renegotiating the terms of our agreement
I heard that it might take a while, but I did not expect it to take this long.
Memory (the deliberate act of remembering) is a form of willed creation. It is not an effort to find out the way it really was—that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way.
Toni Morrison
There are memories, then there are ghosts. There are thoughts that visit now and then, then there are guests who are so frequent that one would assume they live next door. Maybe they never left. I’ve been making a list of each memory-guest that has come to visit me and noticed that there is one who visits more frequently than all the rest. At this point, perhaps I should have already laid out the tea, coffee, and fruit and made these a permanent feature in the guest room. Perhaps I should leave the door open, or go down to the shop to have an extra key made just for them. This home is ours; it is no longer just mine. This is also a home of memories—the funny ones and the not-so-funny ones.
When you visit next, perhaps you will notice how I have a picture of you and me stuck on the wall, a seedling of our history planted in the garden, and a string of your name engraved in the cutlery. While I keep you in my heart, I also find myself telling the strawberries about you too, singing to the plates with my hands lathered in soap, and humming softly to our favourite song as I replace the hook at the back of the painting we liked looking at. This way of spreading my memories across the space and time of my home is how I sprinkle seeds of joy and detangle threads of sorrow.
Did you catch a piece of me floating in the wind?
As much as I have been receiving visitors in the form of memories, now and then I also choose to take a trip down ‘memory lane’. I pack a small bag of snacks, some water, and a change of clothes knowing that the return journey sometimes takes me longer than I anticipated. It starts with me peeking through the clearing into the density ahead and ends with me looking up at the sky for indications of rain or storm.
Sometimes, ‘memory lane’ involves a tactical manoeuvre down the side of a mountain. Other times, it is a bold and brazen jump off the side of a cliff ending with a big splash at the bottom of the canyon. On some days, it is one breath after another until I am in the deep sublayers of my conscience. On other days, it is a marked path in the forest with several offshoots that become rugged trails and terrain. I pack a different backpack for each trip because each trip haunts a different part of me.
I have come to learn that these places of haunting are also my sites of healing.
How you ask, do I dare to leave the comfort of my bed and blanket to visit places (and people) who might turn me back, ignore my presence, or disappear at the sight of my arrival? Well, it is not that I dare to. Rather, I fervently desire to know “what else is possible?”
The last time I visited with you was a year ago at a time like this—in the colours of Fall. I came feeling optimistic but left with bruises beyond belief. I came adorned, with my flowery blouse and light jacket, knowing that it would be a sunny afternoon followed by a gentle, crisp breeze later in the evening. I forgot to consult with my guides and angels. Maybe if I did, I would have brought my steel armour with me. Maybe then I would have been able to soften the blows and protect the tender organs of my being.
Now that I sit with this memory, I also remember that in my jacket pocket, I had a tiny pink paper with incantations and affirmations that I had scribbled down ahead of our meeting. Somehow, my intuition knew that I would need to reaffirm my worth. The wisdom of my body scholarship knew that I would be looking for a lifeline, and these reminders—on a tiny pink piece of paper—would suffice for this one time. They would hold me up until I made it back into the walls of my home where I had the permission to crumble, collapse, curl up, and wail. They would remind me of every good prayer and every kind word that has been spoken over me by my grandmother, and her grandmother, and her grandmother.
I carry my ancestors’ prayers in my pockets, next to the dagger my grandfather taught me how to use, all bundled up in a bold red scarf—just like the one worn by Zapatista women.
I have been wondering whether you left with any bruises. Did you also have medicine stashed in your pockets? Or did you leave feeling victorious and unscathed? I watched you walk away, with the sun setting in the direction of your stride. Funny how the Earth knows how to always be beautiful and whole, even when witnessing fragmentation such as this. I thought you might turn back, perhaps as penance for the mountain of mess you had left behind. I thought the smoke signal coming from the raging fire within and around me might irritate your senses and nudge you to look back. You walked away—calm, cool and collected.
Memories run away too—like you. Memories move. Memories hide. Memories freeze. Memories know how to make up other memories to cover up their tracks.
Thankfully, I have been trained by teachers who love the Earth as deeply as the Earth loves them. My teachers taught me how to find a path out of dense bushes, how to identify tracks left by beasts and birds, and above all else, they taught me which medicines to gather to rub on my bruises. They told me about calling on kin to come and sit with me; to find a trusted friend whose hands will rub soothing salve on my back. I knew medicine as a friend first and then came to learn of a friend as medicine.
But years of running from pain, and assimilating to the numbness of this world, almost made me forget that my armour was never a shiny, silver coat. I have always had and will always have a treasure chest of ancient technologies and ancestral medicine in all chambers of my heart, flowing with the current of my blood, and floating in the winds within my chest.
So my dear, next time we meet, I will come invisibly armoured. I will carry with me incantations in the language of my people. I will remember that while we agreed to meet again, we will need to (re)negotiate the terms of our agreement. This time, I ask that you bring your heart with you and sprinkle in a little tenderness. Perhaps we can meet in a place that allows us to take a pause whenever needed, to be silent in the silence, and to take our sweet time regardless of the clock.
This time, I hope we remember that you and I are someone’s child, friend, and kin. May we leave each other intact, fortified and softened.
Are you willing to (re)negotiate the terms of our agreement?
In the end, we are each other’s becoming.
"Are you willing to (re)negotiate the terms of our agreement?". Made me think more deeply about what it looks like to hold space for future reconciliation in an intentional way with loved ones...