When I moved into a small apartment on Gay Street in New York City back in 1978, one of the first things I wanted to do was to hang a couple of my favorite paintings. I banged a nail into the wall and large pieces of disintegrating plaster fell to the floor, revealing old, soft-red bricks behind. Upon further exploration, I also discovered newspapers from the 1930s and a mysterious letter. It occurs to me we store a lot of memories in hidden, hard-to-get-to places. We remember feelings more than events, and tune out what actually happened. I remember feeling homesick when we left Greece, but I don’t remember saying goodbye. When I uncover the factual memory, however, my homesickness balances with feelings of fondness for Greece, memories of the fragrance of fresh figs, and warm appreciation of people who are still my friends after fifty years. Try uncovering some memories that you might think are disturbing or difficult. Realize that, underneath them, you are still present, solid, and simply yourself. There’s no need to conceal or protect yourself or them. Uncovering layers of ourselves that we’ve built around us takes a bit of work. We need to practice letting our thoughts drift past like dandelion seeds. We need to allow our scary emotions to flow through us, sink into the earth, and disappear. We need to know that our good deeds and earnest endeavors keep adding firm bricks to our existence. We can do all this through stillness. On that dusty day in my new apartment, I was soon covered with cobwebs, dirt, and a great messy pile of plaster. But clearing away the debris gave me more room, and the freshly-scrubbed red bricks seemed to glow. When I uncover that memory, I don’t remember the effort and exhaustion but the discoveries and the charm.
