Hello from yet another February morning,
Whether or not it only seems I am looking back at life more frequently or it’s an actuality, I’m unsure, but turning 70 must have something to do with that particular action. And yet as I ponder my life and the events or experiences, the people and places that have left their imprint on me, what I find myself asking with a much greater sense of urgency is if I can consider myself a successful person, a good person, and person of whom my grandmother would be proud. The last of this list might seem a bit non sequitur, but it is still related, though from an opposite perspective. I have often referred to my Grandmother Louise as my hero, and, if anything, that is more true now than at any point in my life.
Both psychologists and sociologists assert that we remember things in a particular manner because we often could not emotionally manage the difficulty that some of our personal history would rain down upon us. There are moments or circumstances that our brain blocks for our inherent survival. While I am grateful that we have been wired as such, I still suspect how that works is unique to each of us.
Let me often one instance in from childhood I know was traumatic, and while I remember the event, and a sort of still-frame element of it. The most horrific instances are erased from memory. When I lived at my grandparent’s house, we had a fenced-in backyard. I was in the backyard, and a dog jumped the fence to come into the yard (it was not my little black cocker spaniel). Even now over 65 years later I can picture in my mind the dog walking up to me. It was a large dog, and at least part German Shepherd, and we were about the same height. I can vaguely remember staring at the dog face-to-face. What I have no recollection of is the dog biting the left side of my face. The dog actually bite me and there was significant damage from the front of the level of my ear to my jaw line. The reason I know that is there are still minimal scars. What I remember next is being in my grandfather’s arms being carried into the hospital. I remember being in the backseat of the car and going home after the care in the emergency room. I can recollect a conversation between my grandfather driving back home, speaking to whomever was also in the car. I am unsure if they had already had put the dog down, or it was in process to determine if it was rabid. That is all I remember. I do not remember being bit; I do not remember receiving stitches; and amazingly, I have never been afraid of dogs. In fact, I do not know if Penny, the black cocker spaniel was already a member of our little family or if she was brought afterwards to assist me in managing a possible fear of dogs.
Certainly, parts of that day were effectively blocked to minimize the trauma of my being bitten. I can think of a couple other such events, where especially difficult moments have been blurred at the very least to completely erased to protect us. On the other hand, I believe, as humans, we have a propensity to revise, redact (an important term currently), or more amazingly, reconstruct events we would rather not remember or accept any responsibility for. Again, the rationale for such refashioning can be hard to pin down, but I believe it is often a way to manage guilt or shame for that event. When we look back at events or incidences, those which created some major shift in our understanding, or even when we ponder some behavior, either of our own or the other, something that influenced or affected us fundamentally over time, we remember and recount it in a way that most suits us either emotionally or otherwise. That is normal, and it is an act of preservation. And yet, such things always have consequence, both individually and collectively.
When I consider relationships, even within my family, and perhaps especially in my family, how I perceive those events that shaped me, I know my recollection as well as my understanding of them have become my truth about them. Moreover, the farther away they become, the further that truth becomes a sort of dogma, the gospel about it. That is simple except when someone, that others who perhaps lived through that time with you, offers their perspective on the same situation. Over the holidays I learned this first hand, and it caught me a bit off guard. It was disconcerting, and it has left me a bit discombobulated. It was not the overall conversation, although there is some struggle there, it was a simple, straightforward statement. It continues to ring in my ears, and has almost dragooned me into examining both who I am and how I interact with others. While that might sound a bit hyperbolic, I am not sure it is.
It has turned me a bit on a proverbial ear, and compelled me to look at my connection to and with the person I have most struggled my entire life. How did they become the person they were, and while I can still say being there was better than the alternative, and what does it mean to truly let go? In spite of the progress made on so many fronts, why is it one sentence can yank me back into those feelings so easily, so completely? Is it because I still feel in some manner more accountable, even if I was the child? Is it because my attempt to forgive is more frail or incomplete than I wished it to be? Certainly, we all wish some things could have been different; surely, all of us imagine the what if of things. As I struggle to make sense of my past, as I struggle to make sense of the present, there are moments I find myself wondering just how it all fits, and what part matters? This moment, as well as those in the past, together create a continuum. Much like a jigsaw puzzle, it is sometimes easy to focus on a particular piece, trying to determine where it fits, obsessing on figuring out its importance to the larger puzzle. We attempt to put it into multiple places, and yet it does not fall into place, so we set it aside. Later, returning to the puzzle, and looking at the larger picture, we return to that singular piece. All of the sudden, we see where it goes and we put it into place easily. Perhaps all of our past and our hard work to figure it out just needs time, a new perspective. Maybe what I heard was not as terrible as I heard it.
Thanks for reading,
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 