Sensory Memory

I recently participated in a Ripe Fruit writing workshop, and it pushed me into uncomfortable territory. It had an effect on me that I didn't see coming, and it hit me like a freight train.

Six women participated. We started the morning off, sitting in a circle in the Greenhouse of the Imagination, by sharing why we were there. Easy enough. We were also asked to describe the landscape we were born into, the smells, the colors, and the light. Much tougher.

As the five other women described their landscapes, the red kitchen, the smell of pine trees, the muted sunlight dancing on the white carpet, I began to feel emotion in my stomach and cheeks. My turn was coming up and the tears where creeping to formation. My throat was getting tight. My chest was getting full. I had no memories of the landscape I was born into. What will I say when it's my turn? Where is my home? Where do I come from?

This isn't the first time I've struggled with this. I can't remember my childhood, shuffled between houses, flown between coasts, angry and confused by my broken home. Have I suppressed it completed? Where are my memories? They are fragmented. They are flashes of moments, intellectualized.  Where is my inner child who lived my life?

I'm up next. It's my turn to share. I can tell them why I'm here. "I'm exploring my writing voice and I wanted a new perspective, a new growth opportunity." "Great," Leslie affirms. "Tell us about your childhood landscape." My chin quivers. I breathe deeply. I look up. I can't make eye contact with any of the women. The quiver rises to my lips. My eyes water. I apologize for being emotional and squeak out, "I have no memories from my childhood."

I said it. I've never said it out loud before. I am shocked at my own confession. I pull out the kleenex from my pocket that I had grabbed in the bathroom just moments before. I'd taken a pee break to relieve my coffee filled bladder, but also to find relief from the emotional cliff I accidentally walked out on. I thought that if I took a break to the bathroom that I could suppress the emotion building deep inside, shake it off, flush it down the toilet. But my efforts had failed. I became a blubbering mess with choked up words and waterfall tears.

They watched in silence as I wept. They gave me time to collect my thoughts, collect me tears. They did not try to fill the void. They listened to it. I think each of them wept a little too, through me. But I wasn't off the hook just because I got emotional. "It's ok to cry. Memory is emotional. And memory is sensory. Think of any time in your childhood. What do you see?" I focused on Leslie's calm words of encouragement. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. "The ocean," I sniffled. "What color is it?" "Turquoise, with white foam." "What do you hear?" "Seagulls, and waves." "How is the light?" "It's foggy, grey but not dim." "Can you smell anything?" "I smell the salt and the seaweed." I smiled. I do have memory. I do have sensory memory.