Memory. That word always reminds me of the word Mammary. Maybe because women seem to be the keeper of them. Memories I mean. At least the to-do list kind.
Some recollections are pleasant. That day 20 years ago, when the sunset in Kansas was so beautiful, I pulled the car over on the highway so that I could watch it’s fiery descent. When questioned by the highway patrol, I was met with disbelief and a drug-sniffing dog. But it is a pleasant memory nonetheless.
But what about the painful memories? We squirrel these proverbial nuts away for the winter. Sometimes they are so cleverly hidden; even we can remember what we did with them. Until a strong wind blows and the tree gets shaken. Then they come out of their respective hidey-holes. And with a vengeance for the absentminded.
Like when I decided to have my baby naturally. I had done this with my older child as well, so I figured I could do it again. And I did. But halfway through the nirvana called the miracle of birth, the pain in my body sent a chemical message to my brain, and I recalled why this was a bad idea.
Our bodies are wired for memory. Our nerve endings are the pioneers, exploring the unknown from the day we are born. Our brain collects all the latest news from those chatty chemicals, and gives each and every bit of information it’s very own domicile. But what about the things we can’t remember? Were they given no such quarters? Does the mind have homelessness issues?
Or, like many of the homeless in our societal world, are they just too poor to afford a place to call their own? Do we ourselves turn our backs on these homeless memories because they are too alarming, repulsive, crazy or foul to deal with? We don’t want to look at them. We don’t want them at all. Especially the one that sleeps in the backyard of the conscience. .
This vagrant is tenacious. We can’t get rid of him, no matter what we do. So we invite him in. We give him a bath, dress him up and give him a job. We transform him into an attractive, charismatic lie. If he proves to be a productive member, he receives his tenure. Deception becomes reality in the form of false memory. The metamorphosis, complete.
The aging mind plays it’s own tricks on memory. Take for instance, the last time my husband and I took the girls to see their Great Grandmother. It was always a crapshoot as to whether she would recognize us or not. On this particular excursion, she did. It went like this: We walked into her room at the nursing home. A huge grin spread out all the wrinkles on her face. Her eyes wear beaming. “Shawn!” she exclaimed, ”You look so old”! “Thanks Grandma, thanks a lot”. Then her expression changed to confusion as she said “But you’re only 16. Why do you look like that?”
In the first year of life, our brains double their size for the sake of accommodation. Throughout our existence, our recollections are in a constant state of flux; shifting, growing, ignoring, and dispelling. Time and trauma are the slayers and saviors of memory. Our minds are perfect time capsules, waiting to be opened on the day we die, when your life will surely pass before your eyes.
Posted by Mary at December 20, 2005 06:48 AM