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Following the instruction to keep it ordinary, I grabbed a pencil and started my list. Some of my early entries included: My Grandma's kitchen. Running barefoot through the backyard. Brunch at Clyde's in Georgetown. Walking to Haystack Rock at low tide. My niece Taylor's laughter. The smell of the barn during morning chores as a child. Queen Anne Book Company on a rainy day. The roar of the crowd at Lumen Field. Waking up to the smell of a campfire and fresh coffee.
I committed to adding a few memories every day.
In the early-morning dreariness, during seasons of stress and overwhelm, or during the very worst moments—the sleepless anxiety that arrives at 3 a.m.—I revisit the list. Not in the abstract, but by allowing myself to fully step back into the memory. The sounds. The smells. The tastes. The feeling of being there. For a few moments, I let myself breathe and remember.
I'll be honest: the list now lives on my iPhone rather than a piece of paper. And while I'm no longer in the dark season I was when I began the practice, the equity, inclusion, and restorative work that April and I do can be exhausting. There are moments when it feels as though the world is being pulled apart at the seams, increasingly fractured and polarized.
Taking time to revisit old friendships, beloved places, familiar seasons, tastes, smells, and spaces brings me back to hope. It creates a deeply sensory experience of gratitude. It transports me to people, places, tastes, smells, sights and moments that have shaped my life and reminds me just how much goodness I have known.
And in the midst of stress, uncertainty, and the endless noise of the world, those memories gently remind me of something I desperately need to hear from time to time: that in the wise words of Julian of Norwich, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
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