Are my memories of my mother gone?

Me and my mom in the front yard of our Putnam Lake, New York, home, June 1971

Lately I have been having a recurring dream. It’s not a good dream, and it haunts me throughout my days. Have I lost all memories of my mother?, I wonder. I awake not knowing, searching, afraid. Of course I haven’t lost them all…but my fears are real, grounded in my reality that I have no one in my life to talk to regularly—deeply—about this most special person in my life.

Usually I share advice-driven stories on this blog. I decided, instead, to share some recent writing I did about my mom, and my experience of grief, here. Why? Because I think personal stories connect us. Because I think the grieving process, while unique to each of us, is also universal in many ways.

And because too often I hear the words, “What stories do I have to tell that matter?”

And while everyone—truly, everyone—has stories to tell, sometimes it’s the stories we can’t tell that may resonate; the ones we have to search for, feel rather than see, that come forth. Just because I am not relating specific details of memories of my mother in this passage, it was worthwhile for me to write—cathartic, yes, but helpful too on my path to remembering yet more, and honoring my experience as it is being lived, right now.

Soon I will share a post about ways to access and trigger our memories in an effort to write meaningful memoir. But for now, as the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death approaches, I offer up this most personal (and brief) piece as an example of what may result when we focus on our experience of, well, not remembering.

Losing Her, Again

It is not reconstructed memory or exaggerated legacy to say that there are no superlatives great enough to convey my love for my mother. She was my role model, best friend, hero, and champion. My daily phone call. My witness.

Lately, I can’t remember her.

I want movie reels.

I want to see my mom lunging toward me for a hug, leaning back into a belly laugh that could go on for minutes. Pulling groceries out of the trunk of her brown Mazda, closing her eyes as I drive across a bridge. Smelling daisies in the kitchen, back-to-school shopping at Petrie’s five-and-ten. Playing kickball in the front yard in Brewster, making quiche in my galley kitchen in Brooklyn. I want to see Lillian Roode, here. Somewhere.

If my memories are silent films, that’s okay. Hearing her voice would bring me to tears, joyful tears; but seeing her in motion—well, maybe I could touch her, if I just reached far enough.

After she passed away I was feverish with intent.

I wrote her eulogy over the course of a fews hours in the middle of the night, between sessions breastfeeding my three-month-old son, in a nondescript motel room lit only by the glow of my laptop. I was hungry for stories of her—stories I had not yet heard that would shine a light on her soul, stories I had heard so many times they had become lore. The new kept her alive, the old brought comfort amidst the knowledge that she was, indeed, not alive.

At her wake, I listened to all that friends and families offered up, though I heard very little; I was present that day in body, not spirit.

Months later I would surrender to my insomnia and reach for the ornate journal I never wrote in for fear my musings would not live up to the grandeur of the leather-bound book, and I would write and write and write, hardly pausing for breath: bulleted lists in barely legible handwriting enumerating every single little memory I had of her. I wanted them all. When I would pause to think and memories did not wash over me immediately, I felt unworthy. Of my grief, of my happiness, of her belief in me.

Some nights I wrote the same memories I had scratched out the previous evening. No matter; I was desperate to not forget. My neat, deliberate script turned into sprawl as I raced to recover my dreams, convinced as I was that they held secrets of her in the beyond, glimpses of the memories I couldn’t access on demand.

Where did they go, my memories?

I have no one in my life who shares my familial grief, no one who knew my mother for the length of time that I have and who misses her the way I do. No one in my life with whom to reminisce, swap stories, or get lost in laughter.

I want to cry.

I want to occasionally swim in my grief. To allow myself to fill that hole inside me with buoyant water and float amidst my memories. To invite another in to see my mother’s reflection alongside me, to recognize her in me, and to find her somewhere in the void.

If not occasionally, perhaps once.

But.

The hole is there. The memories, the tears, are not.

Where did they go?

Conjuring epiphanies

Every Modern Heirloom Book tells a story. Biographical, but not a biography; memoir-like, but not a memoir. Rather, a poetic narrative and photo arc that hones in on experiences and emotions, beauty, and memory. A story that makes you feel, and that invites your loved ones to remember with you.

Before deciding to call this company by the descriptive name Modern Heirloom, I strongly considered Epiphany Books. While I clearly left that name in the dust, the background behind it is telling, and encapsulates my approach to creating personalized treasures especially for you. So for our blog today, a little #ThrowbackThursday look at how my affinity for epiphanies led me to become the founder of Modern Heirloom Books.

noun    epiph·a·ny    \i-ˈpi-fə-nē\

a (1) :  a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) :  an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) :  an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure

b :  a revealing scene or moment [Merriam Webster]

c : “moments of being” [Virginia Woolf]

How “Moments of Being” Transform our Books

I have had little epiphanies my whole life—moments when something profound has seemed crystalline. A glimpse of the meaning of life while rounding the corner in downtown Manhattan. A whisper of some long-forgotten truth while showering.

