This is like asking—why do memories matter? Or why do flowers matter? Or why does breathing matter?
Memories are woven into the very deepest threads of our being. They influence how we define and know ourselves to be human. “I remember” is a doorway with a steep slide attached, and woosh, off we go into a gauzy world of a time that no longer exists. But in a paradoxical way it does still exist, this memory of a time gone by. Have you ever luxuriated in a good memory, found yourself smiling with pleasure. Perhaps you were dancing to Moon River with your first love, or letting it all hang out at a hippie party, your long hair and beads flying wildly, the music digging away at the sore places early dark memories had etched in you. You, later, older, possibly wiser, certainly more wrinkled, can enter a vertical time chute where you revisit other dancing moments, or musical moments, or moments of forgetting as you remember those previous selves that you were/are.
I remember invites musing, contemplating. But it could be something we want to run away from. There are all those “other” selves stacked up you’d rather forget, the mistakes, the moments you’re glad are only vaguely remembered. You’re reassured that no one but you can see them or even guess they exist, that self from so long ago. We carry our secrets carefully in little pouches, and keep them close. Dreams can puncture the pouch and then ghosts arise into the ether, and in the morning, we can tell ourselves all that was just a dream, lying to ourselves about the ache in the pit of our stomach. We make coffee and whip up a latte and wear our work clothes even if we work at home, and stuff those unwanted unwelcome dreams and memories back into that punctured pouch. It doesn’t take long to realize they will never again be neatly packed. That there is slippage. Something begins. Oh, why did those memories have to come to haunt me, you moan.
There is no easy answer to that. It takes some investigation. For instance, you could write to see if you can discover the answer to this question. You could become a narrator of the various stories that you carry, the ones you love and the ones you drag out of your pouch. You can decide what stories you want to read again. Perhaps they will remain secret in your journal.
But something new could happen. You might decide to write again, and then you find yourself wanting/needing to write more. You discover there’s relief in these stories, letting them out. You could call them fiction. You’re not trapped and ashamed. And along the way, as a gift, there are the shining moments that make you weep. A lost friend. Someone you once loved, or thought you loved. Where are they now? A burden, a weight upon your shoulders and your heart has been lifted, or at least moved around like furniture in a new apartment. You might be creating a new living space. Where memories are given a new significance. Honored on the mantle with a candle or a vase of flowers.
Creators and artists, musicians and painters, writers of all kinds tend to honor these internal bursts of flame more than other people. They carry a special energy that gives even as it takes something away. We are enriched by the dark memories, for they have put a mirror before us and allow us to make reparations, even if only to ourselves. They allow us to celebrate the entire range of who we are, who we were. Who we are becoming. Memories have shaped us into the beings before that mirror, and for that, for now, we can be grateful.
If you write, celebrate, honor these tendrils of self, perhaps you have a poem. It could be a short story. Or it could be a memoir. The deal is, write what shows up. What taps on your heart. That is the organ that will guide you to the truths you need to know.
This article rings so true! Nice.
It also reminds me that memory is often linked to identity. The motto of Quebec is "Je me souviens" (I remember).
As a memoir reader, writer, editor and instructor, this all rings beautifully true. Memory forever captured on a page is deeply meaningful to us humans whether or not we ever share it.