Last night I fell asleep trying to piece together the fragments of a memory. It was a summer evening at a public park. Actually I guess maybe it was a community amphitheater of some sort because I remember my father was performing on the stage, although I can’t remember what or why. My mother sat on a blanket by a tree keeping one eye on him and the other on me and my siblings as we played barefoot on the green lawn. We turned open-armed circles in the grass until we tumbled over, resetting ourselves and spinning like wobbly tops over and over again. As the day smoothly shifted to night in one of those transitions that envelopes everyone it touches in the magic of twilight, I returned dizzy and grass stained to my mother’s side.
As I describe the memory it seems almost vivid, although in truth most of the details are gone. The feelings are real but, like a dream you struggle to memorize it as it dissolves in the light of the morning sun, the pictures have turned into blurry shapes and forms I can no longer make out. Our brains have a habit of filling in the blanks when our memories fail, and I know my mind takes romanticized license where recollections of my childhood are concerned.
Although I question the content of my memories, their sense and mood still seem very tangible. This particular moment that I’ve described has come to represent a time that was right, innocent, safe and complete. It’s one of those evenings you’d choose to live in if you could; I just wish I knew it was real. My mother’s dead so she can’t confirm it and it’s so non-remarkable that I doubt anyone else in my family would remember; yet, here I am lamenting a past that I know is likely 8 parts nostalgia.
I do this a lot, turn the past into idilic pictures that can never be rivaled by the messy minutia of today. I am someone who struggles to reconcile the past with the present, even though I know little good can come from constantly looking in the rearview mirror. Walking against the earth’s rotation won’t stop time from moving forward and by focusing solely on my yesterdays, I’ll likely only ever take stock of what’s being left behind.
My rational brain tells me that in order to find balance and happiness I must also be aware of what’s around me and in front of me. I will never be content if I’m constantly comparing my life to what should have, could have, or would have been. I have to accept my losses and the ways in which life must change. I know all this to be true, but my emotional brain still says, “…that sucks.”
It probably happens twice a decade, but my entire immediate family recently found themselves under the same roof. As I looked around the dining table at my father and siblings I realized we felt small, fractured and not entirely whole. With food on the table, good health and 20 plus beautiful grandchildren underfoot, how could I possibly focus on what’s wrong as opposed to what’s right? Am I defective because no matter how beautiful the song, I will struggle to appreciate it because one voice is missing?
I don’t know.
When you feel like something irreplaceable is gone, it’s really hard not to look back and lament what was. It’s hard to accept that certain moments, feelings, people and realities will always feel like a dream. These memories are just out of your reach and too far away for you to clearly see; sometimes you may wonder if they were ever even real. It’s sad that these things are gone and no one can tell you this sadness isn’t valid or worth being felt, because it absolutely is.
But as I sit here I alternate between the vision of someone grieving the past and losing themselves bit by bit, and the vision of someone growing more and more complete as they use both the pieces of the past and the present to construct a new sense of self, family and purpose. Although these people seem in direct contradiction of one another, I realize we have the capacity to be both at the same time and it’s normal to mourn the past while still being aware and appreciative of the present and the future.
We’re all doing okay.
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