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"

The Lost and Found Come Knocking at the Door, Looking for a Better Way

There are many varied people that knock on my door. They do so for all kinds of reasons. There have been several this week. People usually do so unannounced. Some seem to have lost something and others appear to have found something.

Last Sunday, after saying goodbye’s to folk after the service, I noticed a water bottle and phone on a seat at the back of chapel. Well actually it was Nigel who spotted it. I quickly realised it belonged to Joe, a young man who is a regular attender. I knew why he had too, we had been speaking for a few days as he had been preparing the eulogy for his grandmother’s funeral. I knew I couldn’t contact him so I took the items home and looked after them. A couple of hours later there was a knock on my door and there was Joe. He had realised what he had done. It took him some time I guess as he is not one of those people who is not constantly on his phone.

We talked for a while about grief and how the mind can be like Swiss Cheese at such times. Memory of simple things goes out of the window. You feel utterly lost and lose things constantly. I remember once leaving my wallet in the post office. Glasses in Tesco’s and another time after taking the service at Styal I realised I couldn’t find my car keys. I search around, but no sign, I retraced by steps from the chapel all the way back up the pathway to the main road, all the while cursing myself for my stupidity. When I got to my car I approached the door to find them there in the door. I had at least locked the door but for some reason, but I did not take them out of the door. I shared one or two other occasions too, like the time I thought I’d lost my car. I hadn’t I’d just parked it elsewhere. There are many occasions when I thought I had lost my mind. It has always been in times of grief. It is very common. So many people share similar experiences when grieving. We feel lost and do not know, to some degree, who we are. Life is unfamiliar, so of course we feel a little lost. Afterwards life is never quite the same again.

A friend told me this morning that she had lost the keys to her house. She had to got to her brother’s to get a spare set before returning home. When she arrived her home there were her keys in the front door. It happens to us all I reckon.

What I have found is that the key to getting through times of grief and loss is to keep on turning faithfully to life. To not hide away for too long, to not fully hibernate. To take care of the basics and to lean on to the folk around you and of course to your God, however you understand that. That which sustains you in the storm of life. In time you will come through this time of loss and feeling lost and come to a new world. Greater meaning and understanding often comes as we walk faithfully through the valley of the shadow of death. Life changes you, but so does loss. It has changed me, throughout my life. Living spiritually alive is not about transcendence, it is about transformation, formation, reformation. The key is to keep a little faith and to keep on turning. It is also vital to remember that we do not journey alone, even though grief can make you feel this way at times. We all get caught up in the storms of life. This is why it is so vital to remember that we do not sail this ship alone, we travel in this ship of love together.

Humour helps too. Sometimes you just have to laugh at your humanity and absurdity. I was reminded this week of some advice I once heard about losing your mind and car. “Do not worry if you lose your car, that isn’t the problem. You are in trouble only when you forget that you have a car.”

There was a lovely moment on Wednesday as I was writing the address this is based on, just before these exact words actually. It was a beautiful reminder of how lovely people can be. There was another knock on my door. It was one of my neighbours Lucy, her daughter has a dog called Molly also and I know them well from Café Nero and just out and about. I had walked into Altrincham with her earlier as she was on her way to a charity shop with a few things. She told me she was concerned that they wouldn’t take them as four had refused her last week. They said they weren’t taking any more things. She is a person with a deep social conscience. She was concerned about distributing unwanted things to those who need them. Anyhow an hour or so later she knocked on my door to tell me that they were taking things and that there is a distribution system in place. I was so deeply touched that she remembered the conversation we had and that she needed to tell me that things were ok. How vital it is in life to remember just how ruddy lovely folk can be. This is something that is so vital in life. It is in mine. I had also that morning had another conversation with a very lost soul who likes to give Molly biscuits. She was so caught up worry about the world. She spends most of her day wandering around lost and struggling to get through the day. We talk most days. I know it lifts her spirits just a little bit to give Molly those biscuits. It is so important to remember these things; how much we all need such things.

I received an email from a person anonymously they had lost something dear to her, vital to their well being. It read:

“Hi there,
I lost my navy bunny soft toy yesterday morning in Stamford square and I’m desperately trying to find her. I really need her back. Would you be able to keep an eye out for her or be able to put up her missing poster somewhere? Thank you ever so much.”

I obviously am not naming the person. This little toy may seem like nothing to most people, but it gives the person support with their social anxiety. I hope that they find what they have lost.

I have felt lost in grief at times these last 18 months. I don’t just mean at the loss of so many folk I know, so many friends as well as congregants. So many folk I have known and love. Also, a sense of loss and bewilderment at the world. We do seem to be living through divisive times. We forget we are all far more human than otherwise, that we are formed from the same flesh and have the same spirit in us.

This is something that no matter what happens in life we must never forget. Our lives, humanity, depends upon it. If we lose that, then we truly are lost.

Memory is a mysterious thing. Memory loss is a serious thing too. Our minds are affected by many things that can interfere with some basic brain functions. There are of course the many and varied forms of dementia which we are seeing and understanding more and more. I see it in folks I know, and I see the affects it has on those who care for folk becoming lost in such worlds.

