Last night I was reading Sarah Manguso’s Ongoingness: The End of a Diary and circled this quote:
Someday I might read about some of the moments I’ve forgotten, moments I’ve allowed myself to forget, that my brain was designed to forget, that I’ll be glad to have forgotten and be glad to rediscover as writing. The experience is no longer experience. It is writing. I am still writing.
The memory from your prompt feels so alive with such exquisite details and powerful thoughts about what happened to your sister and what is remembered and shared years later. It makes me wonder about the memories I hold. Despite the fact that they will differ from another who shared them: how do I assimilate them together? They are a collective memory and will putting them together make them more vivid and alive or minimize ‘my’ thoughts about it or ‘desensitize’ the whole memory. However, I am so blessed to be able to share fun, happy and sad memories and stories with my family that gather on Sunday evenings for dinner at my Mom’s house.
Your prompt reminds me of some bantering Bryan and I were engaging in a couple weeks ago. We have these little “bits” we engage in that keep us entertained and laughing with each other. This time we were sparring about something that happened and how we each “remembered” it differently.
In response to his “memory” of it I blurted out: “Well, just know that if you die first this is NOT how the story will be told!” 😂
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In your story, I love the image of you reflexively grabbing your husband as he rolled over. What a deeply engrained caregiving spirit you have.
Thanks Jen. Isn't it curious how we can remember the same events differently? I read somewhere recently that this is one of the reasons why personal writing or memoir holds a different understanding of what is true. Different versions of an event can be true at the same time because they are experienced by different people. I wouldn't want to push that idea too far because of history, media, alternative facts, but there is something there about writing your own truth.
How deeply this story of you and your sister's time in that hospital touched me this morning. And even though I remembered some of it and though I savored (with celebration) Flannery, your writing of this memory is so beautiful. Have you read Maggie O'Farrell's memoir, I Am, I am, I Am?
Wow, Julie, such a striking, heartbreaking, life-affirming post! Such at-one-ness with your sister: that you are a caretaker for that part of her life; the part that you can recall but that she doesn't. I haven't been on your side of things, but I have been on your sister's - and I am forever grateful for those who had been there at the time, and who took care - and still take care - to acknowledge that part of my existence; the part that I didn't exist in, nor exists for me even now.
Oh, Julie, what a beautiful and harrowing prompt this morning, harrowing in the best of the term: getting to the marrow of a thing through great distress. So Flannery O’Connor. What a lovely unfolding to write from, this one.
I am eager to watch your sister’s documentary: one of my English professors wrote the first thesis about her, long ago in faraway Texas. I do love a long thread, gossamer and sturdy.
Thank you Shannan. Harrowing is an evocative and apropos word, and you are right—very much Flannery. Also that last line of your comment is just gorgeous....
Last night I was reading Sarah Manguso’s Ongoingness: The End of a Diary and circled this quote:
Someday I might read about some of the moments I’ve forgotten, moments I’ve allowed myself to forget, that my brain was designed to forget, that I’ll be glad to have forgotten and be glad to rediscover as writing. The experience is no longer experience. It is writing. I am still writing.
Oh, that is wonderful. I've had that book on my library list for a long time. Thanks for the nudge.
This is lovely. I’ve read through so many journals and old blog posts and thought, I wrote that?! It’s wonderful! 😂
💯- it’s like a way to get to know myself or a version of myself again.
Oh Julie,
The memory from your prompt feels so alive with such exquisite details and powerful thoughts about what happened to your sister and what is remembered and shared years later. It makes me wonder about the memories I hold. Despite the fact that they will differ from another who shared them: how do I assimilate them together? They are a collective memory and will putting them together make them more vivid and alive or minimize ‘my’ thoughts about it or ‘desensitize’ the whole memory. However, I am so blessed to be able to share fun, happy and sad memories and stories with my family that gather on Sunday evenings for dinner at my Mom’s house.
JoAnne
JoAnne I so love the idea of collective memory! What joy to be sharing those around a family table.
Your prompt reminds me of some bantering Bryan and I were engaging in a couple weeks ago. We have these little “bits” we engage in that keep us entertained and laughing with each other. This time we were sparring about something that happened and how we each “remembered” it differently.
In response to his “memory” of it I blurted out: “Well, just know that if you die first this is NOT how the story will be told!” 😂
-
In your story, I love the image of you reflexively grabbing your husband as he rolled over. What a deeply engrained caregiving spirit you have.
Thanks Jen. Isn't it curious how we can remember the same events differently? I read somewhere recently that this is one of the reasons why personal writing or memoir holds a different understanding of what is true. Different versions of an event can be true at the same time because they are experienced by different people. I wouldn't want to push that idea too far because of history, media, alternative facts, but there is something there about writing your own truth.
So powerful!
Thank you, Grace.
How deeply this story of you and your sister's time in that hospital touched me this morning. And even though I remembered some of it and though I savored (with celebration) Flannery, your writing of this memory is so beautiful. Have you read Maggie O'Farrell's memoir, I Am, I am, I Am?
Thank you Kay. I haven’t read that book, but it has been on my library list since 2020. I will look for it!
Wow, Julie, such a striking, heartbreaking, life-affirming post! Such at-one-ness with your sister: that you are a caretaker for that part of her life; the part that you can recall but that she doesn't. I haven't been on your side of things, but I have been on your sister's - and I am forever grateful for those who had been there at the time, and who took care - and still take care - to acknowledge that part of my existence; the part that I didn't exist in, nor exists for me even now.
Goosepimpling. And gorgeous. Thank you.
😘
Thank you Rebecca. Caretaking is a gracious way to understand it. I’m glad you have caretakers for those parts of you.
I'm so grateful, Julie. 🙂
Love to you and your sister - and yay for her happy news. ♥️♥️
Oh, Julie, what a beautiful and harrowing prompt this morning, harrowing in the best of the term: getting to the marrow of a thing through great distress. So Flannery O’Connor. What a lovely unfolding to write from, this one.
I am eager to watch your sister’s documentary: one of my English professors wrote the first thesis about her, long ago in faraway Texas. I do love a long thread, gossamer and sturdy.
Thank you Shannan. Harrowing is an evocative and apropos word, and you are right—very much Flannery. Also that last line of your comment is just gorgeous....