It’s funny the things that stick with you in your mind. I was just walking past a guy who shuffled his flip-flops loudly along the ground as he moved and I thought, “Pick up your feet!”
As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I was transported back to the hallway of my elementary school where, while walking in a line with my class, an older teacher yelled the same thing at me. I have no idea how old I was, or who the teacher was, but it’s a moment that has caused déjà vu a few times in my life.
And I’ve definitely picked up my feet as I walk since then.
There are other things, other moments, that I want desperately to remember in such detail. What did it smell like when I walked into my flat in Glasgow each day? What did it feel like to walk in the sunshine along Newbury Street in Boston before class? What did I think about when I walked to and from class in both of these places? When was the first moment I realized there was a spark between my ex and I?
It’s not that I can’t remember what these things feel like, but it’s not the same sensory memory that I have associated with this weird “pick up your feet” moment. Why did my sub-conscious hold onto that one so tightly?
Memory has always fascinated me and lately I’ve been thinking about it in relation to how the past affects my current life.
One day my friend Amy and I were at the mall and we ran into someone we used to consider a dear friend. Both Amy and I had fallings out with this person, neither of which were amicable. All three of us pretended to be cordial during the surprise meeting, but it was obvious how uncomfortable this girl was. I have never experienced someone who wanted to see me so little—to the point that it was almost comical. In a weird way, this awkward reunion almost erased the rest of the history I had with this girl and we became strangers who didn’t like each other.
Later that same night I went out with another friend from my past. She and I don’t get to see each other very often, but any time we do it is like we always hang out. I had more fun that evening than I’d had in a long time. Even with all the gaps in our hangout history, we still had inside jokes and made a lot of new ones that night. I fit in with her friends, many of whom I just met. It just felt natural and right.
The juxtaposition of those two reunions interests me so much and I keep thinking about how the past constantly presents itself in different ways. The present does not always make room for it, though, just like it hadn’t that afternoon in the mall. Is this because that while we’re always changing and growing, there are parts of ourselves that stay the same? And we can still recognize others who have stayed the same in similar ways?
Do we have any control over these moments that we remember in such vivid detail? If I live more in the present, can I recall the tiniest details of this moment? The sound of music in my headphones, the feel of my feet swinging from the bar stool on which I’m perched, the looks on the faces of the other people in this coffee shop? Or am I dependent on my sub-conscious to fill in the details of moments it wants to remember?
I don’t have answers to these questions, but I do know (and have said before) that I want to try to live more in the present. Moments from the past will always pop up, but I do believe there is a way to marry them with the present—I just haven’t figured out exactly how to do that.
Yet.