I sometimes wonder about my own memory too, especially around traumatic times in my life. I was reminded of a peculiar memory recently. My brother’s eldest son Theo has recently begun University They broke their foot trampolining and were obviously struggling. There were some jokes on a family Wattsapp about how lucky they were that my former stepdad wasn’t there as he would have wiggled it about and told him to stop being soft and get on with it. This had happened to my youngest sister when she broke her arm roller skating. I had lived most of my life with a guilt about this. The way I remembered it was that I was the one that did this to her. I remember a few years ago apologising to her for this. She looked at me like I was a complete idiot, in fact she told me so. Telling me this is not what happened at all. That I had cared for her and it was her dad that did this and that I was there as it happened. I witnessed the act, but did not do it. I still struggle with accepting this reality. My mind does not fully remember this at all. I cannot find the whole truth of the memory. It tells me something about the state of my mind and memory at that time in my life. It also teaches me something about how memory so easily gets lost and that the truth can be hard to find especially in times of emotion, loss and trauma. Something we could all do to remember in these times we are living through.

It is also vital to keep a hold of the truth of beautiful memories of moments of deep care and love and attention too. Of what is good and loving and beautiful. Of every tiny bit of humanity. Our lives, our world depends upon it. I have been thinking of these a lot these last couple of weeks as I celebrated an important anniversary recently. I have been remembering so many people that offered so much love and acceptance in darker days. In days when I was very lost.

Now I know that this might sound counter intuitive, but being lost and feeling lost is not always such a terrible thing, especially if it leads us to look for a better way. I reminded here of a mysterious little poem by William Stafford “Cutting Loose”. Here it is:

“Cutting Loose” by William Stafford

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell you where it is and you
can slide your way past trouble.

Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path—but that’s when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on earth, again and again.

As Parker J. Palmer highlights whilst reflecting on this poem. Maybe “the way of being lost” is important, perhaps even necessary at times, if we are to “cut loose” from business as usual and reach beyond for a far better world. Perhaps what is key is that vital reminder that “a steady center is holding all else,” and if you know where it is, “you can slide your way past trouble.”

It is just as vital to remember that the “twisted monsters” that always bar our path, need not defeat us but can prod us to “get going” amid the complex mix of horror and beauty of which reality is made. As we “get going,” our acceptance of being lost can turn to gratitude for being lost. Because if we didn’t feel lost then we wouldn’t look for a better way.

How vital it is to remember that even when we feel lost that all is not necessarily lost, we just need to find a better way.

I find something deeply reassuring in the fact that “lost and found” are paired together. I love that lost property boxes are often referred to as “The lost and found”. There is something very powerful in the journey of faith here. There is something beautifully paradoxical in all of this. It reminds me that if you want to be found you have to first of all get lost. It is the “Hero’s Journey”.

If I have learnt anything in life it is that the problem isn’t whether or not we will get lost at times, the question is how will we live when we get lost. Now of course the first step towards finding my way again is to recognise first of all that I am lost. This doesn’t necessarily mean literally lost, but lost in myself, whether that is lost in fear, self-doubt, self-pity, basically lost in my own underpants.

When I am lost in myself and find myself truly “lost at sea” I find that what has really happened is that I’ve separated myself once again from what I know to be true, about what is at the heart of me and the heart of life and have blinded myself to the light both within and without and I have once again walled myself in and I begin to feel alone and utterly lost. I have cut myself off from others and the love present in life. In such a state I can really hurt myself, I have done so in the past. I know when I am lost, internally I find myself giving in to guilt, to loneliness and defensiveness. While externally I will begin to blame others for this sense of lostness, resentment grows as does confusion in others. Don’t we all? When I am lost the solution might not be to go back to where I come from, the answer might be to find a better way.

We all feel lost at times. I have re-learnt once more how important that is. It keeps you connected to life and allows you to grow, to be transformed. This is the point of the spiritual life. This year I have re-learnt once again the importance of vulnerability. Everyone of us is vulnerable to the troubles of life. No matter how comfortable life might be at this moment that can be quickly shaken and all can be lost. There could be an unexpected knock at the door, or phone call one cold autumn day with news you don’t want to hear.

The problem isn’t getting lost, we all get lost at times. The problem is in losing faith that you can be found once again. The key is how we live when we find ourselves lost. Do we close down and get lost deeper in our fear, or do we pause and reach out and ask for help from those loving forces that are all around whether visible or invisible. Do we look for the better way.

I’m going to end with one final poem, by my favourite farmer poet Wendell Berry. It’s his “Sabbath Poem II”

Sabbath Poem II (1995) by Wendell Berry

The best reward in going to the woods
Is being lost to other people, and
Lost sometimes to myself. I'm at the end
Of no bespeaking wire to spoil my goods;

I send no letter back I do not bring.
Whoever wants me now must hunt me down
Like something wild, and wild is anything
Beyond the reach of purpose not its own.

Wild is anything that's not at home
In something else's place. This good white oak
Is not an orchard tree, is unbespoke,
And it can live here by its will alone,

Lost to all other wills but Heaven's -- wild.
So where I most am found I'm lost to you,
Presuming friend, and only can be called
Or answered by a certain one, or two.

From Wendell Berry’s This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems, Counterpoint, Berkeley 2013: 195.

