Touching the neurons

I write a word.  You see it and it lights up meanings and memories of your own.  Another word, more lights go on.  Soon comes a story, and feelings and thoughts come from your memories and mine.  Memories are the middle part of the trinity from the first chapter, the backbone between the spiral of time and the internal voices.  Jung says our world view can come from time and memories.

Anyway, when I tell you about being a child in summer, a burst of neurons in your brain catches fire in your brain based on your own memories.  My family used to go on educational camping trips, from Colorado to Nova Scotia over a few years.  I have a pile of snapshots in my brain of camp rangers in funny green hats, all of us standing on the lichen at the top of a mountains, and a frozen bath in the river. We learned geology, zoology, anthropology, biology, all of it.

One of the best things was working together as clockwork.  When we struck camp, we’d silently get up at dawn so as not to wake anyone.  We’d fold up the camper, pack up the food, and leave for parts unknown.  We’d find another campsite 200 miles down the road; during the drive I’d stare out the window, play endless games of dots, and read my books.  When we’d get to our new campsite, I got buckets of water, helped set up the camper, and went exploring on the trails and woodpiles.  Of course there were fires every night and singing and laughing about what we’d seen that day.

Life was good on those summer trips.  Good voices came into my head.  I was strong: I could climb a mountain.  I loved to learn the world.  I was happy. And I was loved.

 

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