They say, Return home with good memories. But when we leave this existence, will that still hold true? Can it ever be so simple?

For much of my life, even as I’ve grown older, I don’t think I fully understood the weight of those words. Their meaning felt like something I was supposed to grasp but couldn’t quite reach—always hovering just beyond the edge of understanding, elusive yet familiar.

Through all this wondering, music has been my constant, my compass. I’ve always been carried by its energy. I honestly can’t imagine what my life would be without art and sound. The other day, I noticed my noise-canceling earpiece was failing. The left side had started to go, the once-clear sound fraying at the edges. I wasn’t surprised—it’s been with me through so much, every single day. Machines, like everything else, are bound to wear out eventually, aren’t they?

Still, it made me pause. And not long after, as if guided by some unseen pull of inertia, I found myself immersed in the energy of a few BTS concerts. The lights, the music, the atmosphere—it all seemed to transcend the boundaries of language and culture. Yet what lingered with me wasn’t the spectacle itself. It was something one of them said at every single concert—a simple yet deeply resonant reminder: ‘Let’s not be sad when this ends. Let’s just create important, good memories.’ Those words planted themselves in my mind. Perhaps, just perhaps, good memories are all we really carry with us—across days, across years, maybe even across lifetimes.

When I think back to the moments that brought me real happiness, I’m struck by how often they weren’t planned. It’s never the grand achievements or carefully marked milestones that stay with me. It’s the fleeting, unguarded moments: the sound of my young child’s laughter echoing across an empty room, the warmth of sunlight on my skin on a quiet summer morning, the soft timbre of my aunt’s voice as she explained Buddhist teachings, the smell of fresh baked bagel in Montreal. These are the fragments I hold closest—the ones that remind me I’ve truly lived.

A Glenn Miller record softly spinning on vinyl. The memory of a meal from my mother’s kitchen. The gentle smell of a museum gallery. The electric thrill of a U2  concert.

And then, my thoughts drift, as they often do, to a place that feels like home in some inexplicable way. Eastern Asia. It’s a connection I’ve never been able to fully explain, as though it stretches beyond the confines of this lifetime. Is it possible that we’re drawn to places our souls have known before? The thought stirs something deep in me, like a whisper from somewhere distant yet familiar.

I think of my late Aunt Clarice and the way she used to speak about past lives. Her voice comes back to me now—soft, soothing, and sure. She believed our souls are travelers, collecting meaning and memories as we move from life to life. Maybe that’s why certain places, certain people, feel like they’ve always been part of us. Maybe that’s why this connection feels so deeply personal.

Good memories. They’re more than fleeting glimpses of joy. Perhaps they’re a kind of compass, guiding us through the dark, illuminating the path when everything else begins to fade. If you’re on this journey with me—searching for meaning in the quiet, unguarded moments—you may understand it too. These memories, small as they seem, have a way of holding us steady. They remind us of who we are, where we’ve been, and perhaps even where we’re meant to go.

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