Why do we remember some things but not other things?? Things that are related to each other? Things that are part of the same
experience? Why do we remember A, C, and E, but not B, D, and F? If I can remember walking into a hotel 4 years ago, why
canʼt I remember walking out of it? If I can remember details like standing on a balcony, why canʼt I remember where it was I
ate the day I stood on the balcony?
Why can I remember the one thing and not the other? Itʼs not that Iʼve blocked those memories. Thereʼs nothing threatening
about them. Theyʼre both on the same emotional wavelength. I donʼt fear remembering what it is Iʼve forgotten. Most memories
tend to be emotionally neutral or, at worst, consistent. They account for the mass exodus of sensations trailing events of the
past. We remember things that are part of the same moment. I suppose we forget most things because our memory bank has
only so much room for storage.
Besides, most things are not worth remembering. Theyʼre just banal details and insignificant routines. If we remembered
everything we did or thought, our mental circuits would overload and short-circuit. Our thoughts would sink under the weight of
too much sensory information and emotional detritus. Weʼd exhaust ourselves with our past. We need to remember just
enough to define a “self.” We need to account for a beginning and a middle in order to reach the end to each day. We need the
coherence of memory and the arc of the familiar to anchor us in time.
And if we need protection from some of those memories, if theyʼre too painful or too scary, our psyche is good at defending
itself. It can slam the door on any memory that threatens our comfort or sanity. It can pose as a blank or lie to us by
misremembering.
Thatʻs where dreams come in. Dreams are the detours that memory uses to get around the roadblocks set up by our defensive
psyche. Of course, that doesnʼt always work. Some memories are so horrendous that we cannot not remember them. Some people never can forget. They continue to suffer devastating memories for
decades.
But Iʼm not talking about those kind of awful memories. Iʼm talking about more innocent memories, pleasant, delicious
memories. This afternoon, for instance, I was re-reading the story of Mark and Cynthia, and she mentioned in passing a hotel.
And just her reference to the hotel, fiction or not, immediately and mysteriously triggered my own memory of a specific hotel I
stayed in 4 years ago. I have no memory of actually leaving the hotel. And I have no memory of where I ate during those days.
And I have no memory of the bus station, where I boarded the bus back to Brussels.
All of that is a total blank. All I remember, vividly, is the balcony and the sounds of the night surging up through the August air.
The other side of the question of why do we forget what we forget, is the shadow question of why do we remember what we
remember. But the sounds are still here. And I am still here. And my memory still reminds me of who I am and where my
journey has taken me ... so far.