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

Choose Life: Learning to Live from Regret

This last Thursday 8th May marked “VE Day”, “Victory in Europe Day”; a day that must have been of the most incredible celebration 80 years ago, as the war in Europe ended, as the liberal democracy overcame Nazism. The Second World War had not yet fully ended, that was not until August 15 when Japan surrendered, with the formal ceremony taking place on 2nd September. It is important to remember such times as these, I have come to believe. That said it is not just that we need to acknowledge, to remember them, but to live lives of remembrance, in the hope that we do not repeat the horror that led to the Second World War again. It is vital to learn the lessons from the mistakes of those who came before us. I am not sure we have. I think we human beings have a long way to go before we can make the claim that we have learnt how to live in peace. I don’t just mean on global scale, but also much closer to home, including our own lives.

I have been thinking about memory quite a lot of late. Much has happened in my own life and the life around me, that has caused me to pause, to reflect. It has brought memory to the surface. At the same time, I have felt some of my own memory getting a little fuzzier. I have struggled to remember exact details of events. Whilst at the same time I have experienced real clarity in some deep old memories, and yet other more recent ones seem less clear. I know what this is, what is causing this, it is grief. I have experienced a lot of losses these last few months, tragic ones to be clear. I travelled home to Yorkshire on Friday for the funeral of a dear old friend.

I have found myself reflecting on so much, recently. Yes, good times, but I’ve also been visited by a few ghosts of the mistakes I have made and the regrets I live with. These are very common feelings when grieving, for myself and many others. I am not someone who claims that they have no regrets. I am not sure that is either helpful or honest. Regret is ok, so long as you do something with it, turn it into something beneficial for yourself and others, learn from the mistakes, live with regret, rather die or stagnate in it. This counts for individuals, communities, nations and the whole of humanity for that matter. The key to everything is to learn to live with regret.

You may recall a couple of weeks ago that I spoke of spending a bit of time talking with the new and upcoming ministers at the recent General Assembly Annual meetings. What I didn’t say is that I also spent time with some colleagues, who are precious to me, who are now retired. I spent some time in the company of Rev Dr Ann Peart, the one who loves Hope’s ankle in the stain glass window at Dunham Road. Ann and myself have a deep care and affection for one another and it was lovely to see her. We are both very different people, have our faults and our qualities. Talking with her brought back memories of my time at college, the challenge, the characters and the lessons learnt. One thing I remember was a little sign of Ann’s door that read “I have learnt so much from my mistakes that I think I am going to make a few more.” I was smiling as I remembered this, as I know that the only way to do so, is to keep on journeying, “Choosing Life” to paraphrase good old Moses and Wham of course. Yes, making some mistakes at times, but doing mainly good, certainly doing whatever I can for the creation of life and not it’s destruction.May we all choose life every day.

Some say that they have no regrets about anything. It is interesting that perhaps the most heard song at funerals is “My Way” by Frank Sinatra and that famous line “Regrets I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention” or perhaps the famous Edith Piath “je ne regrette rien” no regret. A more modern version would be Robbie Williams’ “No Regrets”

Is this really true though? Can any of us truly say that we have no regrets? I’m not sure I can. I cannot make the claim that I have no regrets at all. There have been many failures and mistakes along the way. Most folk live with regret and struggle with parts of their past. Like King David I am sure we could all write our Psalms of Lament.

Regret is an interesting word, originally it was a kind of lament, from the Old French word ‘regreter”, meaning “one who bewails the dead,” which comes from a Germanic root meaning “to greet.” As Mark Nepo has said of regret “We always face these two phases of regret: to bewail what is dead and gone, and, if we can move through that grief, to greet the chance to do things differently as we move on.”

Nepo notes something of real value here, it is a lesson from grief. Yes, regret is a lament for what has gone, what has died, but if we greet it fully with love we can learn from the past and do things differently in the future. The response to regret is both of life and death. The choice is ours. By the way this is the one choice we have in life. We do not choose what happens to us but we can choose how we respond to what happens to us. This is the one ultimate freedom, that is open to all of us.

To quote Viktor Frankl:

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

So, the response to regret is ours. We can either choose life or death. We can close in and shut down or we can create with love.

There are two powerful examples of responses to regret in the New Testament. They are found in the Easter narrative, following Jesus’s betrayal. Luke’s Gospel (Ch22 vv 60-62) depicts Peter regretting his betrayal of Jesus. He wept bitterly for his fear based denial and yet how did he respond. Well, it was on Peter that the earlier Christian Church was built. For Peter Hope was once again born. Matthew (Ch 27 vv 3-5) depicts a very different response to regret that of Judas Iscariot. This is much closer to the original meaning of regret, which meant to bewail the dead. His response was to take his life. Both Peter and Judas can be seen as examples of how we can act with guilt or from shame over the things we regret in life. One chose life and the other turned away from life. One chose to create and the other to destroy. One turned further inward in shame and other turned out to do something creative with their guilt and regret. Peter lived with his regret, where as Judas died with his.

Regret has its place; we need to feel it and to respond in life giving and affirming ways. It matters how we live with regret, is it in life affirming ways, or shame based life denying ones. We can learn from our mistakes if we choose life.

As Joan Chittister wrote in “The Gift of Years”

“The burden of regret is that, unless we come to understand the value of the choices we made in the past, we may fail to see the gifts they have brought us.

The blessing of regret is clear — it brings us, if we are willing to face it head on, to the point of being present to this new time of life in an entirely new way. It urges us on to continue becoming.”

