At work, we’re doing this thing where we’re all turning in one of our favorite Christmas memories. I don’t know the reasoning behind this. Maybe we’re going to play some kind of a game with all our memories, like guessing which one belongs to which person. Or maybe they’re all going to be posted on a wall somewhere, kind of like a good-memory-montage. Regardless of the reasoning, this slip of paper has been sitting on my desk for about two weeks now, blank.
It’s not that I don’t have good Christmas memories. I do. There really isn’t anything that stands out, though, as spectacular or overtly special or specifically horrible. There are annual things that happen. There are celebrations with family and friends. There are gifts. There is a spiritual component. There is food. It’s a good time. We decorate, we sing. We make merry. But nothing stands out. I don’t have anything to write for this little work time activity.
And then, as I was thinking about this lack of specific memory, I realized that I lack specific memories for most things. Which isn’t true, but it is. I have a fantastic and slightly creepy memory for detail. But memories of holidays and birthdays and yearly events don’t readily come to mind. I sit and stare open-mouthed, trying to remember what I did for my sixteenth birthday, who was at my graduation party, what I like about Thanksgiving, what I used to dress up as for Halloween. My face contorts as I try to remember these things that most other people seem to be able to recall quickly and joyfully.
It’s more of a challenge for me. One that I enjoy, really. What is something good about Christmas time in my life? What did I use to do during the summers as a child? What was my bedroom like? What did Jeremiah and I used to do for our parents’ birthdays? What did I do with my friends in elementary, middle, high school? And as I ask these questions, slowly small images begin to appear in my head, just in the corner of my mind, and as I think more the image gets larger and larger until I receive a full memory (as true as I can believe it to be).
Like, cookie day at my Grandma’s house, and how the only thing I really did was eat dough.
Making a collage of some of my favorite knick-knacks on a piece of construction paper for mother’s day one year (like, a dime, and a feather, and cat stickers and some mismatched pieces of ribbon and twine).
My 101 Dalmatian blanket that had two sides to it-one where the puppies were all playing in a field of green and the other where they were snuggled together resting. Every day I would switch this blanket so that when I was sleeping, the active side was facing up and when I was awake the sleepy side was facing up. My reasoning was a little flawed, but it went a little like this: when I was sleeping, I didn’t want to sleep up against the active side, because that might make me not rest as well. And I wanted to give both sides of the blanket equal attention. Flaws: I wasn’t in the bed when I was being active, thus I didn’t get to experience that active side. In fact, what if I was being active and sat on my bed? I would then be sitting on the resting side, thus making myself sleepy. Also–sheets. There was a sheet in between me and my blanket. And, if I was lying in bed and looked down toward my feet, I would see the active pups and would thus be energized. However, I know this probably wouldn’t have happened because I almost always slept with my head completely covered by my blankets, so I just looked like a lump under the covers.
But then I have to stop. If I don’t my head gets overwhelmed and I find it hard to step out of the remembering place and then the rest of my day will feel funny, like I’m not really existing there but am only in the place where my memory currently rests. That usually will make me pretty uncommunicative, which is kind of awkward for everyone, especially if they ask me what I’m thinking about and I say, “Dalmatians” (one time when I was seven or eight, my Grandma asked me what I was thinking about, and I said “pandas.” The conversation ended there).
Anyways, all of this to say, I’ll think of something to write on this little slip of paper. I have faith in that.
What ever happened to the Dalmatian blanket?