But by their very nature epiphanies are fleeting. I could never fully grasp what I had known in those moments, no less articulate it for another. Yet I was better for having experienced them.

Memories can come to us in similar ways—conjured by a smell, the glance of a stranger on the street. And they can disappear as quickly.

The books we create from your own life material, like poetry, give physical form to memory. In the hopes that you—and those who come after you—may continue to have “moments of being.”

My Own Personal Epiphany

I relished working in the magazine industry for more than 20 years. My experience at some of the world’s top fashion and lifestyle titles helped me cultivate a keen eye for beautiful detail, an ear for an exquisite phrase. I honed my ability to edit and curate. I told stories to the masses.

As the publishing landscape evolved, so did our way of consuming our own personal media.

More than 200,000 photos are uploaded to Facebook every minute. We shoot everything from what we eat to makeup-free selfies daily. Our pictures are everywhere; and they are nowhere. Never have we needed editors more than now.

And, somewhere along the line, I had a personal epiphany: I wanted to help tell stories, but no longer on a mass scale—I wanted to help you tell your story. Beautifully, professionally, meaningfully. Uniquely.

Related Reading

The Next Chapter in Our Story

I recount my journey from national magazines to bespoke life story books, and introduce a new signature product line of books.

a tendency towards nostalgia

Rediscovering an old family photo album in my closet prompted me to reflect on the lasting appeal & transformative power of nostalgia.

The next chapter in our story

My Journey from Magazines to Books

Me, running a business…who knew? For more than two decades I was invigorated and fulfilled by climbing the proverbial ladder in the NYC media world. I loved magazines—the talented and smart journalists with whom I worked, the satisfaction of creating something from scratch every month, the creative process of making words and pictures sing. I learned and thrived and evolved as the industry reinvented itself again and again.

And then rather than reinvent myself within that industry, I took a leap of faith and began to explore using my professional experience in an entirely new way—specifically, helping you tell your stories in bespoke coffee table books.

I had a vision for the company, a high bar of exacting standards I aspired to uphold, and pages and pages of brainstormed ideas. I had a name, and incorporated. I had a dear friend with much more business acumen than me who offered sage advice and encouragement from the sidelines. I had a supportive husband who had faith in me even when I did not. I wanted a partner, but went it alone. And then, I worked.

And, well, I am still working. Hard, and with passion. But now my vision has been refined and reworked based on almost two years of experience, trial-and-error, market research, and invaluable input from clients and a network of professional women with whom I have been fortunate to connect.

I am grateful and blessed, and beyond excited to share the next phase of my business, Modern Heirloom Books.

Refined Vision, New Signature Books

Today I am proud to share with you a new website that highlights Modern Heirloom Books’ three new signature product lines!

By narrowing down the choices for creating a book from scratch, I hope to make the process of thinking about—and starting—your Modern Heirloom Book easier.

Life Story Books

If you are interested in creating an autobiographical book, telling your own stories in your own words, consider our Life Story Books. (There’s even an option to tell a much shorter story in our One-Hour Heirloom.)

Tribute Books

For those wanting to celebrate a family member for a special occasion such as a milestone birthday or anniversary, to honor a loved one after a death, or to tell the stories of ancestors who came before, our Tribute Books are the right choice.

“Dear Daughter...”

And our newest addition: Dear Daughter, on Your Wedding Day, a once-in-a-lifetime gift for your engaged daughter. I interview the parents of the bride-to-be and together we craft an extended letter in an heirloom book that is as stunningly elegant as it is heartfelt, including family photos, cherished memories, and wisdom and dreams for her future. It is, truly, the gift guaranteed to make your daughter cry tears of joy on her wedding day.

What’s Next?

I hope you will take the time to browse the site.

Perhaps you want to read why I think everyone should preserve their memories, or see what makes a Modern Heirloom Book different from other personal history books.

Mostly, though, I hope you will be inspired!

• Inspired to share your stories with those you love, whether in an heirloom book when the time is right, or around the dinner table (often!).

• Inspired to revisit your memories, and to cherish the experiences that make up your life story.

• Inspired to listen to the stories of those you love—with curiosity and love.
  

A Huge Thank You!

Thank you for inspiring me to keep doing what I do at Modern Heirloom Books, to keep growing and getting better, and to walk through life with an open heart and an insatiable desire to hear—and do justice to—YOUR stories.