Memoir
“We
cross from memory into imagination with only a vague awareness of
change.”
Simon
Van Booy (The Illusion of Separateness)
My
friend, Ellen, and I are working together, when we can make the time,
on memoirs. I discovered very early that a memory is never the whole
truth of any situation. There is much supposition and active
imagination involved. And sometimes, you just have to make it up.
Because to make a story complete, we have to reach back in time to
when we were barely conscious beings, and imagine what the people who
surrounded us meant by the things they said, or why they did the
things they did. We have to make up dialogue based on that
supposition, and in essence, make the characters, though they were
real, into images of our own creation.
We
think we know what motivated our family, what their demons may have
been, and we think of them as good or bad based on our own feelings
about them. Very few of us asked a parent or a sibling, “Why did
you say that!” or “What made you do that?” Not because we were
dolts, but because it would never have occurred to us as children,
and we already thought we knew. We ourselves interpreted the meaning
of their words and behavior, based upon its effect on us, and not on
their actual explanation or verified motivation. Our memories of our
childhood, then, are our own feelings and thoughts rather than
factual knowledge.
Sometimes,
we are shocked when we ask a brother or sister, if we're fortunate
enough to have one, about a specific incident, and their memory is
entirely different from ours. We argue with them about the facts of
the situation, but rarely are two memories the same regardless of
whether both were present at the time. Even with short term memory
this is true, much less when digging back in time thirty or forty
years. So what we truly remember is our own interpretation of the
incident. As adults, we may or may not have a living parent with whom
we can check out the details. When I tried that with my own mother, I
discovered that she would simply not remember the things that I had
experienced as bad. “Oh, Jane, that was so long ago. I just don't
remember.” She had selectively forgotten, which may be a blessing
when you get right down to it. Why remember things that are
unchangeable? As the Taoists would say, “Let them flow away like
waves on the ocean.”
Sometimes,
my mother, who never strove for consciousness, was an old Buddha.
Love and age had cleared the channels of self-interest and
resentment. At the end, she was a pretty clear stream. But then, she
wasn't trying to write a memoir. She was only trying to live her life
as a good person. Maybe there's something to be said for that.
In
the Spirit,
Jane
No comments:
Post a Comment