‘All this time I was
leading another life
and it is clear now
which was the shadow and which
was the substance…’
Gerald Stern, ‘Crosshatching’
I have memories that make me cringe. They run the gamut from acts to statements,
from truly harmful to simply stupid. Some get dug up from childhood, some may have occurred in the past few days.
Throwing dirt in a brother’s face. Hateful things said to a loved one. Flunking
a test because I didn’t study. Failing
to show up to meet someone when I said I would be there. Dumb things I did as an exchange
student. Procrastinating on a task to
the point where someone else has to pick it up.
These memories pop up at the oddest times, and for no
particular reason. My brain must be lazy
and it wants to throw ugly reminders over the wall. Or they show up in nightmares, with people
and places and timeframes mixed up, out of order, or thrown in with the latest
movie themes just for the dramatics.
These are long shadows that trail us on our path, glued
forever to our soles – and souls.
But they don’t have to stay attached. Certainly, we carry our blemishes, bruises
and mistakes with us. They become part
of who we are as characters, as personalities, as people. We learn from them, we try not to replicate
them.
And we try to overwhelm them with the positive aspects of a
life worth living.
Stern’s poem steers away from the negative theory of such
shadows:
‘…though I
particularly hate the word
shadow to describe it
since a shadow
itself is a substance
and shadows are lovely and stretch
across my lawn at six
in the evening and they
take different forms—when
it comes to painting—and one
is a mass in the
foreground, one is a shake of likeness,
simply defined, a true
state of color’
Rather than the black hole of bad memories, I prefer this latter description of shadows and their
use. Stretched across the lawn in the
rising sun. The statue of a likeness in
a true state of color. An image simply
defined.
Friend Jane likes to take shadow pictures. She places a group of people with the sun to
their backs and takes a photo of the shape created by the shadow on the
ground. In a photograph, the shadow
becomes a piece of whimsy, a straightforward representation of our shape in the
sun, reflected in the grass.
That’s a better image than the blackness of bad memories.