Friday night, along with 34 million other people across the world, I settled in with my bucket of popcorn and soda to watch the Olympic opening ceremonies. Excitement and curiosity were tainted by the sad and tragic accident of the young Georgian luger just hours before the games opening ceremony.
The Olympics amaze me. A world community puts aside many of its differences and comes together in a united goal and experience. No matter how many times I watch it, I am taken by the same sense of globalness- something that expands far beyond myself and reminds me that I am a part of something bigger.
But last night I was struck by another feeling- beyond that sense of outward connectedness there was also an inward connection. This introspective awareness was triggered at the first notes of Joni Mitchell singing Both Sides Now. As the aerial gymnast made his ascent in the stadium and was treated to a change of perspective, I felt a similar shift in my own perspective. It was as if I too was lifted up and away from the show, only to be transported back in time to another version of Both Sides Now being sung by Judy Collins.
It is 1967. I can hear the scratchiness of a record that suffered from an astounding number of repetitive plays with a less than gentle placement of the needle. There is a large orange frangipani scented candle which claims its place next to the ancient portable record player. Both are perched on my army green camp trunk which now serves as a night stand and occasional ironing board in my college dorm room. It is my first semester. I am sitting on the floor next to that trunk, my back up against my Indian tapestry covered bed. My knees are bent, I am hugging my legs. My chin is down and my long stingy hair falls in my face. It tickles my knees where my bell bottom jeans are worn through. The room is illuminated solely by that one lone candle (later that semester it will be joined by empty Mateus bottle with a long taper). The orange wax is spilling on to the shiny metal trunk. In the shadows I watch it coagulate and idly make designs in the gooey mess with a burned out match. All this time, I listen to Judi sing Joni’s words and watch the flickering shadows. I am feeling lost, adrift and confused. I also feel very mature and wise and “deep.” I am 17.
Now it is 40(+) years later and I can feel those sensations, not just the smell of the frangipani, or the sound of the music or the touch of my hair on my bare knees. But I can feel her-that 18 year old girl. It is beyond remembering the experience; it is far more visceral. I feel as if I am being hurled back in time. But I am not going back; I am going down inside myself to visit with a younger self that still lives inside me.
Of course, the “Now” me chuckles at “Young” me-at my naiveté, my cynicism and even my arrogance. But I am gentle with that young self. And at the moment we make peace with each other- my 18 year old self ( who never thought she would trust anyone over 30) and my now self , we simply forgive each other. I forgive her for her mistakes and the youth she took for granted. She forgives me for getting older. Then, together we are mesmerized by the aerial ballet of this young dancer as we listen to those words we both know so well. We are not just united with the world,we are united with each other. She tosses some popcorn to the dog, I laugh and we settle down just as the song is ending and the flying young man returns to earth.
And then, just like that, the images of that dorm room start to fade and I am present only with my 2010 self, conscious of the heating pad on my achy back and wondering if the caffeine in the soda will disrupt my sleep.
Music is one way we get to revisit our past selves. The smell of an early morning rain, the taste of a too salty chicken soup or the touch of a worn flannel shirt-these also have the power to evoke a similar experience. These moments are beyond memories as they give us a chance to reconnect with our former selves and perhaps gain clarity and even make peace.
Have you had an experience like this?
The strangest things can send you back to that place of childhood. Some like their trip down memory lane, mine is usually full of frustration and sadness. Being a musician songs easily send me back to that empty time in my life, luckily the songs usually bring back bearable memories. I had a brother who was a charming and lively “dude”. Often times he had no reason to celebrate, but he loved to sing along to his old 45 “Celebration”! His happiness at the moment was a strong contrast to the troubled youth he was. I loved his unstoppable exuberance. When the tune finds its way back to me now, I savor the memory, I tell my young self to dance a little longer, hug him longer, tell him you love him, though the ladder didn’t usually happen as I was too young to know the importance of saying those words myself. Maybe if I knew that 14 years later he would take his own life, the words would have spilled into his ear and healed his hurt, even if it was for just that moment. The song is ending now, but the memories last. I return to this life and comfort myself in knowing that a part of my brother lives in me. The most important quality of him is in me- the happiness that can’t be taken away. Divorce, autism, financial stress, or dysfunctional parents can’t take away that well of happiness my brother planted in me all those years before.
The beauty of floating back into my past is the recognition of how far I have travelled; spiritually, emotionally and intellectually.
And it has been a good trip for all that I have been continues to contribute to who I am now.
For me, smells bring me back to wonderful memories. The smell of bacon and blueberry pancakes for breakfast cooking on a camping gas grill, the smell of wet dog from diving for rocks and swimming kids on his back all day, charcoal cooking steaks, hamburgers and hotdogs, and the smell of pine from the trees. These smells bring me back to when my parents, myself and cousins, used to go on day trips to the lake. We would eat and just swim all day in the lake. These smells bring back just happy moments that help me deal with the unhappy ones I have dealt with.
For me, it is a bright sunny fall day that often brings me back to a memory. It is an October day, but warm. The smell of fall is in the air — burning leaves (it was over 30 years ago) and a woody scent. The late fall warmth feels like nature forgot the day on the calendar.
I am with my high school boyfriend and we are resting in the warm sun in an open field on a hillside in a rural area of town. Our bicycles, which were our mode of transportation at that time, are tossed on the ground beside us. We are both 16, and have been dating for about 6 months. We are beyond that first awkward stage of high school dating, but still new to, and excited by, the idea of being with each other and of being in young (uncomplicated) love.
I can’t remember what we talked about (probably high school gossip and flirty conversation), but I remember being happy and knowing, just as sure as I felt the warmth on my skin, that he was someone very special.
In the distance down below, vibrant fields of mums are in full bloom in colors of red, yellow and gold. Suddenly, a bagpiper begins to play in those fields, part of a celebration being held by the nursery that owns the fields. The unusual music casts an almost surreal but extra special spell on the day.
We sat together for what must have been a few hours, but, looking back, seems like too short a time. My boyfriend took a small stick, maybe an inch or two, and peeled off the bark as we talked and laughed with each other. He broke the stick in half, giving me one half and keeping the other. I can’t remember his exact words, but he joked (as a 16-year old would do) that this gift to me was “us” — and that we should each keep the halves.
That open hillside is gone now; it is full of houses on small-acre lots. The nursery sold its land to a developer whose condos fill the flat fields. The boy and I are grown now, with separate lives of our own.
But, we are still young and together when I go back to that day, which I can do whenever a late fall sun warms my back — and I reach into my pocket to caress the smooth round stick from so long ago.
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