Zen and Memory

“MEMORY! All alone in the mooooooonlight! I can smile at the old days….”

I will take “Oversung Karaoke of the 80s for 200, Alex…”

With all of the sturm und drang of the last few weeks, I have been thinking a lot about zen and memory. I tend to think about memory a lot, for my entire life I have been intrigued by the history of things, the memory I can feel in different places. I know that sounds a bit wooooooo, but I do.  Kind of in a “the rocks cry out” sort of way. Places hold memories as much as people do, and if you know their stories, you can feel those memories of place.  No wonder I became a history teacher. But THAT is another story for another time.

Memory can feed and nurture zen. I remember visiting my great grandparents in Western Kentucky—the smell of Grandma’s house (often a lovely bacon-y smell, she made us bacon every day for breakfast, a rare treat), the heat of the sun in her backyard against the cold water from the hose that we used to fill up an old metal basin to play in, the comfy chair where Grandpa spent his days. Even the ughulous  parts of those trips are not bad memories, even though I joke about them—the epic van breakdowns in New Stanton, PA, Zainesville, OH, Bruceton Mills, WV, the scary hotel situation where mom unleashed her Jersey on the staff while dad was packing the car. ;)

 I remember childhood church-ish picnics where my mom would bring cold chicken and green grapes and we would sit in the sun and have fun activities with other families.  I remember playing elaborate games of time machine in our backyard apple tree. Memories of my childhood home, of Christmas traditions, of love and family feed my zen when I remember to revisit them.

But what if you can’t smile at the old days? What if those memories are BAD?

My son has told me in the past that he does not remember much of his life before he was 10.  He said it sort of nonchalantly one day, and it took my breath away…since those years were full of t-ball and playgroup and homemade Halloween costumes and the Yankees winning an awful lot in the fall—good, zen-feeding things.  But when my son turned 9, his 6 year old sister was diagnosed with brain tumors. Everything fell apart.  He does not remember before that.  The bad memories clouded the good.

Bad memories have a way of sticking around. Not every single detail—but the worst moments are branded into our consciousness somehow.

14 years later, I can now remember and talk about the early days after my G’s diagnosis without weeping. Even THAT took years. Those memories are excruciating, and certain moments are seared into my mind.  The first two years after diagnosis were brutal.  Now my memories can sometimes help people (G failed so many protocols, we have a lot of experiences of different drugs we can share—without the emotional turmoil and terror each failed protocol produced).  The 5 years AFTER the first rounds of treatment were pockmarked with small progressions, scares, and the ever present threat of an immediate resumption of treatment.

Memories are hard sometimes. The “old days” were not always beautiful.

My Rosie asked me yesterday if she used to be super happy when her siblings came home from school. She saw some of our neighbors’ kids running out to greet their siblings, and thought it was so cute. “Did I do that, Mom?” she asked.

I couldn’t remember.  I Could. Not. Remember. I realized…Rosie was 2 when G got sick. G was on treatment during the whole time R would have been the little sibling at home. I don’t remember.

I hate not remembering almost as much as sometimes I hate remembering.

I have no great answer for what to do with difficult memories. Denying them is not healthy, nor is wallowing in them—although honestly, sometimes that just happens, they rise up like a blob and encompass me. This is what happens the day after scan days—I have to dig out of the morass of memory that rises up when we return to the hospital, we look at the brain tumors (which are all still there). 

Often I do that by writing. If I can put those dark thoughts/rememberings into the light, they lose some of their power…not right away, usually, but eventually.  And every time a new ugh memory pops up (that happened this week when a friend shared struggles her child was having in school—struggles that reminded me of some of the cruelty my own child faced in her middle school years), I try to give it light and then keep moving forward---not without the memory, but in control of the memory.  Sometimes I can use those memories to help others. That is empowering, too.

For all those women and men who are publicly dealing with difficult memories right now—stay strong. You are stronger than your memories. Unlocking dark memories and forcing them into the light gives YOU the power, not the memory.  Stand strong in your truth, and your memories become part of your power. Your memories and courage are helping others.

And I truly believe that in truth and power we find healing, and in healing we find zen. Memories are powerful, but they are OURS. We are not theirs. Working through memories is such a hard work – for me, especially with certain things (er, most things) related to my daughter, I still have so much work to do.  But once the memories are out in the sun, they cease to fester and poison my brain.

For all those brave, brave people forcing your memories into the sun…I salute you. And hey, maybe Andrew Lloyd Webber had it right…

Daylight! I must wait for the sunrise!

I must think of a new life…and I mustn’t give in.

When the dawn comes tonight will be a memory too….

LOOK, a new day has begun!