Remembering is one of the primary tasks of growing older. Not nostalgia, but a gathering of the memories of a lifetime of adventures, hardships, challenges, failures, and triumphs. And of the relationships that formed us.
Memories are not just the stuff of
the past, but part of our inner life in the present. Joan Chittister tells us
that
The wonder of
being able to see life as a whole, at any time and at all times, is the great
gift of memory. It makes all of life a piece in progress. With one part of the
soul in the past and another in the present, we are able to go on stitching
together a life that has integrity and wholeness. Because of memory life is not
simply one isolated act after another. It all fits into the image of the self
and the goals of the heart. It makes them real. It makes them whole. (The Gift
of Years)
Painful memories show us inner
work and healing that still needs to take place in order to fully live into
today. Joyful or funny memories help us be thankful.
Several years ago I made it my
practice to write into my journal concrete memories of events, people, animals,
and places (etc.) from the past. An interesting thing—one memory causes another
to bubble up out of the subconscious. Collecting these has been helpful and
healthy. Sometimes a memory is painful; sometimes it makes me laugh; many times it
stimulates gratitude. I’m seeing the patterns and coming to understand myself
better.
Following is one of these concrete
memories from childhood. It reminds me of the gifts our parents gave us three
kids: a lively curiosity, a passion for learning, and a love of reading. The
memory also reminds me of the mischief my brother, sister, and I often got into.
Well, here goes:
Sneaky Peeks
My parents were Good Readers.
They had Good Taste,
and volumes of Great Books
filled the bookcases of our home.
Some of the Great Books also
had Great Pictures, and we three kids
liked to look at these, with our parents’ permission.
Being very careful, we would thumb through
The Brothers Karamazov, Ancient Chinese Poetry,
and Don Quixote de la
Mancha, fascinated, guessing
what the stories might be about
One day we made a Find.
Tucked among the Great Books
we found a collection of literary essays
from Playboy Magazine
(about which we knew nothing).
It was mostly words, but here and there,
scattered between the essays, were cartoons.
We didn’t understand the captions,
but the drawings
made us laugh. All these
naked grown-ups—both men and women—gamboling
about in fields
(“gambol” is the only verb that works here),
doing strange things.
Who could have thought this up?
It was both informative and hilarious.
We instinctively knew we must keep
this viewing pleasure a secret from our parents, and so
we found a hiding place in the bookcase.
One afternoon Mom popped in to find out
what we were laughing about. She saw the book.
She quietly left the room. I worried we might be in trouble.
But neither of our parents said anything.
The book, however, mysteriously disappeared.
We never saw it again.
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