Cubing - On the Body Memory

Instructions: Spend two minutes writing about each of these things. The subject is on the first body memory I just wrote.

WHO

The who is very much my mother, the person I'm clinging too, the source of comfort, of warmth, of person. The who is also me, myself, the child that I was, the child that on some level is still me, the me that was there in that church, had been there before, but was becoming more and more aware, of awareness awakening within me, and the fear of these new things I was aware of. I returned to that other person, my mother, not even really my mother, just the presence of my mother, something that meant she was there. Just a leg, a bit of clothing, a smell, something to hold on to was enough to calm the me that feared and let him become a me that looked around and wondered at what this world was.

WHAT

What was I remembering, exactly? I was remembering being in the children's room with my mother at church. I was remembering what it felt like to be so small, to live in a world that small, a world small enough that a simple calf was the focus of my world, a part of a person, not even a whole person. What was I doing? I don't know. I don't remember purpose back then because... I don't even remember a because. There was no because. I just was what I was. I was existing, examining, absorbing, learning, trying to process a world that had only one pillar of familiarity.

WHERE

Where was I? I was in the middle of a pew, probably the front pew, in the small room that had been set up for families with small children in the church my mother took our family too. I can remember that room now, because I know it so well from when I was older, but at the time my world was everything below the walls of the pew, the walls that were a bit taller than I. There was a seat I could barely clamber on and off of, there were the legs of people to my left and right, there was the booming voice of what I now know as the priest, saying things I did not bother to understand, there were the singing voices of the legs that stood up and sat down, voices floating down from high above me.

WHEN

When was this? Good question. I can only estimate, I was too young to understand the concept of age at the time. Being only a tad bit taller than my mother's knee, I was probably somewhere between 2-4, I think I was fairly tall for a toddler. It was a time of transition between infant and toddler, between baby and child, between animal and person. Yes, I had lived in the world a few years already, but now I was becoming aware of the world, starting a process of becoming aware of the world that I haven't even stopped to this day. Now I have things to base new discoveries on, knowledge to rationalize new things, but not then... Then, everything was new.

WHY

Why do I remember that? To be sure, there are other body memories I have that are equally distant to me. I have no way of measuring which comes first, whether the cold wind blowing on my face, or squishy wet sand between my toes, or a car seat strapping me down, (I never did like being strapped down like that), but I chose this memory of my mother, this memory of dependency on my mother, of her being the only familiar thing in an unfamiliar world. So why did I chose this memory to write about? It's not like I have the happiest of relationships with her at the moment. Old wounds are being opened up, and I'm recognizing faults.

HOW

How? How what? How did I feel? How did I remember? How do I justify writing such a thing in such a time in such a place? Place is easy, time is not. How do I know why I do what I do? The answer is I don't. You don't either. None of us do. We can rationalize and reason and understand, and these are good things to try and do, but somewhere in the back of our minds we must accept that everyone operates on a level unknowable to us, even ourselves, that we might just be wrong. Of course, by that same principle, my preaching that everyone must accept this could also be flat-out wrong. How do I wright?