Tag: memories

Why memories matter even when they can’t be trusted …
```
"... perhaps part of grief
is mourning the space 
left behind ..."
```
I’ve been thinking about how precious memories can be and yet, at the same time, how they cannot be trusted. I’ve written a journal all my adult life and I sometimes revisit old volumes and read entries from past years. Mostly, I write about feelings, but details of my life are present too. That said, it’s the feelings I want to explore. When life feels difficult and I feel I have a mountain to climb, it does me good to go back and read about how I’ve faced obstacles before. They often felt insurmountable, and yet they never were. It reminds me that I’ll get through the latest crisis, because I always do.

Our memories are precisely that. They are ours. Of course, they interact constantly with the memories of others who might have shared an experience with us, but they are unique. I’m sure you will have talked about events with others only to find that their memory of it will differ from yours. It might be little details that differ, or it may be something significant. It doesn’t make your memory, or theirs, any less real. I think that we remember what we need to remember. Memories somehow feed a need in us. They help us navigate our way through life, making sense of what we’ve experienced and what we’ve learnt from it. At least, that’s how it seems to me.

I had a vivid dream just the other day, in which I returned to my childhood home. I walked through it all in a trance, remembering where each room was located, observing them in turn. It felt so real and, yet, I have no doubt that much of it will be mis-remembered. Does it matter? I’m not sure it does. I suppose it depends on the purpose a memory must serve. If you need the detail to be accurate, well, you could be on dodgy ground. But if you’re looking to make sense of your world, then I think you’re on safer territory. Suffice it to say, memories should come with a health warning: this may be true but, on the other hand, may not. Better then to say, this is my truth.

I know for a fact that if you put me and my siblings in a room and asked us to tell you about my father, we would all have some shared memories and some that were widely disparate and, inevitably, contradictory. That’s perfectly normal, isn’t it? It would be impossible for it to be otherwise, because we’re all very different people and so was my dad. He was not the same father to any of us. I think that’s pretty standard too. That’s the joy of relationships: we interact with each other in unique ways, responding to the different personalities we’re faced with.

In this week’s poem, I reflect on my memories of my father, who died in 2020. His ashes were split following his cremation, and I was given a small container, about the size of a can of Pepsi. We all chose to do very different things with the ashes we were given. I decided I would scatter my dad’s ashes, in a place where he’d loved to walk. Hiking was something we had both enjoyed and, over the years, I walked with him often. I know he loved Stoodley Pike, but I honestly don’t recall if we ever walked it together. I willed myself to remember as I took his ashes up there, but I couldn’t. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t important.

There are so many poems about loss and how loved ones stay with us beyond death, kept alive through our memories of them. That’s hardly surprising, given how universal an experience bereavement is. It’s a good reminder, if ever one was needed, that even if we can’t always trust our memories, we can invariably take comfort in them and know they speak our truths. Most life events are pretty universal, but it’s our memories that make us who we are.

