It's funny what memory does, isn't it? My favorite holiday

The words, “It’s funny what memory does, isn’t it? My favorite holiday tradition might not have happened more than once or twice. But because it is such a good memory, so encapsulating of everything I love about the holidays, in my mind it happened every year. Without fail,” come from Molly O’Keefe, the author whose writing often captures the tenderness of everyday life and the subtle power of emotion. In this reflection, O’Keefe reveals the mysterious nature of memory—that it is not merely a record of what happened, but a living story shaped by feeling, meaning, and love. Her words remind us that the heart, not the mind, determines what endures. A single beautiful moment can expand in memory until it feels timeless, eternal, repeating across years even if it happened only once.

To the ancients, memory was not a static archive—it was a sacred fire. The Greeks spoke of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, as the mother of all the Muses, for they believed that every act of art, poetry, and song sprang from remembrance. What O’Keefe expresses is the same truth: that memory is creative, not merely reflective. It shapes and reshapes our lives in its retelling. The moment she recalls—her cherished holiday tradition—has grown in her mind not because it happened often, but because it held the essence of what she most loved: warmth, togetherness, peace, joy. That essence transcends time. The mind forgets the number of times an event occurred, but the heart remembers how it felt. And so, memory becomes myth—our own private mythology, the story we tell ourselves to make meaning of who we are.

In her gentle humor—“it’s funny what memory does”—there is deep wisdom. She acknowledges that memory bends reality, and yet it is this bending that gives life its sweetness. We are not meant to recall life as a list of events, but as a tapestry of emotions. What truly matters is not the accuracy of the past, but its emotional truth. To remember a moment of joy as recurring every year is not a lie; it is a testament to the power of love to outlast time. It is as if the heart, in its longing, replays that memory through every year that follows, weaving it into the fabric of tradition—even if the tradition existed only once in the realm of flesh.

Consider the story of Helen Keller, who, though blind and deaf, described her memories of learning to communicate as a vision so vivid it seemed to live and breathe within her forever. The moment her teacher placed her hand under the water and spelled “W-A-T-E-R” was singular, yet in Keller’s memory, it became the eternal fountain of her life—the moment replayed endlessly, always fresh. Like O’Keefe’s holiday memory, Keller’s experience became not one event, but a symbol, a repeating presence that transcended the boundaries of time. Memory transforms experience into essence, and essence into eternity.

O’Keefe’s reflection also carries a quiet teaching about gratitude. Often, we chase repetition—we long to recreate joy exactly as it was before. But her words remind us that once may be enough. A single perfect moment can fill a lifetime if we hold it with gratitude. To live wisely is to understand that the beauty of life does not lie in its quantity of pleasures, but in the depth of the ones we remember. The ancients knew this, too: that the feast matters not because of how many times it is held, but because of the spirit that fills it. A single act of kindness, a single gathering of love, can echo forever in the chambers of the heart.

There is also a sacred irony in her tone—a recognition that memory, though imperfect, is merciful. It preserves the good and softens the pain. The holidays she recalls may have contained their own sorrows or imperfections, yet her memory, like a careful artist, has painted over the cracks with light. This is not deception; it is grace. For memory’s highest purpose is not to torment us with the past, but to heal us through beauty. When we remember with love, we redeem time itself. What once happened “once or twice” becomes something infinite, replaying not in the world outside, but in the temple of the soul.

So, my child, take this lesson into your own life: cherish your moments deeply, for even one may be enough to last forever. Do not mourn the fleeting nature of joy—rejoice that memory gives it wings. Let your heart be the keeper of what was good, and allow your gratitude to transform the past into something luminous. For it is not the number of times we experience happiness that defines us, but the depth with which we remember it.

In the end, Molly O’Keefe’s words remind us that life is not measured by repetition, but by reverence. The holidays, like life itself, are brief; but in memory, they become eternal. So when you recall your own moments of warmth and laughter, let them live again—not as history, but as living flame. For as long as the heart remembers with love, nothing beautiful is ever lost, and the soul’s truest traditions will always continue—without fail.