(My) Repressed Memories

I’m driving down State Street, in Salt Lake City, going south on a warm, spring sunny day. All of the sudden, boom I feel happy.

“What brought that on?” I asked myself.

The beauty of State Street? Please.

The angle of the sun? Maybe, but not absolutely.

. . . a memory.

Of what?

. . . of driving down Balboa Bay Blvd., in southern California, traveling to the ocean.

Until that moment, I didn’t know I had a memory of that congested street.

It’s just a street I have gone down hundreds of times driving to the ocean.

Am I subconsciously repressing desires to move back to southern California?

Who cares.

A burst of happiness in the present is great even if it’s triggered by a repressed memory. I drive down State Street every chance I get, especially on a warm sunny day.

The same goes for a bad memory.

Last year I had a chance to buy a classic hot rod just like the one I had in high school.

I got out my check book, opened it up, and started writing out the check. All of the sudden some bad memories came flooding in from those high school years.

I had always dreamt of having that kind of classic car, but I closed the checkbook, walked away, and haven’t had those bad memories since.

I think I’ve figured this thing out: Let good memories in, no matter what triggers them, and walk away from bad ones no matter how much wisdom dictates you shouldn’t.


(My) Religious Cycle