Stoodley Pike Download
23/09/2026
When weather evokes memories …
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"... who isn’t charmed 
by a wild flower meadow 
oxeye daisies stand tall 
battered poppies 
brave the wind
crane’s-bill and bindweed
line the lanes ..."
```
Well, what a summer it has been! The fields are parched, the hay is gathered early, and much of the country is in drought. But not yet in Yorkshire, although perhaps it’s just a matter of time.

We all have an opinion on the weather don’t we? But even the sun worshippers have to acknowledge, I think, that we need rain. I’m not about to get into a climate change debate, but I think it’s safe to say that the climate is changing. It makes me wonder where it will all end. The world continues to evolve and so, of course, do we.

I’ve been reflecting on how I’ve changed over the last few years, having reached some milestones in life. A year into retirement from my full time job, I’ve had the opportunity to do more of what I love and to spend more time with family and friends. I’ve found space to focus on creativity, to exercise and travel. I’ve thought a lot about how I am ageing. I can’t avoid it: I look in the mirror every day and see it looking back at me. And I welcome this older face, the grey curls, and the still bright eyes. If my social media algorithms are anything to go by, we are obsessed with ageing. So many of the podcasts I listen to tackle the subject of ageing, seeking to tell positive stories about how age can bring wisdom, freedom and fresh opportunities. So far, that’s been my experience.

It’s humbling to realise, as you age, that you are becoming the older generation. As what was the older generation die, you find you are filling the space they once filled. It’s a cycle as old as time. I have to pinch myself when I watch my nephew with his children, remembering the boy he was at their age. I watch my mother entering a decade that was once defined by my grandmother. I watch myself growing old, knowing it’s a privilege not everyone enjoys.

The summer of ’26 has taken me back to ’76, which was one of those defining summers in the UK. If you lived through it, you’ll remember it and can still talk about it. My friends and I had a habit of sitting on the pavement outside our houses to play. But we couldn’t that year because the tarmac was melting. I would’ve been in shorts and a t-shirt. There would, invariably, have been a plaster on my knee from some recent scrape. I was your typical tomboy; wouldn’t have been seen dead in a dress if I could help it. But I didn’t always get to choose. I occasionally wore a dress under duress and somehow lived to tell the tale. There was my First Holy Communion dress: white like a bride, complete with a ridiculous veil. All Catholic girls had to endure this torture and we bore it collectively, which took the edge off the humiliation. Then there was the bridesmaid dress, for a cousin’s wedding. My siblings both had new outfits, which they could and did wear afterwards. I had a pale green full length broderie anglaise affair that never again saw the light of day. Of course, the cousin later divorced, so it had all been for nothing.

My ten year old self would not recognise the woman I’ve become. I’ve evolved into a dress wearer. My collection is eclectic and plentiful: shirt dresses, maxi, floaty and fitted. This summer, dresses have been a life saver. You can’t beat a floaty number to keep you cool and feeling light. I will think of them fondly when, in winter, I am wrapped up against the cold and wet. The changing seasons will invite fresh insights and, of course, we’ll all have an opinion on the weather, whatever it brings. I hope that this very hot summer will have left you with memories to last a lifetime; that’s the best kind of summer in my book.

late summer Download
26/08/2026
When something’s greater than the sum of its parts …
```
"... fountain pens 
are to be savoured 
like that first morning coffee 
freshly ground 
preparing for the day’s
thoughts to surface 
from within ..." 
```
I’ve been sorting through clutter, which is proving more of a challenge than it should be. If you live with someone who wants to keep everything, you’ll understand. That said, occasionally I find something in a box or drawer that I’d forgotten. I recently found the two fountain pens that were purchased as wedding gifts by me and my husband. Neither of us knew what the other had bought. We no doubt congratulated ourselves heartily for our supposed originality, only to laugh when we realised that we’d both bought the same thing.

I do still use a fountain pen, but had forgotten how beautiful my wedding pen was. It’s a Waterman with a tortoise shell casing, and a medium nib. It feels good in my hand, and the soft click as you return the cap is immensely satisfying. The pen I bought my husband is a Sheaffer, with a stainless steel barrel and cap, engraved with his name. He used it occasionally in the early years, but he prefers a ballpoint. It was thus consigned to a dresser drawer for the best part of 3 decades. Having rediscovered both pens, I determined to give them a new lease of life.

There are certain objects that command respect just for what they are; they amount to more than the sum of their parts. They carry a certain aura, that only deepens with age. Binoculars, for instance, fit into this category, as do musical instruments, manual typewriters and, of course, fountains pens. Perhaps everyone’s list of revered items is different, but I bet you can think of some. A brand new guitar may well be a thing of beauty, but an old classic has something more, don’t you think?

