I hold on desperately to the past. Clutching memory like pearls or a priceless heirloom. I guess that is not surprising given my career choice. I do not like to forget— and yet everyday, the more knowledge I stuff into my head the more memories I know go as a dream (the way Caroline Polachek puts it).
I was holding onto this summer with my toes— midnight blue nail polish I refused to take off. It is February now and yesterday I finally let it go (as in, I clipped the last bit of polish from my nails). Despite the banality of it, throwing my toenails in the trash felt like conceding to a higher power. A reluctant offering to the gods of memory and trash (to which archaeologists are devout servants).
Maybe this is all TMI, but it’s how I’m processing. The summer field work is officially a memory. There is no longer a physical trace of the experience on my body.
I’m dramatic about it because this summer was serendipitous and self-actualizing. I was actually funded to do international archaeology, and then I was actually paid to do archaeological survey. The opportunities fell into my lap by being in the right place at the right time, spurring a domino affect that is now shaping my career. Even though I am still so green, calling myself an “archaeologist” is not as aspirational as it used to be. The dream is happening!
I spent two-weeks in Co. Donegal, Ireland, digging at an Early Medieval monastic site. (I wrote about it in detail, if you are interested). The days were as fast moving as the sky— overcast to sunshine to wind to mist. We were muddy and midge-bitten and there is nothing quite like laughing, head first in a trench, reading history through the color of the earth.
Profound connections were made and I fell platonically in love with folks more than twice my age. I was the youngest person on the dig, surprisingly, and nothing quite inspires like Irish retirees pursuing their dream education.
After I finished three-weeks of excavation and post-ex, I took the bus back to Dublin and slept 12 hours in my hostel pod. I brought the Donegal rain with me, and despite the summer coming into full-swing, I felt dull. I was plummeting because the dream scenario was over and I may never have the opportunity again. I drank my afternoon pint in the hostel bar and wondered, what the hell do I do now?
My feet had taken a beating. Even worse than when I was in a ballerina. It was probably because I was working and walking all day in steel-toed boots. With nothing better to do, I decided to go to a nail salon. Well, I had decided to wander aimlessly until it began raining, so ducking in to a nail salon seemed appropriate. For context, I only get my nails done for necessary occasions so a post-excavation treat seemed a reasonable splurge.
The woman who painted my nails was an older mom. She was extremely kind and admired my tattoos. Her son was a tattoo artist, she told me, and she was clearly very proud of him. She told me she could get me a discount if I wanted to go to his parlor, but I didn’t have enough time— though now I wish I had got some ogham lines to continue the theme of ancient writing systems on my arm.
That was 7 months ago now, and the nail polish is finally gone. I have new bruises on my toes to fill in the space. Luckily, the callouses I developed may last forever.
I hold on to the past because I do not want to forget. Remembrance may be a craving of all archaeologists and historians. My remembering the past, I have realized, is as much apart of my thought process as it is my vocation. I want to keep my memories crystallized, I want to remember as if I am still there. If my toes were still painted blue it couldn’t have been that long ago, right?
Anyway, we all know archaeologists are crazy, so this is nothing new.
Hope you all are fairing well through the winter and plotting dreams that have yet to come!
<3
