haunts of memory

Listening to an arts review program on the radio in the car this evening about memory, how it shapes who we are, and how we use it to alter the future, made me think. I have very little memory of any extended family beyond my parents and siblings. I lived only for a few short years in Finland, where any relatives might have visited. I arrived in Finland as a strange child, not speaking the language well, probably mixing it up with English, Amharic, and even, I'm told, the Swedish I picked up while en route with my parents back "home" to Finland.

It was only with my Great-Aunt Elli, that I can recall developing any sense of familial fondness. I have an image of her breaking off a thread between her teeth and then promptly telling me never to do the same, or I would get a dent in my tooth like the one she had on one of her front teeth. Another piece of advice I remember her telling me was to avoid coffee, because it stains your teeth. Again, the teeth?? I have no idea what that means.

I dreamt the other day that I had lost several teeth, some of the broken remnants making quite a snaggle of my mouth.

Today, I visited some places where some fond memories were created, friends gathering in the yard on a sunny day, coming and going out of a country kitchen, laughter, lots of talk. Somehow, the landscapes of memory are never accurate, never like a photograph. They are fuzzy, the lines don't meet, the view is foreshortened, out of frame somehow. Reality always seems broader, deeper, more focused and smaller. And there is a pang of regret, nostalgia, a sense of lives having moved out of my world.

During a particularly difficult time in my life, a wise friend told me it helps when finding your way again after loss, to go back to your roots. Where are the roots of a child of nomads? Are the memories of vagrant visits and brief sojourns my roots? Or can I go deeper to the cultures, the flavours, the sights, and the smells of Africa? Finland? Rural and small-town southern Ontario? Summers on rocky shores of northern lakes? Where??

One day, in a bookstore, I was browzing through a lovely coffee-table book of photographs of the south of France. Suddenly the light, so marvelously captured in some of the photographs, took me back to Europe in a sensation so keen, that my whole body was affected. It was a little disorientating for a moment! I expected to tune my attention to French conversation, find a pastry or two in the patisserie next door, buy a Paris Match magazine maybe at the librarie and walk up the mountain past walled gardens where men played at boules...