. I will have no patience or crafty talent for that matter. I will remain completely unaware of my half-assed attempt at perfection. Not to mention that said recipient’s birthday was February 4th, so at this point I’m well on my way to being a month tardy. Luckily, he grew up with me. His hopes are adjusted accordingly.
As I sifted through memories, only a half dozen came to mind. Then as I went through my memory bank, I found that it had become quite depleted. And not in reference to my brother of course, but generally speaking.
In that moment, I was feeling guilty for not being able to recall much of my childhood. I don’t think that has any reflection on the quality of it as much as my inability to savor on the chewy goodness of it all. I make memories. I’m in them completely. I’m lucky if I snap a picture or two. Then they either stick or they don’t. Simple as that.
I suppose I’ve always been bad at memory making. I’m not sure I understand at the time the fullness of events that are memory-worthy. I simply have snippets of things floating around in my memory bank. I become nostalgic, not because I am longing for the past and what it had meant to me but because I was longing to simply remember the past, all of it. My memory bank is depleted. Perhaps it’s because I’ve stockpiled my word bank.