Memory ... Memories ... Lapsed Memories

Yesterday, the matter of memory raised to the surface ... How do I complete: "I do not remember ..." ... or was it? "I remember?" I don't recall which it was.

 As I was preparing to set up an Eastern European Bean pot (well, maybe it was Western European cassoulet even if I thought it was Eastern European Cholent) for the four grandchildren who'll be joining M and I this evening for dinner with two parents ... the thought surfaced ... "I don't remember" even if the early-years TV show was "I remember Mama."

Cholent cooks slowly ... Memory appears and disappears. Vorstellungen (inner film clips of what is and what isn't or just what can't be remembered) rise to the surface of our minds and birth feelings ... if the feelings are too disturbing, they go back to sleep -- I suppose one could say that they go back to sleep in the recesses of our memories.

My mother made cholent ... when I cook my bean pot, the smells are similar ... potatoes, onions, garlic and a half-a-dozen different kinds of beans. I remember my Mother ... Who was it? Jeremiah the lonely bachelor of the OT (that's not Overtime but Old Writings to those who embrace the New Ones of the NT) or Isaiah the Depressed. I don't remember...  but one of them, I think, had their God opining: "I remember with you the loving kindnesses of your youthful days, the love shown by a your bride-days .... You followed me in the wilderness towards an unplanted land." That's what Mothers do ... or at least those who are good enough to point us and accompany us to an uncharted and unplanned and unplanted future.

A voice calls out in the Wilderness of the Fourth Quarter of Life: Mother, where are you?

So much of the Last Quarter is about memories and missing memories and memories that are missed. I feel the glimmers of tears not quite ready to appear, this morning.

Ah, but after setting the pot of beans on its ten-hour journey to the Land of Cholent, I threw together basil and spinach and olive oil and cashews and blended them with garlic and salt and pepper to prepare a Pesto Mom never knew about but might well have liked.

I am nothing if not memories and lapses of memory ... the remains of old fires burnt in my Wilderness over the past many years by a traveller and his fellow pilgrims.