Remembering by Heart: Memory: It’s a Mystery to Me

Facebook reminded me of a post from a year agon Tuesday morning. It was during that late spring heatwave. Do you remember last years glorious summer. The message read “Enjoyed choir singing from Alty town hall earlier. I cheered bravo and offered a round of applause when they finished”. Molly and me and been enjoying a walk on that glorious evening. I had one or two worries and singing lifted me beyond them. Rose the choir leader responded to my post. She knew me from attending a few services at Dunham Road. She invited me to join the choir and I did. It has been quite a year. Last Monday night, one day short of that anniversary, we sang at the Bowdon Rooms. It was a wonderful evening. I am so glad I took that walk a year ago. The last year has reawakened a part of my heart and soul that needed reviving. What was even earlier is that the evening before I recounted that story to a member of the choir who asked me what had brought me there.

It was my first concert with choir as I had missed the Christmas one due to a medical procedure I had last year. I was a little nervous about remembering all the words of the songs. In the end I did ok. I had no trouble with the harmonies etc they were lodged in a deeper part of me, they were learnt by heart. The lyrics I probably got about 90% right in the end. Several of us were talking about our various struggles with memory and remembering. I often make up my own lyrics as I sing along to songs, it is the same with hymns too. One of the other basses only has to read the lyrics once and they are stored in his mind. I have noticed though that at times his harmonies are less accurate at times. I have other friends who have similar memories, almost photographic memories. I have one friend who tells me that they have compartments in their mind where they can store things that are important. This utterly baffles me. I am not aware of what I know unless stimulated. It’s stored somewhere in me, but only comes to life when necessary. It seems I am unaware of what I know. As I was talking about this I remembered a history exam from school. I would have been about 14. I got an incredible mark, completely out of line, with my work throughout the year. The reason was that I wrote an essay based on a radio play I had listened to in class. It seems almost every detail had stayed in me. I had learnt it by heart without being aware I was doing so. When I recalled it, it came to life once again. This tells me something about how I take in life and also how I remember. Many people are not like this. The wonder and beauty of diversity is that it is far deeper and broader than any of us realise. People operate in so many different ways. As I spoke of last week while we do not think alike we can love alike. This is to be beautifully celebrated.

The longer I share my life with Molly I am fascinated by how she takes in the world. This of course impacts on how she remembers. How she is with me in the company of others and is fascinating. She understand far more than I give her credit for. Last Sunday being an example as she travelled with me as I led service with three congregations. At the extra service at Rivington she was up and about before hand taking in as much fuss as possible. Then as the service began she got into her bed in the middle of the chapel and went to sleep. Then as the service was ended she knew and got up as I said my words of blessing after the final hymn. How does she know, she just does.

Now of course Molly operates from different primary senses than I do. It is not that humans don’t use them, it is just that other senses have greater prominence. She remembers no doubt in different ways too. Her ears and her nose are clearly prominent.

I was out walking with Molly on Tuesday thinking about memory. I was thinking all the different ways that memory calls us back, comes alive in us. Obviously, smell is significant in a dog, but also in people. I have been transported to times in my life by smell. I remember once being transported to my dad’s butchers shop by a smell in Dunham Massey. I felt like Mr Ben being transported to another time and place by my olfactory nerve. Music has a similar impact too. Music can take me to times and places in my life. Maybe I’m more dog than human. Who knows.

I love the way that memory takes us back it impacts oh so powerfully on the present and can feed the people we are today. There is a deep richness in it, that should not be lost. Yes, of course we should never live in the past, but we cannot nor should we close the door upon it. I find something deeply holy in such memory.

For me memory is more than just what lives within my mind, my head. Some are stored in deeper places. Yes, my mind brings them into being, helps me communicate these experiences, but there seems to be more going on. They change and take shape in the present experiences too, they have a life of their own which is more than the moment they were experienced within. They are more than my own too. My memories are not mine alone. I love what John Donne had to say on this, it speaks to my soul:

"My memory theatre is a theatre of all things as they exist in the soul. I find them all there in the shapes of my longing, the successive shapes that heart's desire has taken in my life. There are the stories I heard and loved as a child listening to my grandfather on our front porch on summer evenings, and there are those I learned afterwards, reading by myself. There are the songs I heard my mother play on the piano and those I learned to play myself, improvising and learning to read music. And there are the drawings I saw my father make and those I learned to make myself with pencil and ink and watercolor."