We all have regrets. It is delusional to say that we should never have them, in fact a person who never feels regret or guilt has something missing in their humanity. Yes, regrets, fuelled by shame, can gnaw away at our souls, but it we are wise, regrets can be powerful teachers. We need a lot of humility and curiosity to learn from our regrets rather than simply allowing them to whittle away at the spirit. Above all we need hope: if we regret something but are willing to learn from it, we must dare to hope that we can learn from it. All humility is, in some sense, a thing of hope: when we humble ourselves, we are living in the hope that we can do better.

Of course, before we move on we need to put right what we have done wrong. This may just take an acknowledgement, or it may take more, an action. Once we put right what is needed and wanted though we can begin again in love, in so doing we are choosing life once more. Not only for ourselves, but for all humanity. This is the key to everything, I have come to believe, to “Choose Life” once again.

So, I say let’s face and truly know those things we regret, no matter how many times we have failed to live up to our ideals. Let’s be powered by appropriate guilt and not fetted by inappropriate shame. We need not be paralysed lamenting the past, nor do we need to close the door on it. Let us instead move through the grief of regret and greet the future with its possibility of what might yet be.

Let’s choose life and infinite possibility. Let’s make lives of remembrance from the ashes of what went wrong before. Let’s do so as individuals, communities, nations and humanity.

I’m going to end this "Blogspot" with a meditation, with something to reflect on. It is adapted from “The Land of Regret” a spiritual practice created by Steven Charleston from the book “Spirit Wheel”

Steve invites us to enter into the mystery of the following words asking us to hear “What Native America has to say, to teach, to share…. When you enter into the mystery of these words for yourself, do so without preconception or judgment. With honesty and humility. Enter the deep earth of our ancient longing and reach for the highest branches of our collective hope…. Take each message as you find it. Let it speak to you directly. Ponder its meaning.”

So I invite us to still our thoughts, quieten our minds, connect to our bodies, to our breathing…Let us be still and silent together…

I have visited the land of regret more than once
But have never lived there, for the land is barren
And no person would make their home there

Unless, as the elders say, they have been so focused
On their sorrow and shame
That they have lost their way to forgiveness
The sacred well in any desert

Lost their way to repentance and reconciliation
So they haunt the wild lands of their own memory
Seeking responsibility like a mirage.

Better, the elders say, to let regret do its job:
Be a teacher with a lesson that must be learned.

Then make your cairn to mark your passing
To express your regret, to accept the teaching
And walk on, keeping to the straight path before you

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

Remember, remember, all those who have inspired us, who have lit the flame within

A friend asked me the other day why I refer to Molly as “Bugger Lugs”. He looked quite disturbed by the phrase. I explained it was a term of endearment when I was growing up. My grandad often you to say to me and my brother come on “bugger lugs”. It seems I speak to Molly in a similar way to how my grandad spoke to me. It is certainly affectionate, although if you actually think about it, it probably doesn’t to someone not brought up hearing it. It seems that anybody below the age of forty and not from Yorkshire and or Lancashire have never heard the term or at least a version of it. Hence the strange looks and responses from folk.

As is my way I posted about this on social media. It was an attempt to offer something light for folk to connect with. The responses were both amusing and fascinating. My mum obviously read it and replied with the following tale:

“I have probably told you this before.

I had a great uncle Eddie. He was certainly a character. I used to love going to see him. He had two Yorkshire terriers called Bugger Lugs and Mucky Clogs. He also had a Myna Bird who would shout out the two dogs names and say Shut Up

Needless to say he was granddads uncle.”

A little later she added:

“Uncle Eddie was Nana's brother. The family lived at 3 Loxley Street. It was a one down, two up. They had 6 children and an uncle who lived there also. No bathroom or inside toilet. To the right of the chimney breast was a sink with a cupboard above. Uncle Eddie replaced the cupboard fronts with wire netting and kept 2 hens in there.

You couldn't make it up

Love Mum xxx”

You truly could not make it up. I have heard this story before, but it was lost somewhere in my subconscious. It has resurfaced and reformed as the days have gone by this week. It makes perfect sense to me why I would call Molly “Bugger Lugs”. Some days she definitely suits “Mucky Clogs”. I have had some bewildered looks from people as I have shared these tales. That said I am kind of used to that.

The conversation has brought some wonderful memories to my heart and mind, of those tales my grandad used to tell me, most I couldn’t repeat here. As well as other tales that my dad and or aunties and uncles used to tell. Most of them make me smile broadly these days, although not always.

Autumn and especially late October and early November is the season of remembering and remembrance. This seems to have been the case throughout human history.

Do you remember the old English Rhyme “Remember, remember the 5th of November, the Gunpowder treason and plot; I know of no reason why the Gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!

I won’t recite the full verse as it gets pretty dark and grim. Those old rhymes often did. Poetry and song are pretty tame these days, in comparison to days gone by. Modern life is pretty tame, when compared to the past. As my other grandad used to say, “There is no such thing as the good old days.”

This last week has marked the beginning of the season of remembrance. Remembrance is far more than simply remembering, its about bringing memory to life. We marked All Hallows Eve or Halloween on 31st October, All Saints Day on 1st November and on 2nd November All Souls Day, a time in the Christian Calendar to remember all souls who have departed this life.

Like other Christian festivals, including Christmas, Easter and Whitsuntide, these three autumn days are a fascinating mixture of pre-Christian, Christian and even post-Christian tradition and mythos. I am fairly certain that the children who were going door at Halloween were probably not aware that they were creating a modern day variant on the pre-Christian festival of Samhain; a festival that not only celebrated harvest, but was also a time to commune with spirits of ancestors. There are similar traditions throughout most culture's, autumnal and winter festivals. Autumn is a time of reflection, a time to take stock before the harsh realities of winter come.

