BRAIN STRAINER – To Push or Pardon My Porous Memory

At a recent meeting of my men’s group I got this rude awakening about my memory.

We’d gone around the circle and each done our “check-in,” where we briefly report on our ups and downs during the last two weeks. I thought everyone had taken his turn to do so, except Dick. So I prompted him. “How ‘bout you, Dick?” I asked. He responded with a look of surprise and everyone reminded me that he’d been the first to check in. 

How embarrassing. Not only had I forgotten the few updates Dick had shared; I forgot that he’d even shared them. I babbled some kind of excuse, but then he added that I’d done this about something else barely a week before.

           My dad had a term for folks like this:
           He has a mind like a steel trap.

FOLLOW-UP
I like to think of myself as a good listener. I make a real effort to hear what people say. I follow up with a question or two and remember enough of it to perhaps ask about it the next time we get together.

So what’s going on with me and Dick? Or maybe I should say with me and my memory? Do its lapses mean I don't care?

I raised the question at our next men’s group meeting, where I at least got the consolation of hearing that a couple of the other guys share the problem.

That discussion also supported my assertion that my leaky memory is not—as are many of the maladies we share now that we’re all in our seventies—simply a factor of age. I was this way even in my twenties.

(I should note that, of all the people I’ve ever called friends, Dick stands out as the one with the best memory. You can tell him several things you’re doing, how your relatives are and even a couple of happenings you just read about, and the next time you speak with him he asks you about every one of them.)

My dad had a term for folks like this: His mind’s like a steel trap. That’s Dick. So my memory shortcomings seem all the worse by comparison.

                My memory, I now realize, is
                a rather large-holed colander.

I’ve always had trouble with things most people seem to remember, like the plot elements—or even the title—of the movie I just watched last week. Or what my wife’s plans are for the day…oh, and don’t get me going on people’s names.

What does stick with me, it seems, are far more subtle, often sensory, details—like how much Dick's wife loves waterfalls; the way another friend wrings his hands while he talks; or the sense that great pain lurks just beneath one acquaintance's cheery façade.

IMAGE: New York Times

ANOTHER FINE MESH
So, is my brain just wired differently? And if that’s the case, should I just accept it? Maybe rationalize that memory’s a zero-sum game and my brain's simply decided to excel at some other task?

I wonder if there isn't a better metaphor for memory than a steel trap. Maybe a strainer. A very few people—like my friend Dick—have filters, which grab and hold the smallest details. Others have sieves. They miss a few details, but latch
onto most.

My memory, I now realize, is a rather large-holed colander. I remember the important stuff, like “How’s your recovery from that heart attack coming?” “When do you get back from Uzbekistan?” Or “How’s prison life treating you.” I forget the stuff like the skinned knee, the day trip to Zumbrota or a friend of a friend’s divorce.

I suppose I could fight it. I could drive myself to listen to those I love as if there’ll be a pop quiz. I could take notes. (Actually, I’ve been trying this with some success.)

But I’ve also listened to the advice of another men’s group friend, Ken, who told me I’m being too hard on myself. We’re all different. Lighten up.

What do you think? Should I keep twisting my memory’s arm? Is remembering details essential for a real friendship? If so, do you have any tips on how to do so?

Or should I just forgive myself and move on? What would you do?

HYPOCRITIC OATH – Choosing Real Reality

I write about Nature all the time—about its countless wonders, small and large; its wise counsel in ways of patience and knowing; and its constant coincidence with my brand of spirituality. I promote closer connections with Nature for everyone, especially children.

But I’m a hypocrite.

I actually don’t spend nearly enough time outdoors. And when I do, I sometimes forget to turn off my cell phone. Too often, I fall victim to the very temptation I urge others to resist: the lazy cosmopolitanism, the false presence, afforded by digital technology’s instant “connections” with people, places and information.

It started, I’m afraid, with the publication of my first book, Under the Wild Ginger; my publisher told me I had to put myself out there and promote, if not actual sales, at least a point of view that would attract like-minded readers. To that extent, the venture has borne fruit. I’ve also made some wonderful friends, folks I’ve come to feel close to even though we’ve never met.

