Writing: A Side Door

Memory is a man's real possession . . .

In nothing else is he rich,

in nothing else is he poor.

- Alexander Smith

Memory is a funny thing. We don't remember everything. In fact, we don't remember most of our lives. Some people feel that this is sad. But I think it keeps us sane.

How could we carry all the pain and grief and disappointment and joy and ecstasy and hilarity in our heads at one time? There isn't room for it.

So we carry pieces of it. And somewhere, somehow, even though we don't carry all of it, a lot is stored up in our mental archives. The trick is to find ways to tap into them.

It's odd how the smallest thing can be a side door into memory.

We can smell a perfume and suddenly remember that a piano teacher wore it. We can see the glasses on the nose, hear the voice instructing us, remember the assignments -- favorites and those we didn't like. We can recall the afternoon light filtering into the room and how the piano bench felt under our legs. I remember sweating and feeling the stickiness of it and worrying that I would leave white marks on the wood. Like I said, it's odd how small things become side doors.

But I should notice.

Because the side doors are clues to what my story is all about. I recall things for a reason. If I begin writing about the small things I remember, I find big themes showing up -- things that are universal like the longing to be loved and the fear of losing myself and the way life is so much work.

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What's one small, random thing you can recall about your childhood?