Brainstorming like the back of my hand/ Recollect/Recall/Tribute
"You can't go home again."
I lived in the same house for 19 years of my life, and I was
homeschooled for 15 of those years. That is 5, 475 days that I could explore
the three acres of our homestead, and beyond. I knew each and every tree, rock, and plant
that grew within the stone-wall boundaries of my home. I captured and studied
most of the animals that are native to the area. I gathered my share of
scrapes, scratches, prickles, blisters, and splinters. These acres were filled
with the tools that I used to build my store of knowledge and experience, my
imagination, and my future. (An indelible mark)
But memories fade, lessons are forgotten, and places change.
The world moves on. Moving on is a healthy part of growing up. For most people,
becoming an adult means leaving your home—and crafting another. I have left my
home, outgrown those acres, and learned new lessons. But my home has also left
me.
I want to move on, but I do not want to forget, to neglect to
attribute the weight that this place had in shaping my life. Spurred by the recent
industrial development of my home in Susquehanna county, I am filled with the
need to catalog, capture, remember, and celebrate this place that will never be
again what it was to me as a child.
(before the tankers pummel it all to dust/before the
backhoes dig it up/and the methane poisons the water/and silica clouds the air)
This was my home, a place that I knew “like the back of my
hand.” I created this place/I imagined this place to life.
And now, “home” is reduced to collection of objects… the
things I need, the things I keep, the things I throw away.
Objects hold echoes. They elicit the emotion of the past.
They are shells that call to us – singing of what was and what could be. Some
are well-loved, some neutral, and some broken, discarded, forgotten. Some once
were living.
The loneliness of forgotten objects speaks to me. It reminds
me of a time when I had a story for each blade of grass, each container tossed
aside. It reminds me that once, I was lonely too. Here I will capture the
things I have forgotten; the memories which slowly float to the surface, or
hide, wither, and die.
