The Native Iowan

For me the act of remembrance is part and parcel of why I write. I have learned to write as things happen. As I experience something. In order to be able to emote or understand my experience, I write. This is partly due to an aversion to “bottling” things up. Good things should be shared. Bad things should be shared. Sharing promotes understanding and acceptance.

It has been a major endeavor in my life to remember and accept my being. Being here. Having been there. And planning to be elsewhere. What I experience is as mythical or magical as it is factual and real. Writing is good for me in this situation because I am not trying to write a diary. The aim is as much (possibly more) emoting the myth and magic as it is to record or remember the factual and the real.

I feel strongly that our society has spent a lot of time molding us, training us to see and respect the factual and the real. It is incumbent upon society that it’s members “buy” into the scheme of things. Divergence or deviance is not good for society. Yet we all have that seed of need and knowing buried in us. Some of us find this seed hard to find and germinate. Others find that this seed grows with far too much strength and vigor to contain or control.

My stories are all pieces I have been “rehacking” or reliving for quite some time. They are stories of remembrance. Of finding the key to that locked chamber  of dark secrets. 

Remembering is always good. But often painful. 

Some memories cause shame. Some fear. All memories contain joy.

My words joyously celebrate the past. My past. The past I have shared. 

I am reminded of my paternal grandmother. The memories she shared with me as an attentive listener. Her memories of horse drawn society. The wars she lived through. The names of the people she still mourned.

I am reminded of my father-in-law. Born a pagan in the tropical jungles of Choisuel. He had been trained in the old “oral tradition”. He could recite 13 generation of lineage. His memories were vast and articulate. He knew his ancestors. Their exploits and losses. 

I learned much about remembering from both. And I am taxed with passing on some small part of that which I have learned. In the stories I tell to my children and grandchildren.

And in the words I write.

Remembering is good. Is always good.