I used to think that memory was a permanent record of fact. Yes, some could trick one into revising one’s memories to better suit them, but that was to be avoided. These unchanging memories had a fixed influence on current life, justifying why a happy life was not attainable. After all, what has happened has happened. Right?
A Rilke poem, “Memory Is Not Enough”, got me thinking. Perhaps memory is our interpretation of what has happened in the past—story rather than fact. Past events could not be changed. But is it possible for our interpretation of those events, and thus the way it influences our current lives, to be more fluid? Perhaps the transformation of memory is desirable. It is hard to turn loose those stories that justify our misery, frustration, discontent. But I am finding that as I open to other ways of explaining my past, a lightness and softness is appearing and possibility is beginning to show its face.
Memory
Memory is story explaining events.
Mine was cast in concrete. Arms enfolding
gray roughness, I sank into dark, water depths,
steadfast desire for a different past
keeping me submerged and stuck in the muck.
I loosen my grip on the rigid tale.
It begins to shapeshift, draw breath, expand,
become supple and light, the new version
a saga of strength, the old downward push
on top of my head now pulling me up.
Sophia Brothers Peterman