I love the way that the old and new can co-exist. I like to think, when using classic pieces in new ways, the past and present are uniquely connected. It’s just better, isn’t it, to use the binoculars that belonged to your dad, rather than the new pair you bought, even if the new pair are technically superior. Perhaps it’s just me.

Even though both wedding pens were completely dry, traces of old ink mingled with the new. It felt spooky; in my hand and on the page, they served as a bridge between my younger and present self. It took longer than I expected for the new ink to take hold and present true to colour. A lesson right there perhaps: we think we’ve let go of the past, but it lingers in our subconscious longer than we think. Okay, enough, I think I’ve stretched this metaphor as far as it will go!

Of course, it isn’t only old objects that can trigger memories and associations. I attended a family wedding in the spring, which was a joyous occasion. Inevitably, weddings always take me back to my own wedding day which, again, left me appreciating those pens and their rediscovery all the more. It also left me wondering what the modern day bride and groom had bought as gifts for each other. I hope those gifts, whatever they were, will be deeply appreciated for years to come. Then, even further down the line, when they rediscover them in a drawer or cupboard, they’ll bring renewed pleasure as they enjoy a new lease of life.

wedding pens Download
24/06/2026
Why gathered treasure is irresistible …
```
"... if I had to choose 
one thing to save 
I couldn’t decide 
I’d let it all go 
knowing what I need 
will find me ..." 
```
I’ve been listening to the podcast The Clearing, with Katherine May, which has recently returned for a second series. I love the idea of sanctuary; imagining where you’d go to find rest and recharge your batteries. Guests are invited to describe their ideal place, to talk about what they’d take with them, what they would do whilst there, and what they might bring back. Many guests chose to take a keepsake, and this is often a stone.

It got me thinking about all the things I’ve gathered from places where I’ve felt rested and restored; keen to hold onto that same feeling when returning to my busy life. Stones and sand both feature heavily in my collection. Sometimes I feel guilty, thinking they belong back where I found them. Then I tell myself that we are all in transit on this earth, and this detour is part of their journey but not the end. They will no doubt outlive me and find their way back to where they need to be.

When I pick up a stone, or a handful of sand, it doesn’t feel much, but it adds up to a lot in my modest home. Bookshelves play host to many a talisman, windowsills and mantelpieces also take the strain. Even the corner of the bath obliges, where Hebridean stones change colour whenever the bathroom is hot and steamy. They soak up moisture as we soak in the bath. It feels companionable.

I don’t think of myself as materialistic; I’m not a hoarder. But I can’t resist a smooth pebble, soft sand or pine cones. It’s the memories they evoke that I love so much. I glance at a jar of sand on my windowsill and remember walking along that beach, listening to the waves and feeling the wind in my hair. I recall how I felt and the promises I made to myself to pay more attention to nature, to allow time just for me. It’s easy to be so caught up in our daily commitments, that we lose focus. I suspect we all need reminding about prioritising what really matters, whatever that may be. I know I do.

I’ve always treasured small things in which I bestow meaning. I learnt young just how much can be invested in material things, especially in church, where objects were revered. In our house, my father’s record player took pride of place, and vinyl was precious, to be handled with great care. Playing a record was a ritual almost as sacred as the priest at church holding up the host. That may sound flippant, but such was my 7-year-old view of the world.

Rituals help us make sense of the world. They keep us grounded: when it feels like everything is changing around us, you can always revert to what you know and trust. And rituals need props right? What’s a birthday cake without candles, a Christmas tree without decorations? You might have a favourite piece of jewellery that you always wear for a special occasion. It may be as simple as the mug from which you drink your coffee, and woe betide anyone else who uses it!

This week’s poem is the result of my reflecting on some of the things in my house that, on the face of it, seem worthless, but which mean a lot to me. I’d much rather collect a stone from a beach than purchase a souvenir in a gift shop. I invest a lot of myself in the things I gather around me. They act as shorthand, the equivalent of bookmarks in the story of my life, helping me navigate to my favourite bits, to revisit and remember. You might turn down the corner of a page in a book so you can go back to it. It’s the same idea. I appreciate the things around me, reminders of all I hold precious; I know they are shortcuts, it’s the memory that’s the real treasure. What things in your home do you value most and for what reason?

treasure Download
03/06/2026