I am lingering in a room with a group of peers. We are sitting at a tall and wide circular table, on barstool sized chairs. I am telling my peers about how I can talk to snakes, when the situation suddenly gets tense and a group of 10-20 Rattlesnakes wriggle into the room. I try and calm everyone… “don’t worry as long as we don’t move and we relax, then they won’t bother us” I say.

Without warning, one rattler comes right up to and bites me on the middle of my lower leg. I feel intense pain and then start to act drunk and sloth my way around the room. The group of my peers say “This’ll be no problem for you Jared, Your snake talker, you speak to snakes!”.

For some reason this dream seems extremely important to me. It’s one of the most reasonable dreams I have had (forgetting the talking to snakes portion). The imagery of a group of rattlesnakes, with one biting me, while still having little to no care for it biting me is important to me. Rattlesnakes now stand as important symbolic figures in my life AND what I have taken from the dream is, even if I am to get bitten by rattler, as painful as that experience may be, there will only be healing and rewards afterwards. I’m not going to go out and get purposefully bit by a rattler now. But I respect them and look for their fragments of advice.

I twirl my pen between my fingers when I think and, when I begin to think about this action, I drop the pen. The first time I did this I think I wanted to emulate Jack Sparrow at the end of Black Pearl, the moment when it is revealed that he has cursed himself with undeath, as a means of life insurance. He lets the coin tumble over his fingers, and back again. I’ve seen this motion performed many times in other movies and television shows as well, always by someone who is meant to appear very intelligent and crafty. My intent was not to appear as anything, I was alone, as i usually am when I think, and I was trying not to fall asleep, as I always was when I worked a graveyard shift. The idea was that twirling my pen would keep my brain active enough to remain conscious, as it took a good deal of concentration to pull off, and If i should start to nod off, I would drop the pen and the noise of this would wake me back up. This worked very well. It worked so well that eventually the action took less and less concentration to carry out until I could do it without thinking.

The part of myself which is me, which is still me after it has been removed and isolated from everything else which can be called “me”. This part of me which exists in the spaces between neurons and shares these spaces with the many other concepts which populate my consciousness at any given moment. The part of me which exists among and yet above all the other thoughts, which can alter and control my thoughts and set in motion deliberate actions, This emergent phenomenon, which “I” am, once had to used its powers to move my thoughts and actions to bring the pen to twirl between my fingers, and no longer needs to. It has done so so much that the areas of my brain which are required to activate, and the pattern in which they must activate, to twirl a pen, do so without “I” needing to be present in them. This pattern of neural activity which I have crafted in my self gains inertia as I use it. Like walking through a field of grass will leave behind a trail, and future walks will widen the trail. Attention and repetition, even just “looking” at it, with the minds eye, lends a certain weight to a behavior which will eventually drag it down further than “I” generally am able to delve. It holds a status now akin to breathing and heart beating. Where athletes go in the moment when practice ends and the game begins.

Why do I still twirl my pen despite not needing to to stay awake? Just a habit.

It may also make me look a bit more intelligent, except when I drop it.

Proust: “But my grandmother, in all weathers, even when the rain was coming down in torrents and Francoise had rushed the precious wicker armchairs indoors so that they should not get soaked, was to be seen pacing the deserted rain-lashed garden, pushing back her disordered grey locks so that her forehead might be freer to absorb the health-giving draughts of wind and rain. She would say “ At last one can breathe!” and would trot up and down the sodden paths   too straight and symmetrical for her liking, owing to the want of any feeling for nature in the new gardener, whom my father had been asking all morning if the weather were going to improve her keen, jerky little step regulated by the various effects wrought upon her soul by the intoxication of the storm, the power of hygiene, the stupidity of my upbringing and the symmetry of gardens, rather than by any anxiety to save her plum colored skirt from the mudstains beneath which it would gradually disappear to a height that was the constant bane and despair of her maid.” (12-13)   This small description of Marcel’s grandmother resonated with me as I often feel this way during storms. Living for a time in North Dakota I loved the ever changing weather and my garden. It’s raining lightly and I am in my garden. The weather has been so humid and hot, this light rain is a relief as it takes the water out of the air and into the ground. Sitting quietly, weeding, I feel as if I can finally breathe again. I have large garden that takes a lot of work, but it is good work. Some days, I have my boys help with the chores, most days I do this alone, while they do their schoolwork. This garden, a hobby for many these days, is necessary for our families survival. It is what sustains us, along with the many chickens, rabbits and the occasional beef cow I raise. The grocery store is way too far away to walk, and I do not have a car. I move down the row to weed another section, and just for a moment take off my hat and lift my face to the rain. It feels so refreshing and peaceful. As I open my eyes, I see that the sky is darker on the horizon. I better get moving, and yet the peacefulness of the moment calls me back. Breathing deeply, I start to pull weeds again, enjoying the quiet natural sounds. A quick flash, then a loud boom. And another flash and boom. That darkness of a thunder storm approaching. The excitement in the air is building and I sit back and watch the darkness descend. The soaking rain and bit of wind still refresh me as they move over me and my garden. Lightening streaks across the sky, followed a few seconds later with its accompanying thunder. The smell of wet earth and ozone permeate the air. I sit in my garden, wet to the skin, relaxed and entranced with natures show. Then it intensifies. All of a sudden, I see the hail approaching. This is not as welcome as the rain. Hail begins to damage the plants, knocking them to the ground. It hurts when it reaches me and I run for the house, wishing I could protect the garden and fearing that the damage will be too much to salvage. The hail passes quickly, and the storm moves on. I am thankful that it didn’t last long. Some damage in the garden, and I return to weeding, and now standing plants upright, removing damaged areas, restoring the garden, breathing the clean air, and almost wishing the storm had lasted longer.

