How to be a tourist in your own mind

Bordering on Beautiful. Day 10.

I’d like to take a moment to disagree with Mr. Thomas Wolfe. You can go home again. But, I suppose, it all depends on how you define home. Can “home” be a state of mind? After reading Moonwalking with Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything, I decided to construct a memory palace. To stave off the perils of the big bad wolf, I fashioned my home out of the strongest material I could find: memories. In a world that thrives on creative destruction, emotionally-tinged memories were the most stable and resilient building blocks I could find.

Here’s how to build your own memory palace:

First, choose a base. Pick a place that you know and love, a place that sparks creativity. I selected the Alden B. Dow home and studio as the model for my memory palace. I spent three months as a writing intern at the home, and the layout of the home is still imprinted on my mind. It’s a place I love dearly: the bright colors, secret tunnels, climbable chimneys, and porches that overlook a pond and extensive gardens were an apt backdrop for the months I spent chasing my elusive creative genius.

Next, choose a sound that you associate with that place. It might be the ticking of an old Grandfather clock, the steady whir of a tea kettle, or the crackle of a fireplace. In addition to deferring mental stagnation, the noise will spark creativity that can jog specific memories at any given time. My memory palace resonates with the “chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-choo-choo!” that the model train emits as it traveled along the walls of the Alden B. Dow home. Whenever I reach the “looking glass of the mind’s self-reflection,” (Nietzche) the study chug of the train shatters the glass panes by reminding me that writer’s block is something I just have to work through.

Finally, fill the home with memories. Go through the rooms of the home, one by one. Select your most precious memories, form collective sets, and imagine yourself reliving those moments in a place you know and love. Here are two examples of how I filled the empty space within my memory palace.

In the colorful play room of the Alden B. Dow home and studio, I use the camcorder to start a reel of my early days. When I was three or four, my dad carried me up a mountain in Alaska because I did not want my Winnie-the-Pooh hiking boots to get dirty. That memory is in the film, along with clips of camping trips that I took with my cousins. The sun-soaked days at a campsite in Petoskey fade; snow settles over the fallen leaves. My dog Chipo grips the rope that is attached to my sled, and I laugh as the sled weaves its way through the trees of Michigan’s wintery wonderland. There I am, just a girl in the snow once more.

The “submarine room” of the Alden B. Dow home is submerged in a pond covered with lily pads. Children kayak outside the room, excitedly shouting as they see the orange koi fish emerge from the depths. The submarine room of my memory palace is beset by sorrows and difficult decisions, but the children’s laughter reminds me that I am not sinking — just treading water.

My memory palace is a work in progress. There are still clips that have to be filmed, decisions that have to be made. I am twenty-one years old, and I am learning how to be a tourist in my own mind.