Halloween in the north of England is something that is marked, at least in a secular way, far more these days than I remember in my earlier childhood. When I was a child it was Guy Fawkes or Bonfire Night that took on greater significance. I don’t really remember going “Trick or Treating”, until a significant film came out in 1982 and then everything seemed to change. The film was E.T. the Extra Terrestrial. One of the most commercially successful films of all time and one that changed something significantly, certainly in my life and perhaps the culture of the North of England. I recall, as many others did, that after this going door to door, trick or treating replaced the tradition of going “Door to Door” asking for “a penny for the guy” and of course “Mischievous Night”. It seems that these traditions all got swallowed up with “Trick or Treating”. “Mischievous Night”, at least in Yorkshire, came on the 4th November and was linked to the “Gunpowder Plot” and “Fireworks Night” that is marked today, the 5th of November. Things could get pretty wild on “Mischievous Night” and some, I’m sure, are glad to see that it has pretty much been lost to history. You do hear of little pockets of it in Liverpool and Leeds, but mainly it has gone the way of the Dodo and been replaced by “Trick or Treating”. There’s a part of me that wishes this wasn’t true. I remember the thrill of getting up to no good with friends and of hearing similar tales of other friends who were far more daring than I. I remember a particular exciting time with my cousin Charlton who sadly died earlier this year. The thrill and the excitement of those childhood days have been in my heart this year. I also remember my granddad telling me of things he and his mate Percy used to get up to. I remember the delight in this night of freedom that the children used to be granted. A freedom that I fear children of today do not enjoy. Maybe that is not a bad thing. We see enough to be frightened, to fear on the daily news each and every day.

I was recalling such adventures with a young friend this week. She was telling me of the joy of going pumpkin picking with her family. A tradition that continues into her adulthood. It sounds like a lovely experience. She was utterly bewildered as I and another friend recounted tales of our youth. As I had been listening to tales of my grandads.

These memories mean so much to me. I know there are gems there and they help me to truly appreciate the life I have now. A life made richer by those that have blessed it. Yes, there is much pain there, but there is also deep love. So many gifts and blessings.

Remember, remember…

Memories are snapshots of life. Moments that stay with us. It always 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. We should not fear our memories, they are precious in so many ways, and it is these very memories that make the present moment truly come alive. I have discovered that sometimes you can lose some of the true richness of the moment by becoming purely engrossed in it. That might sound like a counter intuitive thing, but I think not.

By the way please do not get me wrong I am not rejecting the power of the present moment, quite the opposite actually. What I am suggesting is there is a greater power in bringing the present moment alive by enriching it with our whole selves. It’s a kind of active experience of the present moment. It’s about opening our whole selves up to the present moment and not just passively experiencing what is there. It’s about wholly living in the moment and then carrying that snapshot of the moment into the future. It’s about truly living on the threshold of life. The truth is of course that this is how we are always living, on the threshold of something, as one moment ends another begins.

Memory is a funny thing. It is amazing what we remember and what we cannot remember, how memory can be so very selective. Memory also changes over time. My memory or do I mean my perspective on past events in my life, have changed over time.

Remember, remember…

Remember’ literally means to ‘re-member’; to put back together that which has been torn apart. In some way remembering has a similarity to ‘religion’, which means ‘to rebind together’. Both are about seeking after a wholeness, and isn’t that what we are about most of the time?”

For so long I used to say I could not remember much about my childhood and the things that I could remember caused me either pain or embarrassment. I thank God this is no longer the case. It would seem that I was always on the run and you really cannot live like that. I also had a lot of trouble remembering much of my adult life too. It was fear that stopped me doing so. I was frightened of reconnecting with these memories. I was frightened of re-feeling these memories. I was ruled by a fear of resentment.

These days memory and remembering has become so very important to me. Every year I gain a different perspective on my past which helps me live better in the present moment and opens up the future in fascinating ways.

Memory is a funny thing.

Remember…remember…

I was reminded this week of someone else who came into my life for a short period of time some 20 years. They inspired me, they lit something in me and changed me forever. Something I ought not ever forget. It brought to mind those wonderful words of Albert Schweitzer, they have been singing in my heart all week.

“At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”

There are many people who have inspired me, who have lit the flame, when all was dark, there are many who have taught me life enhancing, nay life changing things. Something I thought deeply of at this weeks “All Souls” service. A time to remember those who have touched our hearts but who are no longer physically with us. There are so many souls who have inspired me and who continue to do even though they have long gone. I have to say I was quite emotional after the service this week. I was glad I was able to spend time alone afterwards. Grief and the love at the heart of it run so deep. S many souls have lit the flame, have inspired me.

Now “Inspire” is one of those words, like so many in common usage, that has been reduced in meaning as time has gone by. We have reduced its power as our lives have become secularised. It originally meant “immediate influence of God”, especially with reference to the writing of a Holy book. Coming from the French “inspiracion meaning “inhaling, breathing in inspiration”, coming from the Latin “inspirare” meaning to breath in, to inflame. To inspire means to breath upon, to blow into, to excite, to inflame, to affect, to arouse, but to do so through spirit or soul, it is a Divine activity. Therefore, it seems reasonable to conclude that when we inspire others we are engaging in Divine activity. To inspire others is to engage in one of the highest forms of love, as it is Divine love in human action.

