Since You Can't Have the Memory...

As a group, we harbor some very clear ideas about being "in the moment", and about things "worth remembering". We talk a great deal of mindfulness, of making sure we're here now, not somewhere else inside our heads. And yet... the times we're somewhere else get remembered also.

I remember moments clearly, ledges and clean floors, when my mind was a million miles away. I remember where my mind was, but also where the moment was. Which means part of me was living the moment by default, right?

And if living in the moment is a default, then why do we make such a big deal of it?

I'm thinking about this a lot because we make a particular point of it while traveling, on holidays (and other occasions that break our routines, like birthdays, anniversaries, parties, etc). We think to ourselves "Oh boy, this one, I've got to remember". We take extra care to be "in the moment" and widen our eyes so we can record everything. Bet you don't do that when you're walking to the corner store in your hometown to get some milk. Why, though? In the hierarchy of moments, what dictates which are worth being in and which you can miss? And does our widening our eyes really influence anything at all?

Is he worth remembering? I met him today. Only time will tell.

I spent the afternoon yesterday on the phone with someone close to me. Before we got on, she said "I don't want to take away your holiday time though". See, I had two options. I could walk home, eyes wide and phone-less, staring at the streets intent on preserving it for posterity, or I could walk home talking to this beloved person, still looking at the streets. Maybe eyes a little less wide. Maybe noticing things I never would've noticed, were it not for that call.

Like, I spent a good deal of time pacing outside my building here because signal's poor on the staircase and I didn't want to break the conversation. So I paced and I noticed that a few doors down, an old man with an eye patch sat in a foldable chair. Watching me with his good eye. I might've never noticed that, were it not for the call, for the pacing, for my mind being away from the moment.

It's fascinating to me how desperately we try to "make memories". So much so that we use those actual words. I'm making memories. As if memories were something you could consciously make. And as if the universe would really entrust you with what's worth remembering and what's not.

And isn't it strange how we're living for the memory of it, that's still developing? We live in the moment so that we can bank memories to remember in an uncertain future. Otherwise, how would we ever know that, in the critical moment, we had lived in the moment? What's living in the moment if you don't remember it? That's a genuine question.

Will I remember sitting here at midnight, on this uncomfy wooden chair, writing a post that's half-delusion because I'm continuing to exhaust myself? Maybe. Does that mean I'm in this present moment? Am I living it? Is that default?

I can understand putting away distractions (both internal and external) so that you can better experience a certain moment, or conversation. But what I don't get are these little tricks we've devised for ourselves, these rules of what needs remembering and how that's done. Will I remember talking on the phone, walking through Barceloneta? And would that signify I was living in the moment?

It seems particularly random, the things we remember, if we examine them. You remember some of the strangest things. Things that, at the time, you wouldn't have thought you were paying attention to. In contrast, the times you widen your eyes and decide to remember, you end up forgetting. Were those less worthwhile? Did your remembering method fail? Or is it just that our brain has its own, long-buried defaults that ensure what's worth remembering doesn't get lost, with or without our input?

In the end, you seem to remember the things that make an impression on you. I'm watching my neighbor across the street get dinner. I'll remember him because I've made a minor character of him in my stay here. I've assigned him a backstory, so I'm likely to remember him when, years from now, I think of Barcelona. Is he more worthy of remembrance than the sculptures I looked at yesterday?

Probably. Because he speaks more of my inner map of consciousness. I can't help likening it to writing.

The widening our eyes and ducking calls so we can "be in the moment" are forced writing. They're when you squeeze out words just to meet a deadline or a count goal. Often, they end up stale and surface-level, not giving you real info about the character.

The things we remember are those brilliant afternoons when the words just flow, revealing stuff about the character the author would've never consciously acknowledged.

Maybe we need to focus less on remembering and recording the things society has told us are worth recording for posterity. Maybe we start trusting our brain already has a strong filing system that hasn't failed for thousands of years. Maybe.