I hear a writing prompt with the word “Memory” and I don’t think first of the incredible song from “Cats,” instead I hear in my mind Barbara Streisand belting out the lyrics from The Way We Were. Is it possible we sang that song in my freshman year in the Glen Ridge High School woman’s chorus or was it the memory of someone else singing it?
I’m not sure. That was the last year I was a complete soprano and I know for certain we sang “You are the Sunshine of My Life” by Stevie Wonder and “Theme from Mahogany” at my sister’s graduation, but like a lot of memories I am just
Most of the memories I would like to relive intact involve singing, writing, poetry performance or theater.
This shouldn’t surprise me yet it does.
I think of those memories before I think of the births of my children or the first time I connected with my didn’t-know-it-at-the-time-but-would-one-day-become-my daughter, Beyunca.
Instead I flash to moments of transcendence on stage or in rehearsal, the stillness of writing as if my fingers were on clouds, the silence at the end of a poem performed, followed by a gasp and then, hearty applause.
I flash to a room full of women singing praise songs and praying. We were each prayed for by everyone else as we walked through a human arch and those of us who were waiting to be prayed for sang our prayers.
Then I flash to the moments I would like to modify, those could-be-regretful-if-I-allowed-them-to-be: moments when I could have chosen to do something or do something differently or say something or say something differently or ignore something or choose something or stopped doing something.
There are many of those.
My best choice there is to not be legalistic with myself, to not judge myself anymore than I would with others.
When I was fifteen-years-old I stood in a dress I can’t remember with my hair bound in a not very attractive ponytail singing, “Once we were standing still in time/ Chasing the fantasies/ That filled our minds.”
Now I know the realities are somehow sweeter than the fantasies, even the once I might have liked to change. Each memory fuels my next choice and my next and my next.
May each choice be blessed and written into poetry and sung in my spirit and retold and written into a collaborative story, perhaps with you.
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Julie
Jordan Scott is a writer, performance poet, Mommy and mixed-media artist. Her
word-love themed art will be for sale at First Friday each month in Downtown
Bakersfield. Check out the links below to follow her on a bunch of different
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