Remembering

I have a theory that from the age of 9 to 25 we try to change who we are and then the rest of our lives we try to return to who we were when we were 9. Before we really gave a shit what other people thought, before we knew we were weird, before anyone could really convince us that our worth was somehow determined by some standard outside of ourselves. There was an absolute anonymous, self-contained satisfaction that emerged from us being by ourselves.

When we pause to think deeply about the specific joys of our childhoods, the things we spent our free time alone doing–climbing trees, looking at twigs, holding conversations with ourselves–I think the details that we DO remember–however tiny–have special significance. After all this time, it’s as though the memories have been poured through a sieve and what remains caught must be important.

So what did you do to fill time alone when you were a child? What did you wear while you did it? What was your hair like? How did the dirt you played with feel–rich or sandy? Did it get under your fingernails? What kinds of trees were around you, what did you collect? Describe everything you can in great detail. As you recount the physical details, I would be surprised if some of your interior life as a child didn’t emerge and connect with who you are today.

If you’re interested, check out this poem by William Matthews, which uses very specific concrete details to help us to understand his particular experience.