I have been reading alot lately and reading directly influences my writing. I want to glean insights from my reading. Currently I'm involved in a book called "The Help". It is written from the perspective of the colored help that was popular in Mississippi during the 60's. It seems to me that much has changed since then, but again that's from the perspective of a white woman. It is hard for me these days to read something or see something, and remain unaffected. I seem to empathize with the slightest of provocations, and while this makes me more teary than I'd like to be, I find myself grateful to feel emotional about the things that are at the core of mine or other's very being.

The Memory Collector

When one is dealing with any kind of difficulty, hope is all that prevents that person from sinking into a dark abyss. I met a woman today who has every right to complain -- everyone of us would understand...from our frame of reference, her life would be too hard. She lived through 2 strokes, she has MS, her hearing is shot, she can get around only with a cane, and she has oesteporosis. But instead of sharing her difficulties (I only knew those things because she let a few facts slip into our conversation, she never fully discussed any of it), she chose to share her love for art and photography and she talked about how she and her husband wanted to travel as much as possible before she physically couldn't any longer. She didn't say so, but I got the feeling that she was collecting memories that would warm her during the winters of life that were in store. She appeared to be very tired, but she also seemed to have an attitude that that suggested she would have plenty of time to rest in the future. Now was the time to collect memories.

What should be done with old memories? The one's that for one reason or another are no longer cordially invited to your personal library of memories.
Past experiences, for better or worse, help to define who we are today.
I love the Kenny Roger's song called "I can't Unlove you". The lyrics say:
"Postcards and letters, pictures made to last forever...Now are boxed up and tossed away. Knicknacks and souvenirs -- in an afternoon, they're out of here. They'll disappear without a trace. But what they mean to me can never be replaced..."

Those lyrics speak to me, but I admit, that I am only starting to figure out what to do with the remembrances that make up half of my adult life.