My earliest environmental memory, or my earliest memory
I lie in bed and am suddenly awake. I look up through the skylight and see a bright light, a cragged line cleaving the dark blue velvet of the nights’ sky in two. The crashing thunder follows and rattles the glass. I can vaguely see the white slats of my cradle around me and feel trapped. I do not want to feel like this, cold and alone. Suddenly my dad’s face floats into view. I barely recognise him without his glasses on. He wears a white shirt and stretches his arms out, cradling me in warmth and safety. We walk down the stairs, and I sit with my mother on the big bed, on colourful sheets and with a sippy cup of lemonade. Soft yellow light from the sconces on the wall makes the entire room glow.
Holland coast line, acrylic on paper, 150 x 100 mm, September 2021
Only later did I learn my mother thinks I misremember this night. She recalls it must have been New Years’ Eve, when she and my dad stayed home because they weren’t feeling well. The light must have been fireworks, the booming sounds reminiscent of the natural phenomena. I should have been too young to remember the event in the first place since it occurred before I turned one. But I do remember. The line of almost unnaturally white light, tinged with pink, writing its way down like a crack in a snow globe. I feel that memory every time the temperature drops when it storms outside, when the rolling sound of thunder quiets all other sounds. The sweeping rain that follows and can be heard over continents, crackling even through the cheapest earphones during a Skype session. The deafening sound that precedes the violence, when the animals and plants already know what will happen. I remember sitting on the patio at the house on Spring Island, the mangrove forest silent for the first time since we arrived. A mere fifteen minutes later, we were treated to a most impressive light show one county over, crackling light flashing in the distance. I remember feeling like it was a gift from nature itself, this thrilling thing that is a bit scary and a lot beautiful.
What I know now is that memories of events and places are incredibly powerful. Our previous experiences colour how we feel and think about new events and influence how we interact with others and our environments. A previous shared experience can be remembered differently, and we attach different values to those remembered experiences. Even the way others react can influence our understanding of prior events. I’d wager I can now enjoy lightning storms because my parents gave me an experience of warmth and safety after the cold and scare of that first storm. How different would I experience that same natural phenomenon if they had let me sort it out by myself? •
Inspired by Rebecca Giggs