My daughter’s eyeglasses had been missing for a while. Her prescription isn’t strong and it was not unusual for her go without wearing them for stretches of time, so neither of us had been too concerned at first, figuring they’d turn up in relatively short order. But after she’d checked the usual places, plus the school office, with every teacher, her locker (twice for good measure), and the car, we were becoming increasingly perplexed, and I was realizing this might actually be a “thing.” A thing that would require scheduling an appointment and ponying up for a new pair. Can I just tell you at this particular moment in my life more adulting, even just one more telephone call on top of the gazillion other tasks already on my mind, was enough to send me straight to diva town. Location? My bed. Invitees? Me, myself, and I, and hot tea, possibly booze. It was about then I noticed my own eyeglasses case on my nightstand. I picked up the case, opened it, and inside were…my daughter’s glasses!
I have no memory of putting her glasses in my case. I rarely use it, opting instead to live dangerously, leaving my own specs out naked and exposed. Yet there they lay. I had a good hard laugh at my own expense about this. Plus I was relieved to have evaded the extra adulting. My daughter was less amused, the careful soul that she is, having spent considerable time looking and anxiously wondering. But she was glad to have her glasses back, and I dare say has not much taken them off since!
So should I be worried I mistook my daughter’s glasses for mine, stuck them in my case, and then forgot about the incident entirely? A solid maybe. But more likely, it’s just me being me, someone who’s always been rather forgetful of the “little things”, and sometimes even the big things, and while my hands were in motion cleaning, my mind was wandering distractedly. Perhaps about the cat that needed to go to the vet, or the child that needed picked up after practice, or the prescription needing filled, or the insurance company needing called, or that email needing returned, or that remark so-and-such said the other day, or any other number of monkey mind thoughts jumping around in my head.
Monkey mind. I first encountered that term in a book I was reading some years back. I can’t remember the title, or the author. I tried to look it up to cite here, but to no avail; the topic is just too vast and my memory of the particulars too vague. What I know is it was part memoir, part self-help. You know, one of those books I alluded to in an earlier blog post that my daughter included in her school-assigned Mother’s Day booklet. “My mom likes to read!” Complete with drawings of anxiety and panic-related book titles. Anyway, this author learned from some Buddhist monk (whose name was given, but – you guessed it – I can’t recall) that monkey mind is where your thoughts jumble and skip all over the place, leaving one feeling out of control and scattered. Mindfulness and meditation were techniques offered to overcome the “monkey mind.” To be honest, the book was not a home run for me, but it had a couple golden nuggets, and those are the things I held onto. Monkey mind, now that resonated. That stuck.
It saddens me that my memory, frankly, sucks. There’s so much cool stuff in there, and I just can’t reach it. I wish I could remember every cute mispronunciation my kids ever made, and all the times they made me belly laugh. One evening when my kids were about 2 and 5 years old, I was having a ladies dinner out with a handful of friends. The mothers of the bunch, one by one, started recalling the most darlingest things their little darlings had done over the past month since we’d last seen each other. I was listening and delighting in their stories, and then someone asked, “How about you? Have any cute stories to share?” I couldn’t think of a single one. And my kids delight the pants off me practically every single day! Yet my mind was blank.
I keep a wooden chest full of various keepsakes, including decades-old letters and cards, mementos of a past self, some of which I’ve many years later held in my hands bewildered, as if I were seeing them for the first time that very moment. Had my name not been on them I might have believed they belonged to someone else. There were traces of friendships that, although I’d never forgotten we’d been friends, I forgot the depths that the letters evidenced. Others were cards from family, some now passed on, my eyes stuck on the handwriting. I pictured them writing my name, and theirs, using their very-alive hand to wish me well and send me love. I appreciated it all over again, probably now more than the first. So as I sat bewildered, I also felt nostalgic and loved, but sad, as well. Once packed away, the mementos will lay dormant in the chest waiting for their next resurrection, at which time – who knows? – they may again seem brand new. But many of the relationships themselves will never reappear. They exist only in my memory now, my wholly holey memory.
In talking to other 40-somethings (and up), I know I’m not alone. We worry about our memory, or lapses thereof. Usually these brain farts are funny, often centering around, “Now what did I just come in here for?” But sometimes they’re startling and worrisome. Raise your hand if you’ve ever taken a Free Online Alzheimer’s Test. Raise them both if you’ve done it more than once just to be sure! Since my memory has never been that great anyway, I’m hoping to just maintain; the rest of you can come to my level.
The good news is I don’t know that a bad memory is altogether a bad thing. You can’t dwell on a past you can’t grab hold of. Some memories hurt. I don’t know all the painful past experiences I’ve forgotten. If I did they wouldn’t be forgotten! But I know I must have. And I’m glad they’re gone.
I sure hope I remember the “glasses incident” for the rest of my life, though; bringing it up occasionally with my by-then-adult daughter, laughing about it all over again. I think by then enough time will have passed that she’ll find it funny, too, or at least endearing as one of “mom’s quirks.” But in the end I have to accept I have no control over that. I can try to stay healthy, keep my brain engaged and exercised (blogging counts, right?), but the Journey takes what the Journey wants. We may go through it all completely spry, or we may lose every bit of who we think we are piece by piece along the way. It brings to mind the popular phrase, “The past is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.” That’s part of the point of this blog site. Looking back can be tough, though we do, even if through brimmed eyes. Looking ahead can be scary, though we must, even while the breath catches in our throat. Standing steady and soaking in the right now, finding the adventure in just being, really is a gift. One that I can hopefully remember to appreciate!
If you’d like to share your thoughts about this blog post, or your own experience with memory issues, please leave a comment! As always, thanks for reading!
