A MEMORY has many doors.
How do we find our way inside one and also know the way out?
I’ve been thinking a lot about the way memories appear in focus or slip into the background, all a blur. The strange way a memory becomes a story, stored in the inner archive, still alive.
This week, I was lucky to lead a session among friends about this very question, and was grateful for the space to explore.
I found myself in my high school gym, leading a round of jumping jacks to a class full of cynical classmates. I’d been selected as a fitness leader—not because I had any athletic ability—but because I was already tall and commanded a leadership vibe with a loud voice and an outgoing personality.
Quick—make a list of verbs. Jump. Squat. Kiss. Run. Dream. Sleep. Show. Tell. Swim. Cook. Pray. Write. Now pick one of these verbs and let it lead you to a memory—what do you see, feel, hear, think, recall? I picked jump.
That’s how I ended up back in my high school gym.
Or pick a place—and ask yourself the same question: what do you remember? Enter a scene—where are you and what’s taking your attention?
I found myself on the top of a hill high up in the mountains of northern Ethiopia, in the darkened living room of a stranger, a young woman in a pink headscarf, who had invited me into her home for a coffee. I remember the goats peeking inside the doorframe to witness the encounter—fleeting and full of mutual admiration—call it love. Her home smelled of sweet grass and sleep.
How do we find our way inside one and also know the way out?
I’ve been thinking a lot about the way memories appear in focus or slip into the background, all a blur. The strange way a memory becomes a story, stored in the inner archive, still alive.
This week, I was lucky to lead a session among friends about this very question, and was grateful for the space to explore.
I found myself in my high school gym, leading a round of jumping jacks to a class full of cynical classmates. I’d been selected as a fitness leader—not because I had any athletic ability—but because I was already tall and commanded a leadership vibe with a loud voice and an outgoing personality.
Quick—make a list of verbs. Jump. Squat. Kiss. Run. Dream. Sleep. Show. Tell. Swim. Cook. Pray. Write. Now pick one of these verbs and let it lead you to a memory—what do you see, feel, hear, think, recall? I picked jump.
That’s how I ended up back in my high school gym.
Or pick a place—and ask yourself the same question: what do you remember? Enter a scene—where are you and what’s taking your attention?
I found myself on the top of a hill high up in the mountains of northern Ethiopia, in the darkened living room of a stranger, a young woman in a pink headscarf, who had invited me into her home for a coffee. I remember the goats peeking inside the doorframe to witness the encounter—fleeting and full of mutual admiration—call it love. Her home smelled of sweet grass and sleep.
Or pick a key event—a milestone moment—a birth, a death, a rite of passage. What do you remember, in the record? What still lives beyond it?
I found myself in my synagogue at the age of thirteen, holding a heavy Torah in my arms. I wore an itchy wool dress with a floral pattern, my hair wavy from the braid I’d pulled out just hours before the service began.
What would you label the memory you just recalled? Give it a name. What is its date of origin? In what condition did it arrive—fragile, faded, fragmented? What’s its status in your inner library of memories—in circulation, on hold, lost in transit?
This is how the morning started—steeped in memory.
Off to the jewelry store I went later in the day with my sister, to pick up a ring after a repair and to assess the value of certain treasures passed down to us through our mother.
A jewelry journey—that’s what my sister called it. A jeweler’s loupe always reminds us of her. When the woman pulled out her own loupe, our mother’s ghost appeared alongside us, eager to see what we’d brought in and laid on the counter.
We couldn’t go home without first stopping at the thrift store. We were just there, but we didn’t care. It’s never the same store twice, we say!
As I turned the corner to look at the books, I spotted three midcentury brass menorahs standing in their full glory on the shelf, as if they’d been waiting just for me. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I’d hit the Judaica jackpot! Feeling pleased with my haul, I pushed the cart toward the front, ready to check out. But my sister and I kept finding more of these magnificent pieces hidden throughout the store in random sections, a treasure hunt just for us!
I found myself in my synagogue at the age of thirteen, holding a heavy Torah in my arms. I wore an itchy wool dress with a floral pattern, my hair wavy from the braid I’d pulled out just hours before the service began.
What would you label the memory you just recalled? Give it a name. What is its date of origin? In what condition did it arrive—fragile, faded, fragmented? What’s its status in your inner library of memories—in circulation, on hold, lost in transit?
This is how the morning started—steeped in memory.
Off to the jewelry store I went later in the day with my sister, to pick up a ring after a repair and to assess the value of certain treasures passed down to us through our mother.
A jewelry journey—that’s what my sister called it. A jeweler’s loupe always reminds us of her. When the woman pulled out her own loupe, our mother’s ghost appeared alongside us, eager to see what we’d brought in and laid on the counter.
We couldn’t go home without first stopping at the thrift store. We were just there, but we didn’t care. It’s never the same store twice, we say!
As I turned the corner to look at the books, I spotted three midcentury brass menorahs standing in their full glory on the shelf, as if they’d been waiting just for me. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I’d hit the Judaica jackpot! Feeling pleased with my haul, I pushed the cart toward the front, ready to check out. But my sister and I kept finding more of these magnificent pieces hidden throughout the store in random sections, a treasure hunt just for us!
I’ve been collecting these pieces since October 7—it’s something I felt compelled to do as a way to reckon with—and reconcile—my own complicated feelings about Israel and my relationship to it, mostly channeled through the diasporic landscape of my childhood, raised in the shadows of Holocaustal grief.
A memory has many doors. We find our way in and we find our way back out.
A memory has many doors. We find our way in and we find our way back out.
