Reminiscing is a curious thing.
A scent, a song, a scrap of paper tucked inside a book, and suddenly whole chapters of life come wandering back in. Some of these chapters are easily navigated, whilst others require a whole lot more attention. These may be filled with drama, heartbreak and lessons to learn. Lately I’ve found myself thinking about the many lives we seem to live within one lifetime.

The years teaching Japanese — chalk dust – yes, chalk dust. In a way I missed the way the colours could be blended, the light and heavy texture in writing Japanese characters. All that went as the curriculum leaned into laptop programs.

Hiragana, Katakana and Kanji charts. Some of which I am rediscovering as I unpack the multitude of boxes from the recent move. I thought that I had given away all my teaching materials and resources prior to the move. But here they are, popping up unexpectedly and triggering the reminiscing.

Memories of those delightful moments when a student suddenly got it. Language lessons were never really just about language. They were about curiosity, confidence, culture, and connection. We made year books, Japanese gardens and hopefully created an interest in Japan for young minds to explore. Long before “play-based learning” became fashionable jargon, there was the quiet understanding that children learn best when imagination is invited to the table. I presented to several conferences about creativity in language programs during my teaching career and if so inclined, you can read my  Conference Notes .

Another chapter was the deep dive into Steiner teacher training. Learning was painted, modelled, sung, and stitched. Tuesday evenings for four years, not an indulgence or a chore like traditional university-based courses. Where I created a pentatonic harp slowly carved out of a plank of Oregon wood, where I sang, where stories mattered. Seasons mattered. Wonder mattered. A place where creativity wasn’t an “extra” but the heartbeat of learning itself. This wonder still lingers today.

Looking back, it’s the people who colour the memories most vividly. Friends who arrived unexpectedly and stayed for decades. Friends who drifted gently out of orbit as life changed shape. And some who left far too soon – motorbike accidents or terminal illnesses. Leaving behind unfinished conversations, shared jokes that still echo, and moments that can still catch unexpectedly at the heart.

There’s a tenderness to reminiscing as we get older. Less urgency somehow. More gratitude. Not every chapter lasted forever. Not every plan unfolded neatly. But each season brought its own gifts, lessons, laughter and companions for the road.

And perhaps that’s the quiet magic of memory —
it reminds us that even fleeting connections leave lasting fingerprints on the soul.