MEMORIES

            As some of you may know, my time here in Spain has introduced me to many incredible new people and practices. One of these practices that I have been trying to incorporate into my life is meditation. Up until learning some of the most basic meditation techniques a few months ago, I had a misconstrued perception of meditation— a major component of that being that it was for “really zen” people and not for me. In my brief time practicing, however, I have found that it is quite the opposite—merely taking the time to attempt meditations on a regular basis is what creates that quote-on-quote zen feeling in one’s life. At least that’s how it has played out for me. In the past few months I have noted significant differences in how quickly I fall asleep, how well I sleep, and how little neck pain I have—something that had been an unquestioned constant in my life until now. Overall, the meditation seems to have positive effects on my state-of-being. However, I hadn’t yet had a really eye-opening experience with it until this weekend.

            The other day when I got home early for a Friday night I was actually a little excited to take the opportunity to get in a longer meditation. Per usual, I prepared myself for bed but before settling down for my meditation I stopped to fix the cheesy-but-festive red and white sparkley garland I currently have hanging over my window. My taping job wasn’t the best and so one of the ends continues to come undone. Thus, before turning off my lights for my meditation, I pushed that end back onto the masking tape ring at the end of the wooden box above my window. Although it stuck for the time being, for the next fifteen minutes or so I was extremely aware of the crinkling sound it produced as the individual metallic strips started to detach from the tape. As gravity pulled the garland off of its not-so-adhesive-anymore adhesion, I tried to focus on ignoring the noise that was intruding on my peace of mind. But eventually, I decided to embrace it. 

            I decided to embrace the sound my scarce Christmas decorations were making because in that moment—with my eyes closed and my mind cleared of everything else—no other sound could have reminded me more of Christmas. Had I not been in meditation I don’t think I would have really focused on the noise or let it affect me in any way. But in the silence and the darkness of my room I began to picture myself somewhere else. Instead of sitting on my bed 4,000 miles from home I felt as though I were in my childhood bed in the southwest corner of my Darien bedroom, trying to fall asleep on a cold December night. The inconsistent, crunching noise of my garland was instead the crackling sound of the frost on my windowpane. I could hear the sound and feel the reverberation of the persistent wind gusts hitting the side of my house. I could imagine the wintery scene outside my window—a magical snow globe-effect as the dust-like snow was picked off the ground and spun around by the wind tunnel resulting from the open space of the retention pond next to our house.  It was something I had experienced a million times, but I had never thought much about it. It was just a normal winter night in Darien. I never would have imagined that an insignificant little sound would remind me of all of that and fill me with Christmas feelings.

            After picturing myself and my noise in my bedroom, I pictured it downstairs in the bay window overlooking our driveway. I was reminded of a Christmas Past, sitting on the ledge of the bay window, gazing at our beautiful Christmas tree and singing along to Hard Candy Christmas. It was the middle of the day, but I was home and doing nothing-much because it was Christmas break and what could be more perfect than that? It was just a simple moment; nothing particularly interesting happened, but I was filled with Christmas spirit and for some reason that’s a day I remember. In that particular memory, that crackling sound was there too—on the windowpane again: this audible barrier between the frigid weather outside the glass and my toasty existence inside. On a subconscious level, I guess Christmas is filled with that crackling noise for me. 

            After reliving those memories, I decided to scan my whole house. A meditation technique that I’ve recently been taught is called the “body scan” in which you do a mental scan over your body, focusing on only small parts of it at a time. So I decided to employ a little creative liberty and apply the technique to my home instead. The logical portion of my brain figured it would be also be beneficial because we recently sold our house and so my mom had asked me to think about the things I might want them to save for me. I thought that during the scan, I might zone in on some possessions I didn’t realize were of importance to me. What I realized in my “home scan,” however, is that there is really nothing that I need there. 

The things that are important to me are not the physical objects, but the memories.  I didn’t picture a big fluffy red couch; I pictured the place where my mom and I have spent countless “sick days” watching our favorite movies and gorging ourselves with delicious snacks. I didn’t picture a lifeless basement bathroom; I pictured all the random but familiar trinkets my dad filled his shelves with—the Lessons My Father Taught Me book that my brother gifted him, stacked on top of the comparative religion book that I believe my mom bought him one Christmas, the real scorpion frozen in a semi-circle plastic encasing, most likely purchased in a Mexican souvenir shop, the old-fashioned pistol that I believe my dad built himself, the silver chain of two outstretched arms holding hands, a million little things that really had no business being in a bathroom…but that’s what made it my dad’s bathroom. 

Although some of the people who toured our house probably mused at the strange wall along our staircase that is covered in confetti, I smiled when I saw it in my mind and remembered the many gathering we would have at my house when my cousins Ari and Isis were youngsters and how the wall would be covered in handprints when they left. I smiled because I know that wall is not only covered in shiny bits of plastic, but in memories and in love. 

I didn’t picture two commonplace picture frames hanging over the loveseat in our living room; I pictured hand-me-downs and family. I pictured those same painting in my grandparents’ house— in their same dinky plastic frames, with the crack in the upper left corner of the frame on the right. That crack has probably been there for years, but no one’s ever cared about or bothered to do more than half-heartedly mend it with invisible tape. 

I didn’t picture the plant that sits in the space between the two closets in my parents’ bedroom; instead I pictured the heart-shaped valentine made on pink construction paper that I probably left out for them on the kitchen counter ten or so years ago. I wouldn’t say it’s an especially great production, but it has been proudly displayed on the bottom shelf of the plant’s stand for as long as I can remember. 

I also didn’t picture everything the way it looks now, but rather the way rooms once were. I know that the third bedroom upstairs has been mostly cleared of our possessions and that our family laptop now sits atop my small, white IKEA desk. However, when I pictured the room I pictured it filled with our sewing machines, our tiny TV, our treadmill, and that enormous computer cabinet with a chunky first Dell computer. I pictured the many hours I spent there playing Speedy Eggbert with my cousins and The Sims with Chelsea. 

That house is not filled with things, it is filled with memories. That’s why it is bittersweet that my family will have moved by the time I get back to the States. It makes me sad to think that this will be the last Christmas in our Darien house and that I am not there to share in it. But we sold the physical object, we didn’t sell the memories. Therefore, my Darien Christmases will always be mine, our summer barbeques will always be mine, the many holiday get-togethers, the random parties with friends, the hours spent watching baseball and hockey games, the relaxing nights filled with baths or wine and conversation… all of it will always be mine and that doesn’t change with our change of address. 

It was really comforting to be reminded of that. I wouldn’t say that I’ve “struggled” with the news because honestly, I hadn’t thought about it much until last night. But I think it was important to really contemplate it, to acknowledge that there is some sadness there but that overall I am at peace with the change. It’s all a part of the process and I really believe that my whole family is at a turning point in our lives. Moving on from our wonderful time in Darien is just a step forward in the direction we are heading. And I have faith that it’s a positive direction.