When a Memory Becomes a Memorial
How our stories infuse into the fiber of our beings
Mom: Samantha, can you tell me the story of Robin Hood?
Samantha: Sure! (looks around) I have to sit down right here. (sits in a car seat on the floor, crosses legs)
Mom: Alright.
Samantha: Once upon a time, there was a Robin Hood and John walking down the street. And they fell in some water. And then the Robin’s got captured by the…and then the zha zha zha zha and then the Robin Hood. And THEN he got married and happily ever after. That was the story of Robin Hood.
Mom: What about Peter Pan?
Samantha: No. I haven’t time to do that.
Mom: (laughs) Okay.
Samantha: Bye!
Mom: Bye.
*
This conversation is transcribed from a home movie from 1991. I’m just four years old and my Brother is a little less than four months old. The video cuts between me dancing around in a slip that I call my wedding dress and my brother trying, for a long time, to flip from his stomach to his back. In between the parental Olympic games style commentary on my brother’s form and attempts to flip, there are clips of me telling stories that start with ‘Once upon a time’ and a few seconds later, usually trail off into something like an ending. Oh and yes, my brother did eventually triumphantly flip over.
Science has long said that storytelling is innate for humans. And I am inclined to believe science. Which science says so? You know, science! If you need more than that, as my Dad would say, “Look it up.” In terms of qualitative data, little Samantha is a great example of how early we start telling stories, if nothing else.
I’m almost always thinking about storytelling…which is probably not a surprise if you’ve been here for any length of time. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about storytelling and time. More specifically, how the way we tell stories morphs and expands the older we get and the farther we get away from the stories.
As a child, the stories we have to tell come from that day at school, or yesterday, or, maybe, last week. Our experience of the world expands quickly because there is so much to learn. That also means the time between when we experience something and when we tell the story of that experience is short. Possibly minutes. We’ve learned something! Does anyone else know this? They can’t possibly know and we must tell them. Now. So everyone can know it from this moment forward.
As we get older, of course, we hold onto those stories and put them in the bank. With new experiences and new learnings, the bank grows. It’s good. To have many things to share. Stories that make up our core, that inspire us, that deter us, that set our ways, that change our minds, that build the base of our knowledge—we want to keep adding those to the bank. Well, at least I do.
But, when there are gains, there also tend to be some losses. With stories, as time passes, the loss becomes a disconnect from the excitement and novelty of an experience and the way it morphs away from a singular event. The gain becomes a deeper connection to your own expansiveness and the wealth of knowledge that infuses into the fiber of your being.
First, it’s an experience. Or an event. Then, there’s the story of that. Then, there’s the memory of that. And then, I think, all memories become memorials.
The word ‘memorial’ most commonly conjures up reminders of people gone, black clothes, expectations, grief, casseroles. The actual definition of the word has to be with the structures in which we remember something or someone. It’s another one of those words that lands with a heavy connotation even though the word itself is much more neutral. It’s not sad or happy, not bad or good, it just is.
So, when I say I’ve been thinking about storytelling in the context of time, this is what I’ve been thinking about—about the internal structures in place for what we add to the bank and how we remember, synthesize, apply, and ultimately, live with what we have experienced in our lives. It’s one of those inherent processes that works without us and also connects us to others in ways—good, bad, and neutral. Someone tells a story, there is a connection, and someone else tells a story that fits or is inspired by it. As we get older, our banks start to fill with stories that are not only ours but are those of people close to us, lessons learned by proxy, and stories that are metaphors but seem to be more real than anything else we know.
Memories are a part of a thing. Many memories can make up one day or one year or one season of life. Memorials are the whole of the thing. Really, the whole of us.
I can tell you why I am the way that I am, why I have certain personality traits or react to certain situations in this, that, or the other way. I could certainly pinpoint why, for example, upon meeting new people I end up talking about cultural perceptions of grief and death within the first twenty minutes of a conversation. I have a good head for storytelling. (Hopefully. Don’t tell me if not.) I also have a certain level of self-awareness (and therapy). Let’s open the vault. I’ll walk you from memory to memory and you’ll see all the connections.
My whole of me, however, is the memorial. What I do without thinking, how I show up for people, what jokes I make in different types of situations, what listening looks like, what media and entertainment I’m drawn to, what form my writing takes, that’s the memorial of all the memories and lessons and experiences and stories from my life. I don’t think I need to say anything directly about it. The structure of how I radiate the memory of those things is in, simply, how I continue to occupy the world.
Most days, I’m not sure I could tell you what happened the day before. It’s likely very similar to what happened today or what will happen tomorrow. That is the nature of growing up. Overall, there seems to be a lot less opportunities to encounter something entirely new as you get older. Well, depending on your situation and/or your outlook, I suppose. But ultimately, the everyday things that happened yesterday or what’s happening now or what will happen next week aren’t that important. I probably won’t have much to say about it in the moment. To me, there is a certain amount of comfort in that.
Because I am the memorial of
everyone I have known, know, and will know
everything I have done, am doing, and will do
everything I have experienced, am experiencing, and will experience.
And I am the greatest memorial to myself I can think of.
This, somehow, felt like the most perfect tweet for today’s newsletter.
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