memory...and all its friends

THE MORE I LOOK at the topic of memory, the more I realise how many avenues, how many side streets there are. (I almost compared these to dendrites on a neuron - which shows what I busy my brain over these days!)  This is especially true when talking to people.  I mention to people I am writing a book about memory, or more specifically the role of memory in faith, and they come back with some really interesting thoughts and questions.  I chatted with two old friends earlier this week - and conversation with one led to the topics of story telling and of severe memory loss (in reference to forms of dementia).  The other asked the question: what about memories you want to forget?  (I.e. how to deal with bad memories.) Strangely enough, I'd been typing up some thoughts on that very topic only the day before.

All these things fascinate me.  There have rarely been any topics that have fascinated me as much as this one; I'm not sure an 'idea' has ever held so much staying power in my mind before.  But I know I cannot cover everything in this book.  I want to recognise the issues involved, while acknowledging the limits of my subtopic, if that makes sense.

The book focuses on the importance of remembering in the life of faith (looking at the role of memory both in biblical times and today) and the flipside of this - the problems of forgetting.  And I suppose the book does focus on forgetfulness - recognising the damage and distress it can cause, looking at how our memories are so essential to questions of identity - another point I emphasise throughout the book.  Within that I recognise the distress for those who lose memory through degenerative illness, but I cannot make this a primary focus.  I also refer in one chapter about the power of our memories - and the potential mastery of 'bad memories'.  So far, that chapter is more reflective than anything else - asking questions without rushing in with clumsy answers.

At the moment I'm doing a lot of science related research, learning about how our brains work, what memory is (itself a matter of disagreement for many) and how we store and experience memory.  I know this is will not be a major element of the book but it is essential to have this in the background, underpinning my paragraphs and ensuring I don't write anything...well, dopey.

I described it recently in an email to a friend as a many tentacled thing, and that is what it feels like.  There are a lot of tentacles, but I adore my topic.  My problem is that I can't work out how much time to spend on the book and how much to spend on one off article writing...although I'm considering using the 'tentacles' as topics for articles, too.  It seems sensible to make the research fuel more than one area, and that way I don't feel disloyal to either form of writing.

Finally, I am trying to work out how to build a 'platform' for the book when I do start trying to get it published.  I suppose related articles (and frequent blog bashing) is good place to start!

why this time it's different

A PACKAGE has been left for me in the church office.  I open it excitedly and expectantly and there it is - a copy of The Making of Memory by Steven Rose, lent to me by a church member and retired doctor - a very thoughtful and clever man.  The loan is a result of a conversation we had last week.

This would never happened a couple of years ago.

Because the reason my friend has lent me a book on memory is because that he knows I am writing a book relating to the subject.  The reason he knows is because I told him.  If people ask me what I am spending my time on, I tell them I'm writing a book.  If they're not careful, I tell them what it's about.  If they make the mistake of appearing really interested, I'll start talking to them about their brains.  Their brains.

Good grief!

Previous versions of me shudder at the thought - being bold enough to talk about my writing?  Confessing (with no coercion) that I am writing a book?  And - unheard of - telling them what it's about?

It's not as if I've never tried to write a book before.  So what's the difference?  Why now?

There are two main reasons, I think - one general and one specific. The first reason is that I have now owned my vocation as a writer.That is what I am. I no longer say things like 'I'd love to write' or 'I like writing'; I say 'I am a writer'.  If they ask me what I write, well, I've already told you what happens then.

The second reason, I have recently realised, is that I love this book. The more I research, the more interested I get.  The possibilities breed and expand, connections are made, and the more I discover the more I love it.  It's not petering out, not like previous projects.  This time it's different.  I'm not hampered by worry over its potential success.  I want to finish this book. Actually, from my perspective, it feels like it wants me to write it, which is the other way round.

Those are two of the reasons why this time it's different.  And the sense of purpose can occasionally be intoxicating.  Of course, there's a lot of hard work involved.  I know it will take a lot of effort to do this and to do this well.  But I have every intention of doing it.  Which, I suppose, is Reason Number 3.

cancer to the heart...

I was scrabbling through some old papers at the weekend, searching for a song, when I came across this poem.




I wrote it in 2001, and, interestingly, can't remember what it was referring to - which, once you read it, seems somewhat fitting.

I do know that sometimes we carry memories with us in a negative way, whether they are hurtful memories we can't let go of, a situation we can't leave behind, or simply what I call 'Golden Age syndrome'.
This is where we have an idealised picture of how a place/person/relationship used to be and it dominates the present so much that we forget to look for its own unique joys and sorrows. Regret is one thing that is particularly hard to release - indeed it has a very particular sting which can taint everything.

Here it is, then, the poem which sparked these thoughts...


