Near the water in San Francisco, I stand near a mailbox here at the edge of the sloping lawn where people fly kites in the stiff wind off the sea. I see a row of houses across the grass – lining the street, facing the water. With one hand on the mailbox I stand and study the houses, looking for signs of earthquake damage. I wonder what it would be like to live here rather than in Seattle. More sun, perhaps. Big ocean rather than the subdued waters of Puget Sound. Then I let the letter drop into the mailbox and release the handle. The door snaps closed with a metallic thunk I recognize immediately as the first sound heard in a whole new life, a life I may not actually want. I walk away slowly, sad, scared, and thrilled all at once.

The letter was to my father. Mailing it put into motion a series of events that spun out for years, divided us, sent us on our separate journeys, then, finally, after a decade, brought us together for one of the most difficult and rewarding weeks I’ve ever spent. The end of the story finds me and my father healed, trusting, and close. Are we closer than we could have been had I never sent that letter? Did I need to send the letter, in spite of the long hell it triggered, in order for us to find ourselves in the clear light of honest love now? When I ponder those questions, they always accompany a snapshot of that moment at the mailbox in the brilliant San Francisco light as I let go of the mailbox door. Thunk.

This and many other direction-altering instants populate my history, assemble, and meld to create the kaleidoscope that is me. We all have them. Where were you the moment you learned of the September 11th crashes? I’ll bet you remember exactly, even perhaps down to the exact position your body was in when the impact of the news hit you. The more personal, less shared, meaningful moments in our lives create the same type of flash-photo archive.

They are not all negative or tough moments, these significant instants. But they all offer clues about what gives our lives meaning, what drives us, and what has the power to impact us most deeply. We tell these stories over and over to ourselves in order to learn. We can follow our own album of defining moments to our core, where we find the gems created by the fires we’ve walked through. Our wealth.

I walk into my tiny cabin in the woods on the island near Seattle and pick up the phone to see if I have any messages. One. From Corsica. From the man I recently spent two weeks falling in love with during a group painting trip there. A German man who lives in another country. A man who remained only a friend and who, I’d been certain, had chosen someone else for love.

He laughs through the phone into my ear. “Hey, Grace Ada Kerina! I just wanted to hear your voice. Here I am. South of Bastia in a youth hostel by the beach. I yelled out your name eastward across the sea last night, so that will take much much longer than I thought it would to actually reach you, but I hope it does. Take care. Bye!”

Then the flood of postcards. One or more every day, filled with stories and joy, signed “With love,” from the man who became my husband – all of that folded into the memory vortex of the moment I picked up the phone and thought, “Oh, I’ve got a message.”

Flickr photo Manu Script, by kevinzim.