Memories

Hello Friends,

When my mother died, I ended up taking the bulk of old family photos and records, along with some mementos and a piece of furniture or two.

I was struck by the images from the 1930s, 40s, 50s and on up, and realized that when I die? No one will want these old photos. The people in them? Most likely they’ll be forgotten. For now, I keep some of their memories alive on my ancestor altar.

This past week, I masked up and headed to the estate sale of a 90+ year old person I used to check on periodically, especially in the early pandemic days. Turns out he’d filled his house with amazing treasures, including many things I would have liked to have taken home, but I have neither the space nor the need for them. I did contact an urban homesteader I’m acquainted with to come check out some of the old hand cranked kitchen implements and other low tech tools and equipment still in pristine shape.

As for me? I brought home a vice for the workshop and a cast iron trivet in the shape of a pentacle.

This way, I can remember old Bob, and a part of his life will live on in our home, giving us enjoyment over the years.

There are so many stories I can tell about friends and family members who are gone now, lost to age, happenstance, or disease. I’m sure you have those stories, too, especially these days. We also carry stories of former bits of ourselves, some of which cling on to life now, or have been well integrated into ourselves, and some of which we’ve let go. Other parts of self? We may have even forgotten.

So today, I wonder: What makes a life important? What memories do we cling to, and why?

I think this is part of why I write: to bear witness to lives lived, and to foster hope for life yet to come.

Wishing you well.

blessings — Thorn

ps: Thanks to everyone who has supported my Bookshop Witch Kickstarter! There are only a few days left to go!