first memory

One of my first memories is of the sound of high heals clicking accompanied by the swishing of dry fallen leaves pushed around by feet on pavement. All this in bright yet low autumn sunlight. That's what I remember. The motion of being wheeled around in a stroller or buggie as I watched things around me happen.

Another one of my earliest memories is that of being alone behind the bars of a crib, crying for someone to come and get me and feeling abandoned.

My mom confirmed the second memory for me recently. She told me that in the summer she would put me in a crib on the balcony where she couldn't always hear me when I cried. No wonder that to this day I dislike cribs and have trust issues. Just kidding... about the latter.

I wonder what Jonah's first memories will be. Will it be the image of a giant cat staring in his face? Will he remember us dancing cheek to cheek to bossa nova as he falls asleep? Will he remember riding through the forest on his dad's chest? It's all a mystery.

I had a thought the other day. Maybe having children is our way of retracing the times we have forgotten - our infancy. By watching an infant, to some degree, we relearn what being one is like. The experience enables us to relive the part of our lives that we have forgotten, and when we are truly present during this stage, it makes us whole because to care for an infant, to muster up the compassion that we need, we must, in a way, become the infant. Or try to get inside the mind of the infant, anyways. The lines between self and other blur, and though we act as the responsible guardians, we must find the infant's angelic gentleness within us to be able to give it.

Also, observing our parents with our children helps us realize what made us who we are. We see our parents in a whole different light when they interact with our children. It lets us imagine what our mothers and fathers were like with us and shows us how much we have inherited from them unknowingly.

When my mom plays with Jonah, I find myself noticing how much some of my attitudes and mannerisms resemble hers. I am certain that someone on the outside would notice even more similarities between us.

Here are some lyrics (originally in French) by Angus Martin, a friend of mine, whose CD Presqu'ile I've been listening to:

A child is a declaration of hope:
A flare shot off into the dark mess of history
. . . A document signed against the ugliness
Of adults and all of their bullshit.