She cared

I am currently half way through a novel that was chosen by a member of my new book group. I won't reveal the title and author just yet because once I finish reading it, I want to put some more extensive thoughts down here about the story.

For now, I want to ponder a little about the preoccupations of the author, a Swedish woman who is now living in New Zealand. She very clearly has an interest in memory - what our memories mean to us, how they might influence the rest of our lives and how we might repress them. She's interested in considering how we might wipe from our minds long stretches of time. "I don't remember my thirties," someone might say. At the same time, we remember minutes, even seconds of our lives in the greatest of detail. We play those important seconds over and over in our minds, sometimes remembering it differently from one time to the next; sometimes gaining a new level of insight about those few terribly important seconds.

The author is also preoccupied with those people who do not rush through their lives; who lead very quiet and sedentary lives; who are immersed in grief; who need to be alone to get over lost love. Interestingly,when two similarly hurting people find themselves in close quarters, they reveal themselves to one another. They desperately want to tell one another about what has gone on before this; what led them to this. The memories flow out just as water leaves a dyke that has incurred a hole. They cannot be stopped. They cannot be put back.

In the world of yoga, in the practices of mindfulness and meditation we are encouraged to be aware of this moment. There is only this moment, we are told. The past is the past and the future is not ours to worry about. I see the point and I benefit from the practice. Yet, it cannot be denied those extraordinary brains of ours carry our memories with us. They are stored and locked away and when the moment is right we retrieve them, consider and contemplate them and give them a value. This one is a good memory and this one is a bad memory.

It is said that we are more than clever enough to adapt memories to our own purposes. We can make them worse or make them better than they really were. Our mind is capable of forgetting what we choose to forget or remembering things differently to the way they occurred. Our memories are as we choose them to be. As is my want, I remember the times I was loved well.

Whilst my novel is a sad tale so far, I sense that these two women will heal each other and that there are lovely moments to come; that the time away from the busy world will do them much good. In fact, the writing was on the wall when the old lady knocked on the young woman's door, not having seen her for a few days. They have never spoken. It has been years since the old lady has made such a bold move in her long life but unsure if the woman has come to some harm, she feels a little life stirring in her old bones and she decides to check on her. This early chapter of the book is finished with two words that breathed life into the story and into the reader; hopefully any reader: "She cared." It is, after all, what makes us human.