            Blaming the medium for its abuse 
            is a pretty poor excuse.

But cyberspace is a wily seductress. At first, the allure was like the one I felt as a boy when, no longer fooled by that old tin-cans-and-string ruse, I dreamed of having a real walkie-talkie. Or later when I’d spend hours with my ear pressed against the speaker of our tabletop Emerson radio, fine-tuning among the stronger signals and static for distant stations. This communicating beyond the range of my own, unelaborated ear and voice struck me as nothing short of mystical.

There’s a certain boundless freedom in sending and receiving messages over untold expanses, across geographic, political and cultural boundaries. And doing so practically instantaneously only adds to the allure. I experience something like that kind of freedom during my favorite, recurring dream: flying (on my own power, without any device). It feels like the very essence of spiritual connection, a magical oneness with time and space and all of creation—not to mention that it strikes awe and envy into every onlooker.

VIRTUAL WALLS
Well, blaming the medium for its abuse is a pretty poor excuse. What brought this line of reflection to the fore was our last month-long stay last spring in a lovely seaside town in Guerrero Mexico. There, the nice little TV in our villa never once blinked on. Sure, we spent time on our devices most days, keeping in touch with loved ones, sharing a few photos. But those times were quite limited. And, though our minds may have been in cyberspace now and then, physically we were still in direct contact with Nature during all our waking hours.

Even inside our villa, where there’s no wall separating us from the view over the bay, delicious warm breezes waft in day and night, carrying the sounds and smells of the neighborhood and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Critters—butterflies, geckos, bats and the occasional scorpion become our benign companions. Our relationships with our Mexican friends seldom abide the quick phone call, email, or—God forbid—the terse-but-tedious text. No, folks there take the time to come calling, to spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and just being…well...nice.

         It’s not really the physical walls that 
         hold me back. It’s the virtual ones.

How quickly we get inured to such wonders; by the end of our stay, we were already taking this sustained communion with Nature, including these unhurried relationships with people, for granted. But now, with the singular clarity of hindsight, I know why this month in the tropics was so restorative in so many ways. It was exactly what I’ve been losing, bit by bit, in my life here in the “real” world: the close presence of Nature in my life every day. Paying attention, not just to a little screen, but to the countless real small wonders playing out around me all the time.

No matter what one might see or learn, or even feel, on that little screen, when you get right down to it, does it ever really take you any further than arm’s length out of yourself? But with real wonders, Nature’s wonders, there are no limits. For me, they range from those little “floaters” that punctuate my vision from the inside, to whatever horizon the weather defines that day, to the stars on a clear night, to the still-further reach of my imagination.

Now, I realize it might prove impractical here in Minnesota to remove one side of our urban townhouse and let in the air, light (and mosquitoes). And winter…well, don’t get me started! But I’m thinking it’s not really the physical walls that hold me back. It’s the virtual ones. I’ve been allowing others—content developers, marketers, fellow addicts…whomever—to limit what I can experience, to steer the direction and extent of my vision.

This is not what I want. Is it what you want? Don’t we have our own vision, an outlook which belongs to no one but us? Shouldn’t we be the ones deciding what will surprise and delight us, who will become our next good friend?

         ...we stop imposing our will on Nature 
         and life, and vest in them the power to 
         have their way with us.

MAKING TIME FOR THE CURE
Now that summer’s starting to yield to fall, I aim to reclaim my birthright—the birthright of every human being—my connection, my belonging, to Nature. And the way to start is to, as I like to put it, get off the screen and into the scene. Like surmounting any bad habit, this will require being thoughtful and deliberate—disciplined—in how I spend my time.

What makes it hard is that I have to make time for the cure before I can recover the time spent on the disease. For example, if I’m to take a walk every morning, I’ll have to let go of the time I’m wasting on television or the Internet the night before. Or I may have to re-prioritize the short list of friends I correspond with most often, making room for Nature on that list.

And I most certainly will have to reclaim my point of view. I must remember to practice what I preach, using all my senses, not just taking in the wisdom and beauty of Nature, but giving something to the transaction too. I call it seeing generously.  It’s a mindset in which we stop imposing our will and way on Nature and life, and vest in them the power to have their way with us.

