The Art of Forgetting

How is your memory?

Not too long ago I was perched on the back patio of a home in the east end of Toronto, engaging light conversation with old faces and new faces as the evening breeze wisped across my shoulders. It was the end of summer, so the temperature was fluctuating as the arctic winds began to make their way down from the north pole. A single lantern and a fire pit were lit to bring some warmth to our bodies, and soon a dialogue about home began. There were a number of West Indian folk present, and what was not being said was how we missed the island’s warmth.

One month later when I arrived home, it was too hot, and I had forgotten the nuances of the culture. Such is life though, where we filter what memories matter most to us and we make a practice of doing what matters most to others. It’s almost like we forget ourselves in the pursuit of happiness. Isn’t that something?

Monday was my grandmother’s birthday. She’s no longer with us. I felt peckish (or maybe gluttonous) and wished for a warm slice of coconut sweet bread – truly a Bajan delicacy. I dug in and right when I hit the sweet spot (the cluster of shredded coconut in the center) she flashed before me. Smiling sweetly, I could hear her laugh. We’re standing at the old table in her kitchen, the window ajar, the birds in the pommecythere tree chirping lively, and the afternoon breeze blowing gently into the hot room, and she says, "stir it, stick it and now fold, fold, fold". She’s teaching me her sweet bread recipe but I’m only half-way there. At 16, I wasn’t paying much attention, I just wanted to eat it not make it.

I have many cherished recipes from my grandmother, but this one… this was once remembered and now forgotten. Since the full hunter’s moon last week, I’ve had a surge of interest in remembering the past. Not in a resurrection sense, but more in a revival sense. You know, sometimes you have to go back a bit in order to move forward.

I flipped through five recipe books, trying to revive the flavour that was uniquely her. Experimenting, testing, searching but I can’t find it. Maybe I’ll never find the key ingredient again.

Did I ever know it? Is that okay?

My grandmother was everyone’s favourite aunt and great aunt, but she was only my (and my brother’s) grandmother. I am unashamed to lay special claim to her; I was her only granddaughter. Carmen Louise Shepherd was poor her whole life but lived with a rich heart. I grew up watching her sons and nephews all descend into her tiny home for a home cooked meal Monday through Friday. Their arrival times were staggered (but overlapped) as they dashed in from work during their lunch hour, and then dashed back to work once they got a belly full. She never forgot who was coming by on what day, and exactly how they liked their food, how much they eat and what time to put it out. In reflection, she had an excellent memory… poor eyes, bad joints, but she never forgot anything or anyone.

If I can describe the scene of a group of hardback Bajan men gathered around for this old lady’s lunchtime cooking in one word, it’s "warmth".

Memory is an articulate phenomenon. Vivid, scattered, selective, joyous, penetrating, disturbing, necessary, painful, subjective, collective, specific, changing, elusive. It is a wonder how something we cannot point to, nor hold, grasp or touch creates such impact on our lives. We exist only in the present moment, yet we tether ourselves to memories of the past, while living the anxiety of the future.

Perhaps I’m not remembering the key ingredient because I don’t need to. Maybe if it existed once then that’s enough. We can’t possibly remember everything. Nietzsche says, "Without forgetting it is quite impossible to live at all." Perhaps I can just dwell in the essence of her, the memory of her and the spirit of her. All memories rise and retire as they are intended to. When we have forgotten, it is complete.

'til next Sunday!Z.