I have to confess that I don’t really remember the past. Of course, images and whole scenes that pretend to be of past experiences cycle through my mind like the unending wash cycle of a front loader washing machine.
Oh, there the blue sock I thought I’d lost, coming by again. Good to know that it’s still part of my life. If the other one shows up, I think I’ll wear them today.
But, even if the images I call memories really are related to a life I once lived, and to the person I am now, the majority of what I think I’m remembering comes to visit so often, it feels like a neighbor who doesn’t get your hints that it’s time for them to go back to their own house.
Even with those reservations about their freshness, accuracy and relevance, I’m glad there are still memories, or what I laughingly call memories, that come to visit me.
Perhaps a life of discovery and adventures out in the living world would nourish me and replenish my spirit more fully than sitting with a mind that keeps replaying so many reruns, but at least I’m not a lonely traveler in a bombed-out terrain. My memories are mostly friendly towards me.
Friendly relationships with the past provide a doorway into a future that comes with a few good intentions and more hope than fear; more aspiration than discouragement.
At least so far, the past feels like my friend.