Reminders are all around me.
A friend’s pictures from his trip to the UK along with the lush descriptions of haunted England in the book The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield brings back tidal waves of bittersweet memories. The chill of the Northern countryside. Wandering cobblestone streets under a comforting blanket of fog. Love escaping me like those tendrils of mist. Substantial enough to be felt, but never solid enough to grasp.
A mention of baby chicks in the book The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender conjures a brief flash of childhood: chicks hatching in an incubator. Field trip. My mom smiles. I smile. Wonder.
Listening to Feist’s aptly title album The Reminder transports me back to a difficult year of failure, struggle and a long goodbye to my home. It also reminds me of my own resilience, my determination to do better, to be better.
A trip to the farmer’s market brings the taste of my first date with Lover Man: coconut sticky rice studded juicy, sweet mango. Vibrant. Sweetness and depth. I make a vegetable panini consisting of fresh mozzarella and just-picked zucchini and am sitting back in a cafe in Georgetown, relishing my first taste of freedom from the constraints of my everyday life.
They are everywhere, these reminders.
The most potent of them all came just yesterday. A friend from high school posted a Kickstarter campaign for her mother’s documentary Uchuraccay, a story about murder and the power of journalism, yes, but also a story about facing demons, confronting the past and creating art from pain. It reminded me that my pain and, by extension, my words, are valid. Who knows what memories we will evoke with our art. The chance to gain inner peace through the exorcism of creation. I pledged my support to Uchuraccay, as it also served as a reminder that when artists support each other, magical things happen.