Random thoughts, and a peek into my sketchbook.
The other day (a couple weeks ago now), I looked out the window and saw a huge puddle at the base of our property. It’s very rare for us to have a puddle that size (probably due to the fact that we hardly ever get rain), so when I saw it, my brain instantly thought of a tiny pair of rainboots and a little voice asking to “Pash”. It’s been five years since I have heard that voice make that request. Five years since I have held that small hand as we walked down our long driveway together. Five years since I have watched those little feet splash through the water and mud. Five years. So why is it that, for a split second upon seeing that puddle, it felt like just yesterday? Why was my automatic reaction a feeling that I should be taking a two-year-old girl outside to play before the puddle disappeared?
The mind is a strange thing. How is it that simply seeing something can trigger an almost muscle memory type response? It’s as if everything about me (physically, mentally, and emotionally) has now been programmed to respond a certain way to a specific situation. Not that this happens all the time. It doesn’t. That’s, I think, what makes it so odd. It happens when I am not thinking about it, as if my brain has decided to go on autopilot and revert back to its default setting. What I don’t understand, is how such a short season of my life could have become what I default to.
It’s interesting how you can become programmed to do certain things without even realizing it. When I was eighteen, we had to put our dog, Major, to sleep. I had no idea until after he was gone how many times a day I would detour past his bed to pet him. As I would walk past the empty spot by the back door (where his bed used to be), I would constantly catch myself preparing to reach down for the dog that wasn’t there. It was honestly muscle memory. Just like the times when I was stressed and I would find myself sitting next to where his bed had once been. It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part. I just automatically, without thinking about it, went to a place where I had found comfort before. I could understand my response then. Major had been a part of my daily life for five years. But the mud puddle? We only had six months with those two little ones.
Memories are odd. Well, not so much the memories themselves (I mean, they can be...) but rather how they are made, and what brings them back to the surface years later. Why is it that daffodils always remind me of the baby my Mom lost when I was fifteen? Yes, they were blooming at the time Mom miscarried, but there were other things happening during that time as well... And yet, for some reason, my brain chose to associate daffodils with the baby I never met. Maybe it was because those daffodils were something bright, pretty, and happy breaking through the cold, dark dirt. Maybe they represented hope during a painful season of my life. Or maybe it was something else entirely. I really don’t know. What I do know is that when I see daffodils, I remember that baby. It makes me wonder...
If mud puddles and daffodils can so easily bring memories and emotions to the surface for me, are there ever moments that remind those two little ones of us? I don’t expect them to remember their six months in our home (they were so little...), but are there sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and experiences, that trigger emotions and responses for them? Does the sight of a train bring them comfort? Do wildflowers make them think of laughter and hugs? Does the smell of tea bring a smile to their face? Are there vaguely familiar songs that give them peace?
They may not connect those things directly to us, but I would like to think that deep down something in them remembers us, even if they can’t put a face or a name to the memory. It may seem silly, but part of me hopes that the thought of splashing in a mud puddle reminds them that they are loved.
~Elisabeth~
