i have this memory and then this other memory, crashing memories in a non linear manner. sometimes when i close my eyes and get a whiff of a certain scent, there it is. sometimes in the darkened night, a fragrance lifts up from the stars and knocks into me an emotion forgotten. i sometimes wonder what will happen to these memories as more and more of them crowd in together, blurring the lines of my thoughts.

i place some of them here and some of them in the scrawl of a poem, a code that can't be deciphered without having all the passwords hidden in the folds of my emotional memory, my sensory memory, the protective coating of armour to protect my vulnerable dreams.

(Canon EOS A2 / Sensia 400 / along a dirt road, slave lake, alberta)

a small child in pigtails, moving lightly through the joyous bubble of my world, outgoing and unselfconscious and sure that everyone was open and loving and giving. i have no memory but they tell me i would go up to complete strangers and blather on my life story, full and rich at the age of 3. eyes dancing light i twirled and danced and lived in a moment that didn't need to create anything more than the breathe of that second. there is no memory because pure moments cannot be defined by the words of our limitation, creation.

i remember shame and humiliation, sitting in the backseat of a car rolling through the dark night, our coats and mitts warming us from the cold winter night, flakes stinging the windshield as sharp tongues of young girls cut me to the core, cheeks red and hands shaking, the first step to my self-conscious wander. the first realization that motives were not always pure and giving. i didn't understand. i still don't understand. my mind can rationalize why people deliberately set out to hurt others, the meanness that sits in us that causes us to criticize and put down. the hurtful nature of children who grow into adults. the mean girls. the mean boys.

i remember shame and humiliation, walking over train tracks that divided a small town, gravel scattered over the head poke of a green weed, the sound of rushing water, the heart pounding walk over a bridge of track slats as the water rushed below, an ear cocked for the sound of the train that rumbled through a few times a day. my sharp tongue cut me to the core, cheeks red and hands shaking, the first step to my self-conscious wander. the first realization that my motives were not always pure and giving. i didn't understand. i still don't understand. my mind can rationalize why i deliberately set out to hurt someone, the meanness that sits in us that causes us to criticize and put down. the hurtful nature of children who grow into adults. the mean girls. the mean boys.

wrapped up in insecurity, a blanket so rough it chafs our skin and scrapes against our knuckles bloody and we fight to keep it off, to remember blue jeans painted daisies and warm arms in a hug of caring and love, snoopy dog laughter.

i asked this question to a friend this week ... why is it that doing what makes us feel like crap is so much easier than doing what makes us feel good? she posed it to her husband who responded, "if someone can figure out that one that it could be tantamount to creating world peace".

The question was presented with regards to eating and living healthy as opposed to grabbing the quick fix of sugar or laying about instead of going for a run or doing yoga. I always have more energy and feel so much better in mind and spirit and body when I eat right and exercise which makes my life easier but still sometimes I find myself eating crap and doing nothing and forcing myself into feeling like crap, sluggy and dark inside. Why is that?

And then I thought about how it applies to other things like reaching out with our hearts and our dreams and trusting the hearts of others with the hearts of us. When I am kind and joyous and honest and real and I look at you through the clearness of that lens, our lives are so much more beautiful but when I look through a glass darkly and close into my gremlins and demons and hide myself wrapped in a blanket so rough it chafs my skin, I hurt you and hurt me and force myself into feeling like crap, sluggy and dark inside. Why do we do it?

a grown woman in pigtails, moving lightly through the joyous bubble of my world, outgoing and unselfconscious and sure that everyone is open and loving and giving. i have no memory but i tell you, i do go up to complete strangers and blather on my life story gazing into your eyes waiting for yours, full and rich at the age of 40. eyes dancing light i twirl and dance and live in a moment that doesn't need to create anything more than the breathe of that second. there is no memory because pure moments cannot be defined by the words of our limitation, creation.

I will keep trying.  I hope you will too.