Writing, something we all do, one way or another. It may be as simple as a shopping or to do list, or a text to a friend, it may be a journal to share or a diary of private thoughts to keep to ourselves, an academic paper, research, book report and the list goes on. We may write for ourselves, to help us understand what is in our minds, or maybe to remember what happened- our side of the story. We may write for others, an article to educate, a letter to inform or to connect. Whatever we write, no matter how simple or how complex; writing something down has consequences. For women who are abused or closely monitored the consequences can be hard to understand. Even for those who are not in this situation, the basic oppression of women within a field of study or in an organization can make writing an act of courage.

In this program at Evergreen College, In Search of Lost Time, we will be studying memories, reading Proust and other novels, and writing. This will be difficult for me, especially writing about personal memories. I do have a memory project in mind for this class, just a portion of my history, but some of the other tales are already coming to the surface. I know the assigned journal is to be a mix of academic studies and personal stories, and that some of them will be made public.

Many people keep a journal, or diary. Sometimes like this one, journals are assigned as a learning tool in the academic setting. They can be a place to try on ideas, to dream about the future, to acknowledge our thoughts about assigned or even unassigned readings. They can also be dangerous. Even if we never intend to let another person read our thoughts, there is no absolute guarantee of privacy, once they are written down.

I kept a diary throughout my teen years and into early adulthood. I wrote in in whenever life threatened to overwhelm me, a problem even as a young girl. It contained dreams of college, of independence, of an Olympic medal. It also contained my reactions to being punished for my behavior and my refusal to do some of the things expected of me as a female in my family, my rebellion. For years, no one even knew I wrote things down. Then one day they found out- It became the family’s dinnertime reading story. They laughed at the dreams I had of a future, made fun of the possibility of college and planned for my punishment for thinking I might have different plans then they did.

Surprisingly, my compulsion to write was not squashed, but I did learn to never, never let anyone see what I really wrote, or thought. I’ve done academic writing of one sort or another throughout my schooling, writing without giving too much of myself away. Now, I am at a point in my life that I am compelled to tell part of my story, and let it be heard.

I’ve already been warned that if I do, if I tell anything about my family life growing up, there will be consequences.

About midway through Combray II, when visiting his uncle and his uncle’s lady companion our narrator becomes “disillusioned” and his world as it exists is slightly shattered. As he explains “I felt somewhat disillusioned, for this young lady was in no way different from other pretty women who I had seen from time to time at home… I could find no trace in her of the theatrical appearance which I admired in photographs of actresses, nothing of the diabolical expression which would have been in keeping with the life she must lead” (Proust 105).

This conviction comes from our child narrator, who is realizing for the second time that a persons occupation or beliefs will not necessarily be reflected in their attire. Previously, he assumed that if someone is going to be an actor or actress, they should look like this or that. For one, because he had seen them in photos as such and also because his parents and society at large had dictated that this type of clothing or interest equals this class of person.

Later his disillusionment apparently turns to respect for the lady: “it has since struck me as one of the most touching aspects of the part played in life by these idle, painstaking women that they devote their generosity, their talent, a disposable dream of sentimental beauty… and a wealth that counts for little, to the fashioning of a fine and precious setting for the rough, ill-polished lives of men” (Proust 106-107).

Both of these realizations that appeared in the narrator’s childhood reflect on women and their positions in society. First he realizes that maybe even ‘common’ looking women could be actresses too and secondly how the women around him devote their lives to men who he sees as “ill-polished”.