Now of course as we share our memories as we recall events and paint pictures and telling stories they take shape and meaning. I wonder sometimes when I tell my stories if I am actually truly remembering the event or just telling the story I told last time. Certainly I don’t see pictures like my brother or some friends would, but I do feel the memory. I re-feel what happened, it comes alive in me, but I don’t clearly see a picture. It’s why in classroom settings images and or grafts can make things more confusing for me, rather than being helpful. That said for others these things are vital. People can be oh so different.

Memory is a mysterious thing and how we remember just as much. Some folk seem to suggest that they have some level of control over this. That is not me, like so much in life it is an ungovernable beast. My memories have formed and reformed over the years and if I have learnt anything from life how I remember says as much about the state of my heart in this current time as space as what actually happened. Gabriel Garcia Marquez put this so beautifully when immortalising the memory of his own life. These memories, these stories we share about ourselves tend to be how we wish to seen in this life, it shapes our sense of self. The truth is though that our lives are largely shaped by the small unremembered moments of life, that which makes up the majority of our life experiences. The stuff that is not stimulated by the senses of the present moment. This is true also for collective memory and amnesia, which is powerfully influenced by current experiences.

Memory is a mysterious thing. It is incredible how we can remember with absolute clarity events from early childhood, while the whole of the previous week is not there. I was asked by a friend the other day, what I had been up to recently. I couldn’t recall anything in the moment that they asked and yet as time went by and the conversation developed I shared with them lots of things I had been up to and how I felt in the moment. It took the stimulation of conversation to being the memory to life. The truth is that most of the time there is nothing going on in my mind. This something I chuckle at whenever I look at Facebook, as this is the question it asks. I sometimes sing back to it “There’s absolutely nothing on my mind”. Until it asks the question, there truly isn’t.

A memory came back to me the other day as I shared meditation. It comes every so often as I sit with others in silence. It is a feeing of well-being that takes me back to primary school. I would probably be about 8 or 9 years old. A memory of being sat on the floor with my class mates listening to the teacher reading the end of day story. Stories that have stayed with me throughout my life, as have some of the songs we sang. It evokes a lovely warm feeling. I don’t see many images, only a very vague one of the room. I cannot picture the room or the children, but I know we are sitting on the floor, some lying and falling asleep. What is alive in my memory is how I felt, this lovely sense of well-being.

Memory is a mystery to me. It fascinates me how these memories take shape and form and often reshape as time goes by; it amazes me how these memories seemingly re-incarnate as time goes by. In many ways it is memory that brings the moments I am experiencing to life, as it did again the other day.

Now despite this powerful memory if you asked what I was doing last week I wouldn’t be able to immediately recall it. It would come as we engage, but I couldn’t find where it was stored within me, unlike some of my friends I cannot remember how many things I have forgotten this week.

Now of course we all forget things and even more as we get older. And then there is Dementia and its cruellest form Alzheimer’s Disease which attacks the cortex of the brain forming bundles of tangled plaque that inhibit conversation between the neurons; as it takes away a persons identity and history as aspects of their humanity drift away. The longer we live the more likely we are to become one of its victims.

Now while the Alzheimer’s suffer forgets, those who loved them never let them go. Those who shared memories with them hold their love, those feelings are felt in that deeper place that cannot be destroyed time. Love is eternal, it is immortal.

For as Isaiah (49 vv 15-16) said, in the earlier reading:

15 Can a woman forget her nursing child,
or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget,
yet I will not forget you.

16 See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are continually before me.

These words awoke in me the other day at the concert as we said farewell to our choir leader Rose as she goes on maternity leave. The concert was a great send off for her and will stay deep in her memory. She will of course return and we have other leaders who will keep us in order. I was thinking how her life will change forever as she begins her journey of motherhood. How her past memories and their meaning will change and how she experiences life will never be quite the same again. As I thought of my own life and looked at my lifeline on the palm of my hand I felt connected to all those who have touched my life who are part of my lifeline and I thought of those whose lifeline I am and have been a part of. It is an ever widening circle. Such feelings are surely Divine.

