I may not be a cat in spandex, but . . .

Once upon a time, a cat in spandex sang a song about how memories can light the corners of our minds, implying they are soft, glowing things that bring us warmth and light.

Sure, that can happen.

But some memories feel more like swirling storms, where the what was roars in without warning, sucking us up like clueless cows into a toilet spin of dung and detritus.

Perhaps I overstate.

Perhaps.

When we are caught up in those kinds of memories, it’s hard to do anything except focus on the damage, which leaves us at their mercy. Sometimes, these memories are so powerful we can’t even stay upright in the face of them, let alone think about doing something else, like welcome them in and make them more at home in our life story.

Give some of my memories a warm and comfy place in front of the fire? Hell, no.

And yet, an antagonistic relationship with our memories does nothing to make them disappear. It just means that we are perpetually whipped up or torn apart whenever we get sucked back into those bygone moments.

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of living like that.

A phrase I found in a book of liturgy two decades ago might help: redeem our memories.

Admittedly, redemption language can be troubling. The theological emphasis on judgment and falling short (thus, the need for redemption) has infected generations with an overwhelming sense of shame. Many and vast are the negative psychological effects of believing we are worms.

Something else that is troubling? The OED’s very first definition of redeem is “to make good (a loss).” This can lead to phrases like, “This happened to you for a reason,” or “You have a lesson to learn.”

That’s bullshit. Life can suck. Period. And it can be so damn exhausting to try and make bad memories good.

Still, “redeem our memories” can be a buoy, landing in front of us as we thrash in the middle of our raging storms.

How?

I was at a gathering recently, and two teenagers sat on a couch, with their eyes on their phones. Their beautiful hair hung like a thick curtain over their faces. They had no interest in talking with me . . . so I tried sitting down, lower than they were. I leaned forward and quietly started asking them some questions. Somehow, I managed to stumble upon something that was of interest to both of them—digital art. Suddenly, I saw eyes brighten with curiosity and before long, they were shyly showing me what they had created. Their art was quirky, existential, and astounding.

It struck me—how we approach something can make all the difference.

What if we approach our memories with interest and curiosity? What if we return to our particularly painful memories and choose to look at them (and ourselves) with a quiet attentiveness? An inquisitive rather than an inquisitorial gaze?

This requires turning away from damning and shame and turning toward kindness and wonder. “Hey. Look at you, dear one. Look at what happened. What you were asked to endure. You survived. You are okay. You are enough.”

To live is to make memories . . . that we carry with us for the rest of our lives. We can thank all that is holy for the memories that glow.

For those other memories, we can choose to treat them as random, devastating storms that leave us trying not to step on the rusty nails as we wander aimlessly through the devastation.

If we want to try something different, we can practice a gentle and curious approach. It will require courage and intention, but little by little, maybe we can redeem, rescue, and reclaim what has happened to us. Because all of those moments and memories are what makes you who you are.

And I may not be a cat in spandex, but when those unruly memories start to rumble, try and remember this: what soul hasn’t needed stitches? To live light, it’s all about the repair. So, be gentle with yourself. And your memories.