Everyone we meet, and everything that we absorb through our senses can be an inspiration. Those that have inspired us, awakened something within us, helped us to become the people that we are today. As we enter the season of Remembrance perhaps, we ought to remember all these people and dedicate our lives to create acts of Remembrance from the love they inspired in us. In so doing we will inspire future generations and those struggling around us to become all that they can be. In so doing our lives will become worth dying for by the legacies of love that we leave behind.

Remember, remember…

May it be so.

Amen

Below is a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"

Be right enough to be wrong, for that is the essence of the truth

I was talking with a friend recently about memory and how it changes over time. He told me how strange he found it that when you speak with people who were present at the same event that he was at, how they remember it oh so differently. We talked about how memory is rarely pure. Often it is not always the memory itself but how the story of the memory is remembered. This is often particularly true of cultural memories, that are simply re-telling of communal stories, of which no one still alive was present at. We tell them, but how do we know that they are actually true. I told him what fascinates me is how memories can often be varied due to those experiencing the same situation differently. It is not just that people remember differently, they also experience life differently. How people experience reality can be oh so different, something I am increasingly aware of. I was reminded of this powerfully this week at “Summer School”. It is oh so very important to understand this in order to even attempt to empathise with others, to actually try and walk in their shoes. Humanity truly is a rich diversity. We weave a fascinating tapestry. This is something not merely to accept, or even understand, but to truly celebrate. If we work together we can create something incredibly beautiful. That said if we do not celebrate diversity, or attempt to make others confirm to one or other truth, we create nothing but destruction. I see ever more clearly that people experience reality in such diverse ways. While I accept neuro diversity, I think it is even more than that, something deeper perhaps, something of our souls and spirits. We need to share them with one another in order to understand reality in all its diversity, even then none of us truly even get a glimpse of the whole of the moon.

When a person shares something that is way beyond the bounds of experience to look at them with utter incredulity is a dismissal of their humanity. Again as I have listened intently with people this week I have witnessed a rich diversity in the way that people experience reality. I have found this both beautiful and incredibly moving.

This got me thinking about truth claims about anything; this got me thinking about the nature of truth; this got me thinking about the truths we believe about ourselves, one another, and life in general. There are many things that we hold true, without really questioning. Why do we? It also got me thinking about who we trust for our truth, what are the sources. According to John’s Gospel, Jesus said “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” How do we know what is true though? This is especially true when thinking of memory and how and others remember events we were present at.

“Truth” itself is an interesting word. It comes from a Germanic root which also gives rise to another word “troth” as the vow of old "I pledge thee my troth." A word used as people enter a covenant with one another, as Parker J Palmer put it “a pledge to engage in mutually accountable and transforming relationship...to know in truth is to become betrothed, to engage the known with one's whole self...to know in truth is to be known as well.”

Truth is a pledge made between people, it is relational in nature, a covenant of trust. So, who do we trust, who do we covenant with? What is the “truth”? Truth is not something we claim, it is more about how we live by what we claim. You can’t really hold the truth, but you can live by it.

In recent years a new word came into public consciousness. At the end of 2016 “The Oxford Dictionaries” announced that they had chosen “post-truth” as the word of the year, offering as a definition: “circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief.” The Oxford Dictionaries' Casper Grathwohl said post-truth could become "one of the defining words of our time".This was in response to a particularly tumultuous time politically, both in the UK and USA, I suspect that things have become more so ever since. Partisanship has grown, with all sides claiming that the others are engaging in Orwellian doublethink and that the organism of the state is working against them.

I am not entirely sure this is such a modern phenomena. There have always been opposing truth claims. When I think back to philosophy at university and claims about human nature, there has never been agreement. Are you with Hobbes in thinking that humanity is basically corrupt and needs authority to curb our destructive natures or are with Rousseau and his belief that we are basically decent but corrupted by society. The arguments about authoritarianism and democracy are not new. The difference today is the volume of these truth claims have been amplified, we seem bombarded by them. Society on the whole seems to shout louder and yet can hear less. Everyone is talking and yet so few seem able to listen.

Truth has always been subjective. We may claim pure rational, but I suspect this is in some way dishonest, emotional and personal belief have always played a part in our truth claims. I suspect that people have also always experienced reality in a variety of ways. There is nothing new in recognising truth as being subjective. Mohandas Gandhi said that “What may appear as truth to one person will often appear as untruth to another person, but that need not worry the seeker, where there is honest effort, it will be realized that what appear to be different truths are like the countless and apparently different leaves of the same tree. Different parts of the same elephant; different leaves on the same tree; different paths up the same mountain; different windows open to the same light; one truth, many manifestations.”

So we may see the same thing and yet still come to a completely different conclusion about this. This maybe because we are approaching the truth differently. We bring our own needs and our own biases, it is vital to recognise this, this though does not mean that the one drawing a different conclusion has bad intent, quite the opposite actually. This is true of people and all life for that matter. It is also important to recognise diversity in experience, how people process reality in diverse ways. This is so beautiful when fully understood, accepted and celebrated. I also feel that this is more than merely neurological, it may be deeper than that, what about soulful or spiritual diversity?