Memory is an utter mystery to me, as is much of life. The diversity of all creation is so beautiful, including every single beautiful person. Something I have been feeling more deeply this week. I am so grateful to be a part of this incredible mystery that is life itself,; that I get to share it with the people I do; that I get to experience the sensations of these memories coming to life in my body and spirit, enhancing my experience of life today.

I am grateful to have experienced this the most amazing trip that anyone could wish to be on. Thank you for being a part of it.

I’m going to end with a little bit of Mary Oliver

“When Did It Happen?” by Mary Oliver

When did it happen?
“It was a long time ago.”

Where did it happen?
“It was far away.”

No, tell. Where did it happen?
“In my heart.”

What is your heart doing now?
“Remembering. Remembering!”

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"

Memory is a Mystery to Me

As the silence came to an end during the meditation, I was sharing with my Tuesday morning friends, I felt overcome by a beautiful sense of peace within myself and for all of life. I felt awake to the moment I was in and connected to all of eternity. As the feeling flowed over me a memory awakened within my being. I was taken back to a childhood time. What today would be called year four, but in my day was the first year of junior school. I re-felt, I re-sensed a memory of being sat on the floor with my class mates listening to the teacher reading the end of day story. It was a lovely feeling as I re-felt the experience. There was not really a picture in my mind, other than a very vague one of the room, which even now I cannot see in my minds eye. I can’t even picture the teacher or even my class mates. What I remember is that lovely sense of well being. As I sat there, awakening from the silence, that Tuesday morning, I re-awakened that feeling, the experience re-incarnated in me.

The fact I can’t really picture the memory is not very surprising to me as I am not a visually minded person. I have friends who can visualize all kinds of memory, but I am not one of them. My memories tend to be more sensed than seen. Memory and memories are an utter mystery to me. Why it came when it did and in the form that it did, I have no clue of. I immediately shared the experience with the friends I was with and on Facebook as soon as I could. I felt the need to share it widely and thus make it more real.

Social media, particularly Facebook gets a bad press. It has been rightly criticised in some quarters. Young people consider it passé. The fact I favour it as my preferred social media option ages me somewhat. One of my favourite things about Facebook is that each day it reminds you of previous posts on that day over the years.

The other day I came across the following quotation, I had originally posted two years ago:

“A spontaneous flash of understanding came to me an hour or two after the birth of our first child: "He will never remember today. His birth is chiefly experienced by me, his other relatives, the nurses, and the young mother in the next bed in this war-time hospital. So it may be in death? Only others aware of our passing?”

Hilda Martin Hall

Sadly, I have no memory of where this came from. I find it beautiful. It got me thinking and re-feeling. Two of the most important moments of our lives, our birth and our death, perhaps the most memorable to our nearest and dearest, we have no memory and no real awareness of. If we do have awareness we have no way of communicating the experience through our physical senses. These moments though, as they are experienced by our nearest and dearest, can be some of the most memorable of their lives. They are a part of the natural experience of living and dying and yet the they are the most awe filled, they are awful in the old meaning of the word.

I have never witnessed the birth of a child, I am not a parent. That said I can still re-feel the incredible experience of first seeing my youngest sister Natalie as well as nieces and nephews, truly awe filled moments. I remember powerfully how it felt visiting my grandad those last few times before he died. As well as seeing the lifeless bodies of my father and little Ethan, that incredible outpouring and heartbreaking love as it felt like the whole of my inner being was being torn to shreds . I have also been at the bedside of several congregants as they have come to the end of their lives and witnessed the incredible power of shared love as I have been in the presence of their loved ones. The love experienced in such moments is overwhelmingly powerful.

These memories are etched in my soul. I cannot truly visualise them, they are blurred a bit like looking through frosted over glass. They are like the spiritual experiences I have had, when everything that surrounds the object of my focus appears frosted over.and what is at the centre becomes illuminated. That said while I cannot visualise the memory it feels so alive in my inner being, I can embody the memory. It is somehow more real than reality itself. It is a deeper and thicker kind of real.

