Memories havebecome intriguing to me recently. Partly because my father has Parkinson's Disease Dementia and due to his illness our relationship is reduced to trips down memory lane, which in turn has required me to dig deep into my long-term memoryfor material. Partly because in raising my son, long dormant memories from myown childhood are randomly surfacing, and also because I have come to realizethere are some memories that I simply do not have: "Mum, what color was yourfirst bike"? No idea!
Memories can connect us in aunique way to people who share those memories. My sister and I are closelargely due to our shared history. She lives on a farm and has a passion foranimals while I work for a tech company and like to get my vegetables delivered, yetwe are the only two people who have experienced our parents, as parents, andthat fact triumph everything else. However, what often strikes me is how, despitehaving many similarities, our recollections of past events are never entirelyidentical.
Memories are basically not to betrusted, at least not as a record of the truth. At best, they are a truth; ourpersonal perception of a point in time that as the years pass, is interpretedand then reinterpreted using our current cognitive position as well as integratedfeedback from others. What is more, we mold our past, often unconsciously, tomake for a good narrative, a narrative that fits the way we want to perceivednow. I personally do this quite consciously, as I just love dramatic storytelling.
At worst, memories are plainfabrication. For example, I have a memory of being a toddler and sitting on topof patio table eating strawberries right off a serving platter. We have apicture capturing this very scene perfectly. Me with unruly blond curls wearingjust a diaper and a t-shirt. My eyes are squinting against the strong summersun making me look slightly mischievous. It is a scene that has a fairlyprominent place in our family folklore because it has been depicted,humorously, as the event that sparked the person I was to become. However, as Iwas less than 2 at the time, this very memory is likely entirely fabricatedand yet it feels so very real to me.
It does not make me treasure my memories lessknowing that they are a hotchpotch of facts, perception and fiction. In fact, itonly makes them all the more interesting to decipher, especially in the companyof others who share them. And since my memories are not necessarily a static, and factually accurate, record of my past perhaps some of my more embarrassingmoments never took place at all? One candream...
"Memory...is the diary that we all carry about with us."
-Oscar Wilde
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