Memories, again

I'm stuck on this idea of memories - the sometimes visceral recollection of a time or a place or a person.  I'm assuming that it has to do with growing older, with the very real awareness that there is more time behind me than in front of me.

At a  recent writing workshop, a particular prompt stirred a strong memory I have of climbing a tall pine tree near our house when I was small - maybe 6 or 7 years old. I remember the swaying of the tree as I neared the very top, the wind and the smell of pine. I remember the sense of absolute freedom.  I know that my mother called to me to come down, trying to keep her voice from betraying the fear she had that I'd fall.  I know that because she told me later, but I don't remember that part. How many of our memories are actually our recollection and how many are the stories we've been told? How many are based on the stories that we tell ourselves?  When does memory shift to being a story, an anecdote? At what point does it lose its emotional pull?

I recently came across some writing from pre and early recovery, including a scathing letter I wrote to my cousins attacking them for their part in an intervention that got me into my first treatment experience ("how dare you?" "It's none of your business!")  I also found some early inventory, mainly about my parents as I began to wrestle with the impact of growing up with alcoholism. Now, I thank my dear cousins for their part in helping me stay alive and had completely forgotten how angry I once was. These days, I am able to "look at my past without staring" (from the Alanon reader, Courage to Change) in regards to my childhood, loving my parents fiercely for who they were, not mad any longer for who they were not.  Those shifts come from my changed perspectives, from time and distance, from step work and forgiveness and lived evidence of trusting that "if things were supposed to be any other way, they'd be different." The perspective changes because the story in my mind has changed.

In the rooms of recovery, we tell our stories, real, imagined, sometimes embellished, sometimes over and over again. Some of my stories, some of my memories, have lost their punch, have lost their ability to send me to a dark hole. These days I ask myself, "Is this recollection real? How much of what I remember is attached to the story I've told myself?"  Awareness. Mindfulness. Staying conscious of my intentions. I can no longer claim powerlessness over what stands between me and peace of mind.  Yes, life happens, but it is the stories I tell myself that shape my attitudes.

I'm grateful for my rich cache of memories, both painful and joyous. I'm grateful for experience, strength and hope. I'm grateful for the emotional distance that allows me new perspectives, new ideas, new viewpoints.