Remembering and forgetting

Field of lupines on our Thursday hike

On the Thursday hike, I saw fields and fields of fragrant lupines as we followed the eight-mile-long loop, and we enjoyed them, along with many other flowers, but these were the ones I enjoyed the most. Last year, they were sparse and didn't do very well, although I did see them now and then. No fields of them like this, though. It's interesting how different these hikes can be from year to year.

I was thinking about what's on my mind right now as I fell asleep last night, knowing that my first task on Sunday would be to write this blog post. Trying to figure out what has been happening in our country right now, and listening to people talk about the events around the world but especially in our home town, I am amazed at how fungible the truth seems to be. The same event experienced through different hearts and minds bears no relation to how I experience it. It makes me wonder if there is any absolute truth, or is it always this way?

When I tell a story about my childhood, I realize that it's gone through so many iterations that it probably bears little resemblance to how it actually was. That's because now the only part of my childhood that still exists resides in my memory banks, or in old pictures that solidified a moment in time, and I remember little about that period that is actually correct. I move in my life from one day to the next, and nothing seems different, but if I look at a picture of myself from a decade ago, I know that much has changed, incrementally I moved from one decade to the next. Getting up and starting my day today seems little changed from yesterday. But the changes are there.

What started me thinking about all this was wanting to relate a story about something that happened in my past, and I realized that I didn't actually know whether the facts I remember are at all what occurred. Then I thought I could embellish it a little, making it more interesting (I think all writers do that), and finally I gave up the effort. The only person still alive who remembers my childhood is my sister Norma Jean. When we reminisce about things that happened, certain events in our recollection are completely different from each other. I mean, completely: what is real?

And actually, now that we are both elderly, does it even matter? If I were to write my memoirs today, how much of it would be based in actuality? I can no longer tell the truth of my early years, because they are changed by my brain's incremental alteration from what was to what I remember about what was. And my brain is no longer the young supple multitasking machine I had several decades ago. Now, I struggle sometimes to recall a simple word, and when I think of the past, I'm suspicious that I've simply forgotten most of the essential moments in any particular event.

But there are moments in the past that are burned into my brain, and they don't seem to change from one recall to the next. But how can I know that for sure? When I was around three, I remember getting separated from my parents on a beach in Puerto Rico (I know how old I was because we were there at that time) and realizing that I was alone. A very large (to me) crab scuttled sideways in front of me, clacking its claws, and I was so frightened that the moment is one I have never forgotten. I can recall that moment clearly. At least I think so. I know that the crab was probably not as large as it seemed to that small little lost girl, but here I am seven decades later with a complete memory of that moment in time.

I found an interesting article while thinking about this, from the BBC, written by Lesley Evans Ogden in 2015, about how extreme fear shapes what we remember. That little girl's amygdala was activated, probably for the first time in her young life, and created a vivid memory.

When a memory is particularly striking and unexpected, it activates this emotional memory system. That may be partly why there are a plethora of anecdotes about how sensory cues, out of context, can take you right back to emotional memories – perhaps you associate the scent of a certain perfume or cologne with your first kiss because the memory is higher fidelity.

Fascinating, isn't it? I also have memories from things that have happened more recently that I can recall that vividly. But that was the first, and it occupies a very important place in my mind. I can remember nothing more about the event, although I'm sure Mama or Daddy came to find me and comforted me so that it seemed in the moment as though nothing of that moment would survive, but here I am today, in 2017, remembering again that feeling, that vision of the enormous crab, and a frisson of fear moves through me today.

There are moments that I have tried hard to forget, ones that only bring me emotional pain when I recall them. I'm pretty sure that they are not activated by the amygdala but some other part of our ability to recall. Just now I started to write about one of them, when I last saw my son fifteen years ago, but I am overwhelmed by the emotions that came up as I tried to frame them into words. So I'm not going there this morning. Instead I am going to form some new memories at the coffee shop, probably nothing that will stand out in my memories even later today.

When I started this post, I wanted to contemplate what causes us to alter our recollections of past events, and I haven't even gotten around to that part, and it's already been more than an hour that I've struggled with how to begin. But what's become obvious to me in the struggle, I am not going to be successful today in writing about anything more profound than remembering and forgetting.

My partner is stirring a little, making me realize I've been here longer than normal. My tea is gone, and memories are roiling around in my head, and if I were to see a cartoon of myself right now, there would be a cloud around my noggin with all sorts of images all vying for attention. I am now taking each one of those images and gently erasing them, one by one, and replacing them with images of flowers and smiles and... maybe even a latte.

I hope that your week ahead will not have any amygdala-inspired memories, unless they are positive ones. And I also hope that you will take a moment out of your day to give thanks for the love and smiles that you alone can share with another. Our lives are blessed by our ability to interact with one another. I am blessed by your presence in my life, so thank you.

We accept the love we think we deserve. --Stephen Chbosky