I do the same Roz. Writing it down or typing it also helps free up mental space within you. It’s almost as if an energetic release takes place to allow for more to come through you
I use both writing and voice memos. Having said that, though, I still, on occasion, depend on my memory. How's that working for me? Did you need to ask? LOL. Not good at all. Great write-up. Inspired by it.
I really enjoyed reading this post—I love to read about writing and writers and everything you wrote re: the transiency of memory resonated strongly for me after witnessing my Dad’s journey through dementia. His entire family wishes he had written anything, anything at all about his life and his own memories of his growing up. Instead, those generational archives are now lost forever to us due to his death but also his dementia, where, when we tried to prompt him, he could not recall things clearly. His mental inking having paled beyond all ability to “re-read.” Oh, and I love handwriting—it’s now a lost art, in so many ways. The tactile experience of it all, its slower pace, the mood it inspires in one’s body.
Hand writing, the connection between the mind and hand. Write it down and watch it happen.
It also gets you to slow down and be present
I write or type everything so I don't forget. Memories fade with age or mental conditions.
I do the same Roz. Writing it down or typing it also helps free up mental space within you. It’s almost as if an energetic release takes place to allow for more to come through you
I use both writing and voice memos. Having said that, though, I still, on occasion, depend on my memory. How's that working for me? Did you need to ask? LOL. Not good at all. Great write-up. Inspired by it.
This is beautifully written Tomi! I’ve not heard it before so thank you for sharing this! Waiting for your next one... 😊🙏🏽
Well done and worth sharing with others. Thank you
I really enjoyed reading this post—I love to read about writing and writers and everything you wrote re: the transiency of memory resonated strongly for me after witnessing my Dad’s journey through dementia. His entire family wishes he had written anything, anything at all about his life and his own memories of his growing up. Instead, those generational archives are now lost forever to us due to his death but also his dementia, where, when we tried to prompt him, he could not recall things clearly. His mental inking having paled beyond all ability to “re-read.” Oh, and I love handwriting—it’s now a lost art, in so many ways. The tactile experience of it all, its slower pace, the mood it inspires in one’s body.