Closed Hand

Why do we follow this circle round
of memories that lead to hurt?
(labelling them as 'nostalgia'
as if they were benign
and caused no cancer to the heart.)
holding fast to that which was
the good and the bad in the palm
of a weary hand, rheumatic
with clinging so ferociously
to a collection of battered
antiquities and hopes, now dust.

is it wrong or somehow
disloyal - to exorcise the mind
of old demons encased in silver
boxes? to embrace the 'now'
not 'then' (despite its beauty,
for a beauty faded cannot shine.)
risking fullness of life
for a bucketful of broken china
and the spiders in the cracks.
if eyes open can the hand
- and heart - remain closed?
(unfeeling at the sunrise of tomorrow)
why dream of night when it is day -
or wish the golden colours grey?

Of course some memories are incredibly special and it is healthy to carry them in our hearts and have them form our character and reactions in the present. But I think we know, 'deep down' as they say, which memories we are clinging to in a way that is not beneficial - to us or to those around us, who share our lives. These memories are like stones in our shoes, although we may struggle to admit it - we limp along desperately but cannot bring ourselves to leave them behind. We need to see those which are benign, and those which are causing 'cancer to the heart'.

Recognising them is the first step, praying we will learn to open our 'closed hands', those clenched fists, such painful grips, and trust that there is One greater than past, present and future who can take the unhealthy bits away. (Indeed he is as wonderful in one time as he is in the others.) It may mean we can at last hold a memory minus its bitterness and pain, not absent but cleansed of any ugliness or sorrow.

memory lane: wearing different shoes

This may seem like a strange memory to share, but it is a moment that had a surprising impact on me - because it was not just something I saw, but something I experienced.

A couple of years ago, maybe 3, I had a fall in our back garden. Our back garden has got a lot of concrete in it, not just the patio stones but concrete path, steps, and flower bed walls. The safest place to fall in our back garden is in a flower bed. I did not do this.

At the time, the low capstones that line the concrete path were loose, particularly the one nearest the house. We had just come back from staying with parents, I think it must have been, because we were putting in Charlie back in his hutch from his carrier, and I was going up to the garage to put away the stuff that goes with him. At least, that was what I intended to do.

I stumbled, and the toe of my foot caught against the first capstone. This was the one which had no hold whatsoever, which resulted in not just me tripping over, but being catapulted up the path. I was flung forward, and reaching out my hand to stop myself, my right arm slammed into a capstone on the other side. This capstone was not loose. It is a testament to the momentum of the fall that I knocked it out of place.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you're in the midst of something - and despite the speed of which it happens, you think 'oh, no', because you know the outcome will not be good, that it will interrupt life, cause other people hassle and you pain? Well, I remember that feeling as I went down. (This is not, by the way, the moment of impact that I mentioned at the beginning - it is simply the preamble, and since I'm telling the story I may as well tell all of it.)

I felt my jeans - and my knees - rip against the coarse stone, skidding as I fell. I felt the jolt of pain in my arm. And I felt the overwhelming nausea of the shock of the fall. Winded, I could not initially move. What I felt mainly, in that moment, was fury at myself for not being more careful. It took a supreme effort of willpower to turn myself so I was facing the other way, battling against the urge to throw up. From there, I whimpered for help. I must have sounded like a miserable cat.

When Andy had found me and started clearing up the bits outside, I limped into the kitchen to deal with what seemed the most immediate problem - mopping up the blood on my knees. The fact that I was having to support my right arm against my chest was something I ignored at the time. I was in shock, shaky and frustratingly incoherent.

Somehow I must have hobbled upstairs, because I have a clear memory of sitting on the bathroom floor, dabbing ineffectually at my knees with my arm still clutched against me. When Andy discovered where I'd got to, the thing he homed in was the arm. It turned out I couldn't clench my fist or put any pressure on it without agony - so off we went to A & E (Accident & Emergency - E.R. for my overseas friends!!)

I was x-rayed but they could find no break, though they felt it was warranted due to the degree of pain I was experiencing (I was almost disbelieving - how could it hurt so much and have no break?!!). They surmised I had badly bruised the bone itself and sent me home with painkillers and a sling. That night, and for several afterwards, I could only lie on my back with my arm draped helplessly across my stomach - any effort to straighten it made me howl in pain.

And the knees. Ugh. What happened a few nights' running was this. I would lie, on my back, while they throbbed, and would eventually, amazingly, drop off to sleep. When I woke up, and pushed myself up with my good arm (not easy), the knees would bend and - sorry for those who are squeamish - literally rip open again. It was horrible.

(In the end, we went out to a pharmacy to ask advice - the outcome of which was that I had to keep the wounds moist at all times, otherwise scabs would form and tear open, as I had been experiencing.)

I don't remember how I got to the place I did - I think Andy had stayed in the supermarket (where we went to the pharmacy) to pick something up and I decided to go back to the car - and I ended up standing at the side of the 'road' in the car park, waiting to cross. My knees were stiff and I could only hobble, not walk. My right arm was strapped against me. And I was suddenly terrified.