To quote the philosopher of science Karl Popper

“All things living are in search of a better world. Men, animals, plants, even unicellular organisms are constantly active. They are trying to improve their situation, or at least to avoid its deterioration.”

Popper argued that because the identification of error is so central to the problem solving process, therefore its corrective, the truth, is a core component of our quest for betterment. Mistakes are constantly made; all life makes mistakes. No one has absolute foresight, can see what is coming. That said to maintain trust it is vital to admit when one is wrong and to rectify the error. The problem I suspect in modern times is that admitting you are wrong is increasingly considered a weakness rather than a strength. This has caused a truth vacuum in the field of expertise. People do not trust experts as they once did. I suspect one of our greatest troubles of recent times is that people do not trust. Trust, it seems to me comes from having the humility to admit when we make mistakes. We need to be right enough in ourselves to admit when we are wrong.

So often we see our piece of truth as a rock that we must cling to, that is absolute and must not be questioned. This often leads to disputes as people find that in order to hold onto their truth, they must prove the truth claims of others wrong. Such reasoning lacks humility, because the truth is that whatever we believe or disbelieve about truth we never see the whole truth completely, instead we merely glimpse at the truth, or a piece of the truth. Who can honestly say that they know the whole truth and nothing but the truth? I suppose some do, they claim to know the whole truth about everything, an expert at everything. I would be very wary of trusting such folk. Just because someone says it is so, it does not make it true.

This brings to mind this little snippet from Anthony DeMello’s “One Minute Wisdom”

"To a visitor who described himself as a seeker after Truth, the teacher said: “If what you seek is Truth, there is one thing you must have above all else.” “I know,” answered the student, “an overwhelming passion for it.” “No,” said the teacher, “an unremitting readiness to admit you may be wrong.”

To seek the truth, one needs humility and openness and enough self-esteem to see that we are wrong sometimes and of course the capacity to admit to this. If we cannot, we will not be able to see the truth, even when it is right in front of us. It is so easy to become blinded by what we think we know. We need the openness that comes with true humility, it is a truth that will set us free.

It is also vital to remember that people experience the same situation differently. There is a diversity of experience within life. As a wise man once taught me, “To be right, you don’t have to make another wrong.” No you just need to seek the truth, as your experience teaches you, in relationship with the experiences of a diversity of other folk. Not so much people who think alike. I cannot think of anything worse than spending my life in the company of folk who think just like me. What would be the point of that. It sounds like a living hell to me.

It is our responsibility therefore to seek our truth, to bring to life our experiences. What we remember and to share it without apology. We need to do so for our own sanity and for the good of others, they need to receive what is within us.

In the Gospel of Thomas Jesus says, “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

Whilst Lao Tzu wrote in the “Tao Te Ching” “Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom. Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.”

You will never bring forth what is within you while ever you are afraid of what is within you. There have been times when I have been afraid to bring forth what is within me and I have witnessed the same fear in others too. After all is not a little less scary to receive our truth from elsewhere rather than to let it come forth from within ourselves.

It can appear safer to accept the truth offered to us, rather than to seek it out ourselves. So often in life we want certainty, absolutes black and white and not a thousand shades of grey. So often we seek the illusion of certainty. This though just closes us in, builds those walls and keeps us closed.

The key to truth seeking is openness, born from uncertainty and humility. Openness is a way that enables us to experience new previously unseen truth; a truth that will set us free. It will allow us to bring forth what is within us and by doing so we might just uncover what will save us from the delusion of what we think we know about ourselves, one another and life itself. The world needs to at least have a chance of experiencing the whole of the elephant, the whole of the moon.

Do we trust ourselves enough to seek out the truth and therefore to bring forth what is within us or would we just rather stick with the safety of what we think we already know of what someone has taught us or told us is the truth.

We can trust what we unearth if we learn how to truly live in the questions of ours and others truth claims. Trust is vital. We have to learn to trust what we discover, what we unearth, whilst not putting a fence around what we see as the truth today; the key is an open attitude whether that’s in finding your own truth or in offering truth to another. Now the challenge of course comes in dwelling in the ambiguity of truth without becoming overwhelmed or paralysed by it; the challenge comes in maintaining a deep commitment to the openness that truth seeking requires and not allowing ourselves to become closed down.

This is not for the faint hearted. This takes courage. This is not the easier path, but it is definitely the one worth taking, for it is the one that will set us up to live in and through truth.

You know its ok to get it wrong to make mistakes. It’s ok to feel lost and confused about life at times. That is so human. There is something both glorious and beautiful in this.

If we want to be a seeker of truth, then above everything else what we need is an unremitting readiness to admit that we may be wrong. Wrong about how we view ourselves, wrong about how we view life, wrong about how we view other people.

The truth is of course is that once we can see we are wrong about something, admit we are wrong about something, do whatever we can to put right what was once wrong, then we are no longer wrong, we are right. The key is to feel right enough in our humanness to be able to admit that we can only ever vision the partial truth and to be open to the truth of others…

The key is in being right enough to be wrong, for that is the essence of the truth…

Below is a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"

“How Do We Remember? To Re-Feel Our Lives Again”

The Olympics end today. I find that they always bring up memories of years gone by. They connect folk with the past and times in history, both personal and universal. The Olympics are always caught up in their time and space. In years to come no doubt these Olympics will be known as the “Covid Games”. They have already been postponed for one year. These are the 2020 Olympics, but are taking place in 2021. They have taken place without crowds of supporters cheering on the competitors. They have also been the games that have highlighted various mental health issues that top class athletes, as well as ordinary folk, suffer from. Society has changed and is changing and this is reflected in all aspects of life.

