My Mom was here for a visit this weekend.  While looking at old pictures and reminiscing, she asked me whether I remembered the surprise birthday party we had thrown for her 35th birthday.  I needed a few more prompts for those memories to come to the forefront of my brain, and as we talked about it, different strands of the story started weaving together into a clearer picture.  She told it from her point of view, and I remembered it from my then fourteen-year-old self.  She recalled all the chores us kids had been doing—painting the barn, mowing the lawn, cleaning the house—and how proud she was of us for being so industrious.  We were trying to get things cleaned up and ready for the party!  My aunt had asked her to come to Harrisburg to go shopping.  We needed to get her out of the house!  They planned on all coming back to our place for cake and ice cream.  Everybody would be there by that time!  I recalled the excitement I felt keeping the party a secret from my Mom.  I remembered how satisfying it felt to get all those chores finished and to have the place looking good.  I thought about the help we had from our Dad, our aunt and uncle, and our family friends to make the surprise and party a success.  Then she told me that my older sister didn’t remember it at all!  Somehow the strand of memory for that event was invisible or broken for her.

One morning last week I noticed the dewy webs of grass spiders.  Normally one wouldn’t even notice the webs, but the dew clung to the strands like tiny white crystals.

One web was shaped like a bowl, and at the bottom of the bowl was a funnel.  In the funnel, ready to ‘catch’ whatever fell into her lair, was a grass spider.

More webs dazzled in the sunshine as each drop of dew glistened like a diamond.

Today I found another web of webs in the Lily of the Valley.  It was not as neat and even as the grass spider webs—it was much more complicated, convoluted, and chaotic.  Or so it seemed.  No crystal dewdrops hung from the web, but the sun still reflected off the gossamer strands.

A web is a home for a spider, a place to catch food, and sometimes a nursery for the young.  It is made from the strong, flexible, proteinaceous silk the spider ‘spins.’  It is often invisible but will catch the light rays to attract insects.  The strands of our memories form the web of our lives.  Our brains store these memories in a complex yet structured way that is most often connected to a heightened emotion, like the excitement I felt from planning the party for my Mom without her knowing about it.  We all remember events differently, if we remember them at all.  At times, we don’t remember things because there are too many mundane, not-important things that happen to us—we don’t need to remember them.  Often we have memories that fade away with time and can be recalled with help.  But sometimes things happen that interfere with the structured formation of memories—overwhelm and trauma can cause our memories to be stored in a convoluted and chaotic way.  We cannot recall them—they are there but invisible to us.  So how do we shine the light on the strands of our memories?  When we allow ourselves to be in quiet and intentionally ask ourselves questions, often our minds will let us know the answer.  We can talk with one another to piece together the individual strands of memories that formed the web of that life event.  Looking at old pictures or visiting past places illuminates the dusty cobwebs of memory, often shaking things loose, so we get a clearer picture.  We can illuminate the strong, flexible strands of our memories, so they shine like diamonds in the web of our lives.