That is what we do in the relentless, blast-furnace Mexican sun when we stop every few minutes to rest in familiar pools of shade. It’s what we do when we think we’re going to the park for an hour and end up spending the day. And when we allow ourselves to be moved deeply by even the smallest droplet of beauty shed on us from Nature’s infinite sea of wonder.

These are real connections, ones we can touch and feel, ones that sustain us—physically, emotionally, spiritually. They are to be trusted completely, for they are not only for us; they are of us. It is one thing to recognize the difference between the real and the virtual; it is another entirely to choose the real.

I choose the real.

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN – A Grown Son Seen Anew

My son, Jeff, is 42. He lives about 1,200 miles away, and I haven’t seen him but
for our two or three brief visits a year since his mother and I divorced when he
was four.

Despite my considerable failings as a father, Jeff has grown up to be a smart, creative, principled, loving man. He’s had his share of disappointments and heartaches, but he’s carved out a life that works for him. And, while I may not agree with all the decisions he’s made, I respect them…and him.

          Suddenly, this big, six-foot-two, 42-
          year-old man shrank before my eyes.

When we’re together, as we were for a few days this past week, it’s hard to remember that Jeff is my son. Sure, we share memories from his childhood; I teach him whatever I know that he's still interested in learning; I ask about his life, and offer advice and support when he needs it.

But usually it seems we treat each other more as peers than as father and son. Lots of good-natured give and take—joking, challenging, comparing tastes, the occasional boast.

This visit has been an especially rewarding one. For a quiet man who generally keeps to himself, he seemed to truly appreciate me and all his aunts, uncles and cousins gathered to celebrate Independence Day as a family. And I enjoyed him…
a lot.

WHERE’S THE TIME GONE?
Yesterday, I drove Jeff to the airport. We hugged, exchanged I love yous and said good-bye. Then he turned and walked toward the terminal doors. Suddenly, this big, six-foot-two, 42-year-old man shrank before my eyes. All I could see was him as a three-year-old.

My throat tightened and the emotion welled up. At that moment, I saw in him all the beauty, innocence and vulnerability I find in my three-year-old grandson, but which I thought I’d long since lost with Jeff. To be honest, I’m not sure I ever felt quite that same chemistry of tenderness and awe, even when he was that little kid, when he—and I for that matter—needed it most.

      Isn’t that something we all dream of: 
      turning back the clock in every way 
      but for our knowledge?

We parents always seem to learn these lessons too late. During our kids’ tender youth, we’re so overwhelmed with the enormity of our responsibility and so underwhelmed with our own competence and emotional stability that we’re barely holding it together, much less exuding pure patience and love.

Sadly, none of us ever gets a do-over on those parts of parenting we botched as twenty-somethings. Or do we?

REDEMPTION
I realize Jeff will never again be three. But he will be forty-three, and, give or take a few decades, isn't that as good an age as any to start seeing anew that pure, precious, child-like heart and soul I know still reside at his core? And perhaps be more like the father I wish I’d been so long ago?

This is something I guess all parents—and eventually our progeny—learn: that at some deep, internal level we continue to see them as little children, no matter what their age.

After all, my son is still my son, and I am still his father. God willing, I have some time to know and appreciate him as if I were new to the game—but with the added perspective, patience and wisdom only 40 years can bring. (Isn’t that what we all dream of: being able to turn back the clock in every way but for our knowledge?)

        Try, if you can, picturing them as 
        small, sweet and innocent once again.

My little epiphany has been a blessing, even though it comes late, during the slow, certain ebb of my life. My guess is that many fathers who divorced when their kids were very young never get that chance; some may not recognize it when they do.

Has your relationship with a grown child—or anyone for that matter—grown old? Do you find yourself keeping just a little distance between you, or perhaps taking him or her for granted, because you're both adults? Try, if you can, picturing them as small, sweet and innocent once again. Because deep inside, under all those layers life's woes have heaped on them, they still are...we all still are.

It's not like your time together is suddenly going to transform to true magic. But the way you feel about them just might. If they notice something's different, let's just let the reason be our little secret.