Memory-Keeping in Transition Seasons
Wisdom from Grandmother Elderberry's Notebooks
[The following excerpts were transcribed with permission from Grandmother Elderberry's personal memory-keeping journals, with additional notes provided during a special workshop held in the Library teapot's Reading Nook last Tuesday afternoon. Claude Moreau was permitted to observe on the condition that he provide a fresh supply of memory-catching jars, which he sourced from an eccentric glassblower in the village who works only by moonlight.]
On the Nature of Between-Time
The spaces between seasons hold memories unlike any others. Neither fully this nor wholly that, they exist in the delicate balance of becoming—a state that makes them particularly potent for those of us who practice the art of memory-keeping.
As winter yields to spring, we encounter what I call "threshold memories"—moments that exist precisely on the boundary between what was and what will be. These are notoriously difficult to capture, rather like trying to bottle the exact instant when night becomes day. One must develop a certain sensitivity to the subtle shifts in light, temperature, and possibility.
Many novice memory-keepers make the mistake of waiting for spring to fully arrive before beginning their collections. By then, the most precious between-memories have already dissolved, like frost patterns when touched by sun. The true art lies in recognizing the exact moment when winter dreams become spring possibilities—and having one's jars ready.
On Proper Jar Selection for Between-Season Work
Not all memory vessels serve equally well for transition work. Crystal catches winter's last breaths most effectively but tends to shatter under the pressure of spring's enthusiasm. Clay holds the earthy qualities of awakening roots but muddles the crystalline clarity of frost's farewell whispers.
For between-season work, I recommend glass blown during the quarter moon and cooled in dawn dew. Such vessels possess the necessary flexibility to contain contradictory essences without forcing them to resolve their differences prematurely.
The size of the jar matters less than its resonance. Hold the empty vessel to your ear—it should hum with a note that reminds you simultaneously of what is ending and what is beginning. If it sings only of winter's depth or spring's height, set it aside for more appropriate seasonal work.
On Identifying Potent Between-Season Moments
The most powerful threshold memories often announce themselves quietly. Look for:
The first afternoon when melting snow smells more of earth than of ice
The moment when leaf buds swell just enough to change a branch's silhouette against the sky
The exact day when returning birds shift from travel songs to territory songs
The morning when frost forms patterns that mimic spring growth rather than winter geometry
These subtle transitions offer the richest capturing opportunities. One particularly potent moment occurs when the first spring rain meets the last winter ice—creating what I call "memory puddles" that hold perfect balance between seasons. Water gathered from such puddles makes an exceptional base for preserving other threshold memories.
On the Scent of Melting Snow
There exists no scent more difficult to capture, nor more valuable in memory work, than the particular fragrance of snow returning to water. It carries winter's acquired wisdom and spring's new questions in perfect suspension.
To properly preserve this scent:
Locate north-facing snow, sheltered enough to remain while other patches have melted
Wait for the precise moment when its edges begin to soften with surrender
Hold your capturing jar approximately one paw-width above the melting edge
Whisper the following acknowledgment: "Between holding and releasing, I honor your transformation"
Cap immediately with cork harvested during the previous autumn's first frost
The resulting essence serves as a powerful stabilizing agent for more volatile memories. Three drops added to any jar will help prevent the natural deterioration that occurs when memories are removed from their original context.
On the Color of Hope
Among the most precious memories to gather during seasonal transition is what I call "the color of hope"—that particular shade of green that exists only in the earliest days of spring. Not the vibrant certainty of full-season growth, but the gentle, hesitant green of possibility testing itself.
This color cannot be properly seen with ordinary vision. One must develop the habit of looking slightly to the side of what one wishes to observe, catching it in peripheral awareness where the eye's wisdom exceeds its technical capabilities.
The color of hope appears most vividly:
In the first unfurling of fern fronds, when they still retain their spiral shape
Along the undersides of birch bark just as the sap begins to rise
In the inner core of bulb plants, revealed only if one carefully brushes away soil without disturbing root structures
At the base of south-facing rocks when afternoon light reaches precisely the correct angle
To capture this color, one needs glass tinted with blackberry juice pressed under the Harvest Moon. The jar must be warmed to exactly blood temperature and approached with hands that have touched nothing since being washed in the morning's first dew.
Never attempt to capture the color of hope after noon or before the last traces of frost have yielded. The resulting shade will appear similar but lack the essential quality of uncertainty that gives true hope its power.
