In many a moment during any day the memory of the mind is nothing more than the attic of the living. Filled with boxes of this and thats, old clothing, and old hats, artful displays kept for reasons, photo albums of past gone seasons, where those who represent them are faded scenes; flat one sided images without our dimensional presence to endure in living motions. The scents of the entry bring a familiar nostalgia while the unrelenting presence of its fragrance encourages the plight for fresher air. Away from the musty heated trusses, the moth balled lined trunks, the cobwebbed lined corners and the intrusive dusty condiments. And while the memory finds some small pleasure in its visits there, there are also many a reason to want to clean up the structure for more than just the moments of its existing. Making room for the wanted, the acceptable, the plausible, the possible and the decorations of appreciation within the construction to be as reflective as the days spent in living among the newness of life where each new day applies its own colorful texture to blend into the atmosphere of remembrance; being alive and continuing in ever wanted appreciation of the ever evolving processes of being in the now, applying for the future among our memories. Refragrancing the historical essence of importance with the climates of renewal bringing again to life the assorting scenes gathered from the inhalation of life. Always aware that from the water of the womb to our bonding with the air our lives become all earth.
In many a second during every given night our minds become the assemblies of the quality of our memory. Creating cabinet shelves of scenes out of visions, smells and things that have gathered in our thinking throughout the time spent among the moments when various and numerous components were being absorbed through our senses in various ways. Some interrupted by another persons inquisitions, some overlooked in moments of making decisions, some discarded by other demands, some imprinted by chores of hands. And while our minds are busy with living unable to sanitize its most important rememberings as happenings from overactive emotions, often plied upon our thoughts without any interpretations, we grow to later learn that in some small way at the close of each day, we become responsible for our own attic of memory. What we will store there, how we will give it care, how we will decorate our own lives in the knowing. That the upper room of all thinking can be decorated, well organized, to reflect the care we gave it to be. Either a place of stuffy discomforts, filled with dust covered nonpluses that beg for the abandonment of such places to be or the upper chambers of all the memories we delicately raised in value to be the light of life when visiting there. Filling it with floral bouquets of bloomed moments that were planted to give a goodness in our future wonderings. Faces we laughed with, people we played with, colors we adored to associate to life as meaningful happiness, and the satisfaction of knowing that those were the well chosen visits that even then, we knew, would always become our favorite places to sit, our preferred visions to enjoy, our comforts in times of troubles; when another's opinion would like nothing better than to ransack the presentness of all living nows with accusations of being inadequate for our worthy decision to add a few windows to allow more light inside. To sand off the rough edges, old scratches and moisture stains, to create instead a table to hold up tired feet spent remodeling a display of out of date disturbances into a day spent in the company of a friend. Realizing our perception could be rearranged to allow more good than bad, that our significance to ourselves and our choosing was more important in the future to all others who would by chance wonder into the attic of our memories. For memories are like rooms they can be dark or bright. They can shelter the life from the cold, bitter night. They can warm, they can welcome, they can close, they can become, the best or the worst, the pleasant or the uncouth places where living finds refuge or retreat in the knowing that eventually and inevitably we learn to choose the decor from our experiences as we live each day; realizing one day we will return to them for more reasons than we are taught we will learn. So if you like cobwebs, by all means let them grow but if you prefer silks choose the colors that will show, the delicate deliberations that swayed your decisions to forget unneeded strife and thoughtless depreciation, and decorate your memories attic with all the fascinating dimensions. That celebrated being alive, surrounded by those you love, that inspire you to live longer and carry those moments further into a future that gave you all the life that you could live, to appreciate, in all its living seasons, what memory truly gives. A new meaning to live well, a new moment to appreciate, a new moment to decide what furnishing to give today that will be on display as you wander through your attic of memories.