There’s a big blue and white book on my kitchen counter, titled A Little Life. It’s been there two and a half years, ever since my friend sent it to me and I stopped reading it about a third of the way through because I decided it was too emotionally traumatic for my pregnant and therefore fragile psyche. The book has really nothing to do with this blog post, except that I’ve been seeing it for months and just this week is the first time it occurred to me that it might not mean ‘a small life’ – it could mean ‘a little bit of life’. I didn’t read enough of the book to know what the author meant when he chose that title. I wonder what you will think I meant when I chose it. 

It’s troubled me lately, how much of my life I don’t remember. Not in a Big Scary Blanks In My Memory kind of way, but in a days slipping by so quietly they’re almost unnoticed kind of way. I haven’t kept a daily diary since I was a preteen creature, but I understand why people do. It would be comforting in some way to know I have a database of my days. 

But why? They say the purpose of memory is so we can function better today. So we have information on what works and what does not work to get the results we want. Actually, nevermind that ‘why’ question – it’s very on-brand for me to suspect I need to have more information available to me.

Still, even if I kept a daily diary again, it wouldn’t include everything. It couldn’t possibly.

It’s extremely strange that so much exists right now, and soon it will only exist in pieces, scattered through different people’s memories, and some things will be lost entirely. 

So much has existed in the past, and most of it is gone from the human consciousness. Does that mean it no longer exists?

If a tree falls alone in the forest, does it even make a sound?

Perhaps it’s because I’m not either happy or miserable enough for my brain to assume that this is valuable information, we need to remember this for future use. But there are things that I would like to remember anyway. Things that I don’t want to disappear from existence.

Like the moment my child surprised me by singing Blackbird when I was bathing her several evenings ago. She sang it very imperfectly, but there is something utterly charming about hearing a two-year-old use the words “broken wings”. 

Or how I’ve spent most of this month completely obsessed with WWI. It started innocently, with me rereading/listening to Rilla of Ingleside, and then my friend, knowing nothing of this, recommended a completely different WWI novel with the promise it would have me feeling sick. From there it was a slippery slope into the trenches and I spent the rest of the month immersed in movies, documentaries, articles, and novels focused on the heart wrenching horror that was the Great War. My husband is concerned I’ve become a middle-aged man. 

How I had a Really Good Day, where everything gleamed and I felt strong and grateful. I wanted to bottle that feeling and stick it in my freezer, just in case the days come back where I can’t remember what it’s like. 

How in my business, I’ve been doing more of the client meetings myself again, and even though that’s always been a little exhausting for the introvert, it also reminds me why I love what I do and that’s surprisingly energizing. 

Every morning when I liked my outfit. 

The hours of enjoyment I got out of doing jewel paintings and listening to audiobooks this winter. 

How my husband brought a white monster to me at the office where I was working the day I had a migraine.

How we drove down a twisty road under the lace of naked black trees against a sunset sky on the evening of my birthday. 

The fact that my toddler sometimes tells me “I’m so proud of you” right now. 

All the hours I spend with my husband in our little green backyard office. 

How I laughed so hard and long that my face hurt with the women I work with. 

How I read Meditations by Marcus Aurelius the second time and was again so struck by the warmth of reading someone’s actual journal across actual millennia and recognizing they still sound familiar – human. 

How it snowed a little bit one evening after dark, and my child ran around in it barefoot, just like I used to do every winter. 

How I drove home alone from the grocery store late one rainy evening, and the train engine on one of the railroad tracks was outlined in a misty glow of light from the engine on the other track behind it. 

How one of the women who work for me looked me in the eye and told me what she admires about me. 

There are probably more things I want to remember, but I’ve already forgotten them. 

This troubles me.

If a moment of life is worth living, it seems it must also be worth remembering.

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So, what do you think, was that about my little life, or a little bit about my life?