The other day another memory appeared on my screen. It was of my grandad’s 90th birthday party, just over a year before he died. As I looked at the picture posted by “Our Troy” I remembered well the conversation we had that day. How he told me how grateful he was to have lived the life he had. I re-felt the feeling of awe as he recounted a tale from the war. He was in the Royal Navy and the ship on which he served was under bombardment. The ship was hit by a shell that went right through to engineering. Somehow it never went off and as a result he and his crew mates were spared. His friend Percy, who went to sea with him, was not so fortunate he never came back. He later said that he has been a very fortunate man throughout his life. Like everyone he has known his share of suffering, but he knows how fortunate he has been to have had the chance to live the life he has had.

I have shed many private tears as I have re-felt that conversation. I shed several more as I wrote these words.

A few weeks ago I attended the funeral of my grandad’s long time partner, “Auntie Hilda”. They were together from 1973 until my grandad’s death. She is our Troy and Samantha’s mum. They are both heartbroken since she died.

After the funeral I was sat talking with my auntie Lynne and cousins and she was recounting tales of my birth and early childhood to my fiance Sue, I could sense powerfully her deep love for me, as I always do around family, particularly those who have known me for longer than I have known myself. She is one of those people that witnessed my earliest moments that I have no memory of. As my grandad had of her and as we and so many others shared over those last years of his life. These are deep connections.

Memory is a mystery to me. The way I remember my own life and people I share my life with has changed many times. The changes seem to coincide with the way I have experienced and understood my own humanity, another mystery. The truth is that my life is made up of those lives that went before me, my life is built on their lives and those that follow me, their life will be built on mine and my contemporaries. The ancestors who walked before me and those that follow me are actually a part of me. I find that incredibly humbling.

It fascinates me how these memories take shape and form and often reshape as time goes by; it amazes me how these memories seemingly re-incarnate as the days pass. In many ways it is memory that brings the moments I am experiencing to life, as it did during meditation on Tuesday morning.

Sadly we cannot store the experience of memories. Memories fade as our minds lose their power. I noticed this the other day as I realised I had left the chapel lights on overnight. Something that Thelma pointed out to me as I returned from the gym and chatted with her as she was hoeing in the garden.

I have always been terrible with names, faces I remember, as I do details of peoples lives, but names they seem to fall through the sieve that is that aspect of my memory.

I am told that this is only going to get worse, I have already seen the signs of what is yet to come. Billy Collins captured this perfectly in this extract from his poem “Forgetfulness”



The name of the author is the first to go
Followed obediently by the title, the plot,
The heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
Which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
Never even heard of,
As if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
Decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
To a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
And watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
And even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
Something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
The address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
It is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
Not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
Whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
Well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
Who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
To look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
Out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

I cannot remember how many things I have forgotten this week. We all forget things and even more as we get older. And then there is Dementia and its cruellest form Alzheimer’s A disease which attacks the cortex of the brain forming bundles of tangled plaque that inhibit conversation between the neurons; as it takes away a persons identity and history as aspects of their humanity drift away. The longer we live the more likely we are to become one of its victims.

Now while the Alzheimer’s sufferer forgets, those who loved them never let them go. Those who shared memories with them hold their love, those feelings are felt in that deeper place that cannot be destroyed by time. Love is eternal, it is immortal.

For as Isaiah (49 vv 15-16) said:

15 Can a woman forget her nursing child,
or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget,
yet I will not forget you.
16 See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are continually before me.

These words awoke somewhere in me the other day as I was looking at the palm of my hand; as I looked at my life line and my heart line and remembered the love I have known and the love I have shared, with those people who have made up my life. Such feelings are surely Divine.

This is beautifully illustrated by Thich Nhat Hahn, who wrote in “Present moment, wonderful moment”

“If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.”

All that has been before is a part of who we are.

Life awes me every single day, it humbles me also. The more I learn the less things make any sense. Every day I have a growing sense of how truly ignorant I am. Nothing makes sense to me. I have no idea why I feel what I feel or why my mind remembers and forgets things. Clever people try to explain these things to me, but they seem to get it even less I. The sum of the parts they describe do not even begin to scratch the surface of the whole.

That said I am so grateful to be a part of this incredible mystery that is life itself,; that I get to share it with the people I do; that I get to experience the sensations of these memories coming to life in my body and spirit, enhancing my experience of life today.

I am grateful to have experienced this the most amazing trip that anyone could wish to be on. Thank you for being a part of it.