It has occurred to me after reading the first few pages of Swann’s Way for a second time that Proust writes in a style, that at first, I could not quite put my finger on. His long, smooth, often diverting sentences, like the crisscrossing of a stream over a rocky river bottom, are disconcerting and perplexing. I did not approach the novel prepared for this meandering style of writing; initially finding it bewildering and hard to track. I was almost frustrated by it. It felt unnatural and muddy; one topic overflowing into the next like reflecting light, bouncing off one subject to something new.  I reminded myself that present day readership prefers fast paced, action packed, succinct plot. And as someone who dabbles in writing I had trained myself to not get lost in my own thoughts on the page, to follow a course and stick to it.

Only on my second reading through, where I did not have to concentrate on the story as much as the way it was told, was I able to grasp the feel of the writing. The constant shift and flow to his style reminds me of the way we think and remember. How, in our minds nothing is concrete, everything is fluid. Like in the exercise of concentration where you try and picture a red ball in your mind’s eye for as long as you can. Inevitably your thoughts slink away from the red object and almost without you being aware of, slowly let surface the awareness of the hair that is tickling your nose, or the way your sock is bunched under your foot in an uncomfortable manner. As the thought gradually gains substance you become conscious of it and immediately with some annoyance toss it away, refocusing your efforts on the red ball. However, within seconds your mind is slipping again… a sudden scent in the air dredges up from some recess of your mind the idea of air fresheners, and this thought topples over like a failed Jenga game, scattering pieces of thoughts and memories. One such memory, being the time your mother gifted you that strange automatic spraying air freshener, which sent a spritz of lilac flavored droplets into the air at random times, making a weird “PITZZZZZ” sound. This memory triggers another memory of the time you had your friend over, who slept on the couch and commented on the strange “PITZZZZZZ” noise that kept him awake all night long. This recollection dissolves into the pondering of how your friend is doing, since he started dating that awful girl twice his age, from online. And this thought, like the run-off of rainwater following along an unseen curve of the earth, flows effortlessly into the memory of the time you met your husband online so many years ago, in that loft in Chicago. Which at this moment you recall, is having terrible snow storms. And you are now glad you live in the Pacific North West where the weather is so affable, with its velvety rain showers on misty mornings; where one can sit for hours gazing out at the Puget Sound sprinkled with distant ferries and faded red buoys that dance on the horizon. And the image of the red buoy riding the ocean waves jerks you back into the present. The red ball; completely evaporated by arbitrary memories and thoughts, returns brightly to center stage in your mind. To your horror, you realize the journey across space and time your mind just led you on, has occurred in just a few brief moments. Yet in this fleeting transitory expedition, you have toured a vast amount of places, moments and memories. In just a few seconds your thoughts liquefied and melted, moving haphazardly in whichever direction was simplest, taking you across your lifespan and over distances of miles and miles far away from the red ball you were supposed to be concentrating on!

This exercise brings to light how we often think; a random stream of thoughts, chained together by minor details within memory. We may not be aware of this as we go about our lives, but when we sit quietly and ask our mind to be still, we are suddenly given the chance to observe the way our brain links memories with thoughts endlessly and not always with direction. I find this to be much the same way Proust tells his tale to us. His writing resembles the way we might sit back and reminisce. How our thoughts start on one topic and quickly get diverted onto new paths, one memory triggering the next and so on.

Now as I read Proust I feel aligned with the design of his writing. I let myself relax into the flow of the winding path of his story. I am not disturbed anymore by the sudden shift in direction, or deviation onto a new topic. I feel I am riding the current of this narrator’s memories; a course that flows and detours by the unseen influence of the subconscious. Getting caught for a time in swirling eddies of powerful moments and details, then cascading over the edge into a new channel of memory and thought. Ever moving, ever flowing, like a river.

When I finally get the chance to take a walk in the woods, my world relaxes and I wonder to myself “what is so important?… that I spend all of this time away from the woods, a forest, nature, laying in a field, hiking, etc?”. How could these things I fill my day up with be SOO important?

After all, I do have ambition. I want to create this and participate in that, But my life gets filled up with all of these obligations and ambitions and I lose all of the time I COULD USE to sit quietly or to take a walk in the woods. To lay in a field and feel the ferns rustle and the planes fly overhead.

I will even walk in the rain! I enjoy it just as much! (I am not a fan of the destructive being known as John Lennon but I do appreciate some of his words) “When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead. When the rain comes. I can show you that when it rains and shines. It’s just a state of mind. I can show you”.

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