I have been watching the Olympics, but not with the same interest and attention that I have in the past. I am not sure why. Someone suggested to me the other day that is probably because of the time difference. I am not convinced of this. As a child I loved the Olympics. My first sporting hero was Brendon Foster and this dates back to the 1976 Olympics at Montreal. I was only four years old at the time. Now when I say he was my sporting hero, I suspect he was more my mum’s. She loves the Olympics and I suspect I enjoyed watching with her all those years ago. The images I remember from 1976 are not of the actual events but images repeated over the years. My mum likes to tell the story of waking me late in the night so I could watch Brendan Foster’s race, he came third and won bronze in the end. What is strange is that I do have this felt memory of being woken. It is not so much a visual memory though, more an emotional one. This though does not surprise me as memory for me is much more a felt, an emotional experience, rather than a visual one. In many ways it’s the responses of competitors after the events that stay with me, not just the competition, I am touched by the joy and the emotion.  I am touched by the years of dedication that these people and those who have supported them have put into their lives. Not just the winners and medallists, but also those competing. It is inspiring and these feelings stay with me, stored in my heart and soul. No doubt others remember differently.

If I have learnt anything in life it is that people can experience events, remember events, that they were both present at very differently. There are many reasons for this, but one may well be how their senses take in the experience, another how they actually remember. Some people are much more visually minded than others, more spacially aware. I have noticed over the years how different my brother and myself are. We recall things very differently and I suspect that this is because we process and thus remember very differently. We human beings are very diverse creatures indeed. While my brother and me look alike, we are not very alike.

A Lot of my memories were lost for many years, but have over time been re-felt and re-experienced. This is never an easy experience, but it is a rich one in the end. When I say it isn’t always easy, I am understating things, in truth it can be excruciatingly painful. I have recently re-experienced some memories while visiting an old friend who was staying in hospital in the North West. Thankfully he has been able to return home and I hope that his mental condition will continue to heal. During our conversations he talked an awful lot of our days, when we were students. Events and people and experiences that just weren’t there for me, they were gone, seemingly lost, from my mind. Some amusing and wonderful and others less so. There was an awful lot camaraderie, friendships and the odd romance, that never ended well. The memories though were not particularly visual though, they were felt, they were emotional. I re-felt these memories, I re-sensed them, they were resentments. They keep on coming as the days pass.

As I have said, many times before, I wish we had a word for re-sensing things that didn’t only have negative connotations. Resentment means to re-feel, to re-sense something, sadly we do not have a word for doing so in a positive or even neutral sense. My memories are mixed experience, aren’t all of memories a mixture of blessings and curses, just as life is. To quote good old Moses, “I lay before you life, blessings and curses, therefore choose life”

I wonder how your memories manifest in your life. Maybe you could reflect on past Olympics and where you were in your life and the folk you shared those memories with. How do you remember? What senses come alive? Perhaps talk with those who shared those memories with you, how do they remember? I Bet that they don’t in exactly the same way.

Memory is a mysterious thing. 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. 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, how these ghosts of the past in habit our lives. They follow us like headlights on our tales.

One thing I have never had a great memory for is names. I was talking with someone the other day who told me how much he hates it that some people forget the names of others, he said he thought it was disrespectful. I told him that am one of those people. I can remember details of a person’s life, if they have told me it, faces stay with me, even though I claim I don’t have a visual memory, but I suspect that is more spacial than facial the deficit I mean. That said for some reason names can easily get lost somewhere. By the way it is not only the names of people, but places and things too. The details are there, but not the name. 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 his poem “Forgetfulness” Angela Fowler recently shared this poem at our poetry night. She loves Billy Collins, as do many of us. He has the capacity to touch places deep within but in a simple easily relatable way. Interestingly when I remined of this on Thursday she had forgotten about it, which we all laughed about together, a beautiful moment of human connection.

Here is the poem

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.

…Billy Collins captures something beautiful, if a little painful here, as he usually does.

Memory is a mystery, we all forget things. I keep on forgetting things at the moment, but I know that this grief and how it manifests in my life, how love and loss plays out. Thankfully I am keeping a sense of humour about all this. We have to maintain our sense of humour about such things. That said there are types of memory loss that less funny, tragic really. There is of course Dementia, in its many forms, the cruellest being 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.

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. Perhaps some of us feel these experiences more deeply, depending on how we experience life. Sometimes they are so intense that we lock these memories away. Ghosts though have a habit of haunting you again when you least expect them to.

This brings to my mind the following verses from Isaiah (49 vv 15-16):

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 came to me the other day as I was looking at the callouses on my hands caused by training at the gym. I then spent a little time looking at the palms of my hand. I looked at what are called the heart and lifelines 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. There are times when these feelings are too much.

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.”

Isn’t he right. 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 sense. Every day I have a growing sense of how truly ignorant I am. Nothing makes absolute sense to me. I have no idea why I feel what I feel or why my mind remembers and forgets things and then suddenly the memory is more alive than it has ever been. 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.

I am grateful to be a part of this incredible mystery that is life itself; that I get to share 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. What a ride, what a ride…

Please click below to watch 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.