Because it's not just about the physical injury, it's about what it means. I knew, without even thinking about it directly, that I could not move fast if I was required to, and that I did not have my arm to support me. I felt out of balance and unsure, and I had to cross the road.

And then it happened. I looked to my right, and saw a frail, elderly lady attempting the same feat as I was trying to make. She was bent over a stick, and very wobbly on her feet. And a wave of empathy rolled across me.

This is what it's like for you, all the time. It's not just that you can't walk fast, or that everything aches with pain. It's the vulnerability that comes over you when you can't trust your body to react in the way it used to react.

Right now - right then, I felt like I was wearing different shoes. Her shoes.

And so often the picture of that lady will flicker across my mind. Whenever I see someone struggling to walk or clinging onto a support, I remember. I remember wearing different shoes. And that same wave of empathy flows through me, along with the knowledge that my pair of shoes were only temporary while I healed up, but hers were there for the rest of her life.

And so I am always reminded, when behind someone walking slowly, or someone struggling to get on the bus, or wherever I see those 'shoes'. And I have a glimmer of understanding - and the patience that comes with it.

Because for a short time, I wore different shoes.

How does the saying go?

Don't judge a man - or woman - until you have walked a mile in his shoes....



Today: 4/10, medium high

memory lane: the nature of remembering

how do I remember
the days strolling by
covered in a mist
of forgotten time -
golden light,
or cold touches of dark

snatches of feeling
summoned by a scent
a sight familiar
as if I have seen it
before, somewhere
hidden in my mind

the blacks and whites
have faded now
even shades of grey
have become less
recognisable, instead
the world is multicoloured

crimson, cerise,
aquamarine streak
through my memory
each representing
a thought, a feeling
a certain moment

closing my eyes
to feel the sunshine
recognising the warmth
on my skin, as I
acknowledge the memories
of a hundred rays

I understand
what summer smells like,
where winter leads me,
where spring lifts me,
where autumn encases me
in memories of fallen leaves

for I have seen them before –
triggers, reminders
of what has been and what
has been remembered…
and I wonder at those things
I have forgotten.

A slightly unorthodox entry, I know. I hope it still counts :)

________________________________________________

I am also participating in:

over at Lynette's!

just a bit of blather

I haven't written anything the last couple of days - I've been dull and uninspiring! At least I would be if I wrote anything, I'm sure! Nevertheless, I need to update my ratings (sighs, rolls eyes) otherwise I will forget, if I haven't already...

Friday: 5/10, medium
Saturday: 5/10, medium low
Sunday: 5-6/10, medium
so far today: 5/10, medium.

Nothing much interesting there! When it comes to the energy levels this is actually what I'm supposed to be aiming for - that is, consistency rather than highs and lows. So although there is no fantastic improvement, it is a good thing at the moment when it stays the same. Then it can gradually increase - I hope! Headache wise it is very hard to say. I need to go back to the doctor soon to get more pills (sighs again, more eye rolling), and I can't see any significant improvement, but there you are. I hate to and fro-ing from the doctor.

I need to sort out a vet's appointment as Charlie is due for his booster (more sighing, profuse eye rolling) but I am thinking of changing vets to one slightly closer, and perhaps more sympathetic to my situation? But of course sorting out somewhere new is a bit of a chore-bore (bore-chore?) too. Hang on....

...looks in yellow pages...

Hmmm they do have open surgery hours at this practise which may well be easier for us - the other vet is appointment only so there's a lot of checking with diaries etc. Goody! I hate the hassle of making appointments (have I said this before by any chance?!!) So we could just take him in one late afternoon/evening and get him sorted, whenever's best for us. Ahh....that's good.

Blogging does make me do things! More specifically, it helps me remember. One of the most irritating symptoms (of which there are many!) of CFS, I find, is the memory problem. My short term memory can go completely at anytime. All those things people say are a 'sign of getting old' I've been doing since I was 14! I can walk upstairs and forget why I'm there, go back down, remember, go back up, do something else, go back down, then finally succeed to remember all the way up the stairs what I was supposed to do the first time. That is, if I remember at all. Many's the time I'm hit with sudden panic over what I've forgotten. I make a joke of it, but I hate it. I write things down, but there are things you think of on the spot and go to do - I forget on my way there. Sad, isn't it? I was, in a way, relieved to find this was a common symptom - that it wasn't just me. But it does mean I struggle with it frequently. However I am grateful that there isn't a more serious reason. It does make me more understanding, however, of those who do have more serious reasons.

Went for a nice little walk with Judy this morn. My stamina isn't great though. It takes very little to exhaust me. I know it sounds like I'm moaning; I'm not really. It's just what I'm having to deal with at the moment. I'm feeling reasonably content in myself, am enjoying friends' company when I can manage it, and there's a new theory that Vitamin D can help CFS symptoms. The sun can't be a bad thing, then! Though I did put some sun cream on this morning. These days the seasons shift so quickly. Theoretically it's still spring - but stepping outside is like stepping into summer.