On Memory, Imagination, and Miracles
And Other Nonlinear Musings As The World Changes, Ends, and Begins Again
Dear ones,
I am writing this from the cutest tiny house cabin on a snowy, cold afternoon. Pieces of Me, the documentary about Toni Morrison, is playing in the background, so it became almost imperative that this piece of writing make its way out of the drafts today.
I found this picture of myself over the holidays as I sifted through photographs at my parent’s house.
And I wanted to kiss it because it brought the memory of who I was before…
I digitized and saved it on my phone to remind myself that I live for this little girl.
I am in my favorite Rainbow Fish swimsuit at my first and favorite beach in Tybee Island, GA. I have this memory in part because of this photo and in part because every time I see a picture from this trip, my Mama and Daddy recount it for me.
The Brittany in this picture had a robust imagination. I am not sure to credit my Montessori education, being an only child, or some combination of these things, but I was as imaginative as a child could be. At one point, I was a pastor’s wife, doctor, and business owner. My parent’s sleigh bed was my choir stand, so I guess I was a choir director too.
This version of myself gives me hope that I can remember and deserve to return to the parts of myself untouched by harm and hatred. And in that same breath, I can honor how I am changing.
“All that you touch you Change All that you Change Changes you. The only lasting truth is Change God is Change”. — Octavia E. Butler.
Holiday and Hudson sing, “I am changing…”. Butler says, “God is Change”. And here I am on the eve of change stumbling through to memory.
My fascination with memory started when my grandparents began to lose theirs. It’s a wild thing to watch your storytellers forget the stories, wild and scary. Changes to my memory are a newer symptom of my chronic illnesses, including my more recent depressive episodes. It was always frustrating for me when folks would ask the question of why my loved ones could not remember without the question of why they forgot. This reminds me of how, in my episodes, I am often being asked to stay here, to keep on, to get better and very little is being done to change the system(s) that depress me and threaten my livelihood.
I am sometimes terrified that I am going to forget.
But remembering can feel terrifying too.
About a month ago I started a round of IV ketamine for my depression. Last Tuesday after work I finished the sixth and final treatment of the round.
I was ready for the disassociation that came during treatment.
I entertained the possibility of nausea and headaches.
Oh, but the memories.
I was grossly unprepared for those.
My sleep has been interesting over the last few weeks, especially the last few days. After a few treatments, I started to have vivid and sometimes painful memories.
If the body keeps the score, the mind wages the war.
I wake up and try to remember the dream that has left my heart racing so I can tell my therapist or my mama or both or no one at all. “What am I to make of these memories?”, I say to a beloved on the phone.
There is a memory in me of how his hands felt, one that sometimes makes me repel even the sweetest touches. And then there is the memory of telling him I was on my period to try to deter him from touching me, the kinds of memories women are asked not to say aloud.
There is a memory of the mocking, the bullying, hatred, and the humiliation of the ground beneath me disappearing over and over again.
Still, a few mornings ago I told one of my beloveds, “It only takes one moment to imagine again.”
I spent my time at Harvard thinking about memory and in my work, I assert that memory is multidirectional.
I need to remember so I can imagine so I can change because memories can make miracles.
Ask me how I know.
Mary, Jesus’ Mama is looking at water and seeing wine because she remembered who had the power to facilitate change and imagined that very change into being (even as Jesus himself resists).
Imagination is how memories turn to miracles.
2 On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. 2 Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. 3 When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” 4 And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to me and to you?[a] My hour has not yet come.” 5 His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” 6 Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. 7 Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. 8 He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the person in charge of the banquet.” So they took it. 9 When the person in charge tasted the water that had become wine and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), that person called the bridegroom 10 and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” 11 Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee and revealed his glory, and his disciples believed in him
John 2:1-11, NRSVUE
Mary had memory, imagination, and she believed in miracles even before Jesus completed his first one. Perhaps, she understood that God is indeed change.
All around me the women and the queer folk and the people at the margins are looking at water and seeing wine.
Six weeks ago, I was planning my funeral.
Memory.
A beloved of mine looks at the water of my depression (sometimes literally) and says they want to grow old with me because they can see wine where there appears to be only water.
Imagination.
6 IVs later and I am not wanting to leave as much or as often.
Change.
For the first time in my adult life, I can forgive myself for my grades falling low in early high school when I was being profusely bullied.
I can release these memories. I can feel them in my body. I can heal in every direction possible and make new ones.
Miracles.
As we walk into the unknown tomorrow, as our co-earthlings in LA (and Gaza, and Sudan, and so many places) continue into the unknown, we have got to remember, imagine, change, and believe in miracles.
Be clear America has been out of wine and I am not interested in saving America.
I am not asking you to see wine where there is water for the sake of saving a democracy (that never has been one).
I am pleading for you to find the places where memory, imagination, and change can catalyze the miracles we desperately need.
And on my way…
I make the memory of standing with a student having trouble focusing saying, “I believe in you. I love you. How can I help you do what I know is possible?” because this is what we deserve when we see water and there is wine.
I hold the phone and pray like God is a Black Woman when my friends call in the throes of living in this world because my imagination is already dancing in the living room (to Luther and/or Kendrick) of the new world.
I change my mind and my methods to be more loving, more just, more like God who is change.
I rejoice in the miracle of my lover’s hands finding the places in me that need tending even as the world ends, changes, and begins again…
Will you come dance with me into the new world?
With love,
Rev. Beloved (aka Brittany)
P.S.-I’m hosting a Sunday Sway later tonight for Black Women and gender-expansive folks. More here. In February, I am hosting a special evening celebrating the legacy of Toni Morrison, Audre Lorde, and Black Women everywhere (open to everyone). More on that here.
When I said that we need your voice, this is what I was talking about. 🫶🏻