On Preserving Winter Dreams
As creatures awaken from hibernation or winter dormancy, their dreams briefly linger in the air around them—a crystalline haze of what sustained them through the cold months. These winter dreams are among the most fleeting of between-season memories, typically dissipating within moments of a creature's awakening.
To preserve these dream-memories:
Locate a hibernating creature on the verge of waking (signs include quickened breathing, subtle movements, a certain alertness in the air)
Position your jar approximately three whisker-lengths from the sleeper
When awakening begins, make the sound of winter wind through dried leaves (this encourages the dream to seek familiar shelter in your jar)
Seal with wax mixed with a single strand of the awakening creature's fur (obtained with permission, naturally)
Winter dreams preserved in this manner make excellent gifts for those suffering from excessive spring fever. A single breath of contained winter wisdom often restores perspective during spring's more overwhelming moments.
On the Dangers of Memory-Gathering at Dawn
I must include a word of caution regarding dawn work during seasonal transition. When night yields to day during the between-time, the boundaries between different types of memory become dangerously permeable. One risks capturing not just the memories of our world, but echoes from elsewhere.
Several years ago, young Primrose joined me for dawn memory-gathering during the first week of March. We inadvertently bottled what appeared to be ordinary morning mist, only to discover we had captured the dreams of the Garden itself—vast, ancient memories too complex for ordinary comprehension. The jar hummed for weeks with voices speaking languages no mouse has ever documented.
If one must work at dawn (and indeed, certain memories can be gathered at no other time), take the following precautions:
Wear clothing embroidered with protective knots
Carry a twig of rowan wood blessed by moonlight
Whistle the melody of the previous season's final storm
Touch nothing directly—always use silver tongs for handling jars and specimens
Never, under any circumstances, look directly at the horizon during the moment of sunrise
On Proper Applications of Between-Season Memories
Once properly gathered and preserved, threshold memories serve numerous essential functions in Garden life:
Medicinal Uses:
Memory of first birdsong eases winter-heart (the spiritual fatigue that affects many during winter's final, stubborn days)
Captured scent of melting snow reduces fever when applied to wrists and temples
Preserved color of hope strengthens resolve when difficult decisions must be made
Practical Applications:
Between-frost (that curious state when dew becomes ice and ice returns to dew in endless cycle) stabilizes dyes used on ceremonial fabrics
Dream-memories from hibernating creatures improve the clarity of star maps drawn during spring equinox
The sound of ice shifting on the pond prevents ink from thickening when documenting particularly complex histories
Social Rituals:
Opening a jar of threshold memory during Spring Welcome ceremonies honors the journey through winter
Exchanging tiny vials of the color of hope strengthens bonds between families
Meditation upon snow-scent helps Council members maintain balanced perspective during seasonal planning sessions
Final Thoughts on Ethical Gathering
Remember always that memories, once removed from their natural context, depend upon our stewardship. Gather only what you need, and always with reverence for the moment's sovereignty. Return at least one memory-jar to the earth for every three you keep—bury it during the opposite season to maintain proper balance.
For those new to this practice, begin with simple collections: the sound of melting icicles, the first robin's shadow, the particular quality of air when crocuses decide to bloom. Build your sensitivity gradually. The most precious between-season memories will reveal themselves only when you've learned to exist comfortably in the spaces between one moment and the next.
And remember—some memories must remain wild. If you encounter something of particular power or mystery, something that makes your whiskers tremble with both wonder and uncertainty, simply bow your acknowledgment and pass by. Not everything is meant to be preserved in jars. Some memories serve the Garden best by remaining free to weave themselves into its dreaming.
Addendum from Miss Hazel: Grandmother Elderberry's workshop concluded with a practical demonstration of between-season memory-gathering at the library's east-facing window. Participants successfully captured the exact moment when morning light encountered the frost patterns left by last night's spirits, creating what Grandmother described as "light remembering its journey through winter." The resulting memory-jars now form a special exhibit in the library's Ephemeral Collections section, where they will remain until the Spring Equinox renders them too potent for public display.
Mr. Thistledown wishes it noted that, while acknowledging the inherently subjective nature of memory-keeping practices, he has begun work on a standardized classification system for between-season experiences, complete with appropriate cross-referencing protocols. Grandmother Elderberry has responded to this initiative by gifting him a memory-jar containing what appears to be the sound of ancient trees laughing gently at scholarly precision.