The persistence of memory
How passing is memory. Age can eat it up. A lady, who is pushing 90, does not remember the current date, or for that matter recent events, and might ask after someone every fifteen minutes or so, and, of course, kindness dictates that she be politely answered just as often.
And yet she remembers the past — a tyrannical aunt, a persistent suitor, the 2nd World War, the political upheavals and social scandals of the fifties and sixties — events vivid enough for her to recall, or that belong to that portion of her mind that lies before forgetfulness.
And before the years and decline put it out of my faculties, I might as well take note that hers is the story of most everyone who comes into the autumn of life.
Because memory is fragile and vulnerable to time, disease and adverse intentions, those who have the ability – and because of self-love there is no shortage of motive in this regard — will likely keep a record of their lives by writing about themselves, or if they have the funds engage someone else to write their biography, keeping an observant eye on the progress of the work.
Those who come from prominent families, who have a name to preserve, make sure that the background and achievements of their ancestors are put on record for the inspiration and guidance of their progeny and as a reminder to the general public of the prestige of their kind, and for this purpose hire professional people to write a frequently customized history of their tribe.
Societies must and do have their chronicles too. Were it not for Homer, there would be no Greece as we know it. His poems were orally transmitted from one generation to the next. For that matter, there were individuals tasked with reminding the people of their past, their communal experience and distinctiveness, and thus were the preservers of the people’s memory, which was the first thing that tyrants and invaders sought to erase in their quest for power. Like Homer, most of these “remembrancers” were poets, who were able to couch their patriotic sentiments in words of poignant lyricism. In Russia, for instance, during the time of Stalin, those who were sent into exile in Siberian camps reportedly kept themselves and their passion for the cause alive by reciting lines from the works of Russian poets, among them Osip Mandelstam, who himself was sent to a gulag, and who once said, “”Only in Russia is poetry respected, it gets people killed. Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a motive for murder?”
There is a mention of the “remembrancer” in the Gospel of John, in the passage which states that, before he left this earth, Jesus talked to his disciples about the requirements of love — keeping his words, which are also the words of the Father — and the rewards — the love and the home of the Son and the Father. Then Jesus goes on to say, “These things I have spoken to you, while I am still with you. But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things, and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”
No doubt, even if they had only been together for three years, there was much that the apostles had seen of and heard from Jesus, but how could they, ordinary folk, remember all of it? Such were the times and so simple were they that whatever they could recall would just die off after them. Which was not Jesus’ intention, which was why he promised to send a Remembrancer, the Holy Spirit.
And on the Day of Pentecost, the Holy Spirit, who appeared as tongues of fire, seared into the being of the apostles — as well as of the Virgin Mary, who was present — not just the words but more so the Word, Jesus himself, such that St. Paul could say, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”
Even now the Holy Spirit reminds and teaches us, even the infants, it seems. One weekend, when our son and his wife and three-year-old child visited us, during lunch, our son could not have enough of the bouillabaisse and dipped his spoon into the bowl of the boy, who looked up at his father and said, “Why are you getting from my soup? You already had yours.” But the boy did not insist on his complaint and did not stop his father, and even seemed pleased by his parent’s trespass. Who could have reminded him, small and innocent as he was, of justice, but the Holy Spirit? And love, because there was no disapproval in his voice, only affection.
