WAKE UP

 

“Memory is the selection of images; some elusive; others printed indelibly on the brain. Each image is like a thread… each thread woven together to make a tapestry of intricate textures. And the tapestry tells a story. And the story is our past… Like others before me, I have the gift of sight. But the truth changes color depending on the light. And tomorrow can be clearer than yesterday.”

Eve’s Bayou. Screenplay by Kasi Lemmons.

 

Over the years I have had many dream noises that wake me up in the night. They are not real noises but sounds my unconscious creates. Bells, swishing sounds, door knocking, whistles, pounding, and voices, sometimes plague my sleep. In December 2022, the number of these sounds increased. Then, this dream occurred:

 

DREAM: The Alarm Clock. (January 18, 2023. Thirty-three years and four months after my memory returned.)

I’m sleeping when suddenly an "alarm clock'' wakes me up.

 I jerk up from my bed, turn on the bedside light and notice someone is moving the handle on my front door. I become terrified. I do not close my bedroom door at night, which is located next to my front door. It was two a.m. and there was no alarm clock. My unconscious mind must have sensed that someone was trying to get into my house and deliberately woke me up by producing an alarm sound.

As I have stated before, I believe my unconscious mind is communicating with me and I need to listen. She is trying to tell me something. I believe some of these sounds are frightening flashbacks from my past, and others are saying, “Wake up, get going, stop messing around, quit denying, get to work, you must finish your journey.”

In fact, I have had many more recently recovered memories that are not included in my book. I need to research them, and I am dragging my feet.

 

BUTTERFLY MEMORIES

My first memory of butterflies happened when I was in diapers. I was out in a field with my mother, and we came upon a butterfly perched in the grass. It had round circles on its wings like eyes and it was beautiful. “Don’t touch, don’t touch,” my mother said softly. Of course, I reached out, and it flew away.

My mother didn’t remember this momentous occasion in my life, and doubted it really happened, but I know it did. I can still see that butterfly in my mind’s eye. I think of this memory often and marvel that it made such an impression on me. Maybe it is because the memory comes from a time when my mother was happy.

I have had many encounters with butterflies. When photography became a hobby, California became my studio, and butterflies were among my subjects. I have pictures of a horde of short-tailed black swallowtail butterflies eating salt at the edge of Lake Shasta, Monarch butterflies sucking nectar from dahlias in a community garden in Bolinas, and a Painted Lady enjoying a zinnia at Stinson Beach. All seemed to pose, without fear, ignoring me as I focused and framed each shot.

Once, while walking around the butterfly pavilion at the San Diego Wildlife Park, a South American zebra butterfly landed in my hair, and posed while passers-by photographed us. I attended a seminar about monarch butterflies in Palos Verdes one Spring. The teacher took us to a grove of eucalyptus trees along the ocean. At the top of the trees, we could see masses of monarchs attached to the branches. As the sun came up, they slowly began to wake up and float down to earth. We learned how to pick them up without hurting them and tag them so their migration movements could be studied.

But my favorite butterfly memory occurred while I was walking on a beach looking for something to photograph. There on the edge of the water was a tiny blue copper butterfly who hadn’t gotten out of the way of an approaching wave. Her wings were wet, and she couldn’t propel herself out of the water.

I reached down, placed my finger next to her, and she climbed on. I lifted her up, and with my arm extended, continued walking down the beach, her feet softly tickling my finger. She rested as the warm breeze wafted around her wings, and soon they were completely dry. She seemed to like the ride, and continued to sit here, enjoying the view. I felt this little creature understood I was helping her and that she need not leave in a hurry. It was as if we were communicating in some mysterious unspoken language. Our walk continued until a dog came running by and she decided to say goodbye. Lifting her wings, she flitted across the beach, disappearing into the grass. Our San Francisco Bay encounter is a special memory.

Photographs of Monarch butterflies. These images were purchased from me by a printer who made note cards, and sold them in the San Francisco area under the name "Alice Cunningham Collection."

 

Onward and upward.