As I crossed the frost covered field, I embraced the cool morning. I’m no fan of cool weather but it seems to slow the world down. I climb my tree and settle in for the morning sun to greet my body with its heat and magic. I’m not sure if the sun has magic, but when it breaks through the trees and one light beam touches my body, it feels like magic.
Last month I cleaned our family barn. Amongst the dust and rust tucked away by my father some years ago was an old copper kettle, a metal ring, and a homemade wooden stirrer. To many these days, it would represent the past and times before a grocery store shelf. But to me it represented a family tradition of making homemade apple butter over an open fire.
The barn was, for the most part, filled with what the experts call associative memories. Memories that have a good association. More importantly they have a home to sit securely in until they are awakened by us, an event, someone important, or life in general.
There were a few items in the barn that could be dissociative memories. The experts define these memories as “memories not associated as good,” and they lack a home in our mind. They wander from place to place looking for a home, and just when we feel they have found a home, life awakens them so we can revisit the reason they are dissociative.
For me, the copper kettle, the metal ring, and the wooden stirrer were somewhere between an associative and dissociative memory. The family tradition of making apple butter was a good memory, but the time gone by since we had last done it stirred up memories from all over the place. I ran my hand down the wooden stirrer my father made and it was a reminder he was gone. I thought about the recipe to get the apples to the copper kettle and wondered would that disappear when my mom’s time comes. The memories without a home swirled in my head and soon I was stuck between the past and the present.
I once wrote a story titled My Full Moon. It’s about a memory that went from associative to dissociative, and finally back to associative. It took about 18 years for that process. To me life is a series of processes. I think we have the power to move those somewhat homeless memories around, but it can be painful. We have the power to guide those memories to a more associative state, but to do that, we need to step out of our comfort zone and stir where they originated.
I told my mom I wanted to make some homemade apple butter. She said, “It’s been almost 40 years since we have made apple butter.” I said, “The boys need to know how, and it will be a good memory with their grandma.” I could tell mom was not opposed to the idea, but we were clearly stirring the past.
Mom dug up her apple butter recipe which called for honey instead of sugar. We raised bees growing up and always made our apple butter with honey. We bought apples, honey, and cinnamon, and the process began. We sat around the kitchen table cutting up apples and the memories lingered above that table. As the process continued, I could see the apprehension in my mom’s eyes. She wanted this to be a success, but it had been a long time since she had made apple butter. For me, I was not looking for success, but hoping the process would find a home for some memories, and make some new ones for our sons.
The copper kettle was placed in the metal ring and the fire was lit. The cut apples we had prepared were poured into the kettle and I could hear the cold meeting the hot. I was the first to grab the wooden stirrer and the stirring began. Back and forth, side to side, my dad would say when I was a kid. Now it was my turn to say the same to our sons. I looked at my mom and the apprehension was gone. She smiled and said, “We should do this every year.”
As the day progressed, we all took turns stirring. The honey and cinnamon were added. My mom would check to see if we were cooking all the water out, and soon she said it was done. The apple butter was placed in glass jars warm and secured with a lid. My mom told our boys, “When you hear a small pop it means the jar is sealed. If you do not hear the pop, it was not warm enough, so you have to heat the apple butter back up.”
We cleaned the kettle and wooden stirrer up, but it is not in the barn now. We decided to keep it closer to the house. The jars of apple butter have found their way into many homes in many states. They were not sold but given from the heart.
The sun has now found its way to my body and yes, I can feel its magic. It is risky to stir the past in the hope of separating the water that stops our memories from having a home. It is risky to step outside our comfort zone, embarking on a process that began long ago when life seemed much more certain. I do feel there are times we must stir the past to help those memories find a proper home, so when life recalls them, it’s not painful but joyful. As the magic filters through my veins, my lungs, and my soul, I wonder if the sun has magic, or does it heat up the parts of us that are cold from memories that have no home.
For more in-depth stories and how they connect with the science of hope and healing – check out the Crucial Moments Books Series by Dr Jeffrey T Mitchell and Josey at https://crucialmoments.org/
Learn more about Josey here
