What If?
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by Rose Mary Dougherty
"What if I woke up tomorrow morning with amnesia? What would be left of these five days of retreat?"This is the question that stirred in me the last evening of Shalem's summer retreat while I sat in silence with other participants. As I looked around the circle, I felt an appreciation for the people gathered there: so many good people, all of us together holding one another in our presence for God.
I recalled conversations with some of the people-conversations about desire for God and authenticity; conversations that, in the words of Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets," made me want to be a better person. I had the sense that something had softened in me during the course of the week. Perhaps it was that my heart had been "gentled." I seemed a little less demanding of myself, even of God. Gratitude welled up in me. I questioned what would be left of the week if I didn't have those memories. I questioned how/if gratitude would stay alive. I questioned if, not being able to remember the sense of my heart being gentled, the gentling itself would remain. Or would I revert to old ways which had been part of me for a longer time?
Instinctively my heart told me that, despite amnesia, whatever had been real or whatever had been given me throughout the week would remain. Though I might not be able to attach any fruits to any particular experiences, the sitting, the conversations, the solitude, all of the experiences of the week were important. These experiences were vehicles of transformation, as are all experiences. Yet neither the vehicles nor the memories of them were the transformation itself.
I don't mean to minimize the importance of memory. Even now something quickens in my heart as I recall that evening and the feeling in me when the question was put before me, seemingly unbidden. The memory brings the moment alive, and I sense a fresh invitation for me in the question. It has become almost like a koan for me. My exploration of it is far more important than any conclusions I reach.
Sometimes the question translates itself into a shorter version: "What's real here? What will remain with me?" Sometimes I alter the question, "When all the particulars of this event, this encounter, this experience are gone, what of it do I want to remain with me?" Another way I sometimes deal with the question is to ask God what God sees in a given situation. I ask God for God's perspective on what is really going on, what the heart of the matter is.
I rarely have answers, but the questions have a way of relativizing things for me. I still engage in the circumstances of the present moment as fully as ever. I do what I can do, but I'm not as attached to results as I have been in the past. When I am caught in the web of my own self-centeredness, my own agenda, or when I realize I've hurt someone or been hurt by them, I can let go of my judgments more easily. I realize that I don't know the last word, even on matters that seem very clear.
So the memory of this question serves me well, as have other memories. Sometimes it has been the memory of long-standing love in a friendship that has helped ease the pain of a current misunderstanding. Sometimes it's been the memory of God's palpable presence in my life that has made times of absence more bearable though not less painful. There are times when memory has provided me with reasons for "hanging in there" in situations when nothing in the immediate circum-stances could provide good reason. Often memory has been a resource in decision-making. Getting in touch with what has been most authentic for me in the process of past decisions can sensitize me to what is authentic in my way of being with current choices.
My Judeo-Christian tradition has helped me value memory, too. In Scripture, the word "remember" appears 161 times in passages such as Psalm 143 ("I remember the days of long ago; I meditate on all your works") and Hebrews 10 ("Remember those earlier days after you had first received the light, when you stood your ground..."). We who are of liturgical traditions ground our celebration of Eucharist in the shared memory of the last supper and the words of Jesus, "Do this in memory of me."
Despite my appreciation of memory, however, I am also aware of the pitfalls of depending too heavily on it. Memory can attach me to the past. When I find that nothing measures up to my image of the past, I can become disgruntled with the present. I forget that I am remembering with all my accumulated conditioning. I am not remembering reality; I am creating another perception of it. Sometimes, too, memory can keep me from seeing situations and people with fresh eyes.
When I find myself asking the "what if..." question, there's part of me that wants to pray that I could live in the present as though I had amnesia. Living this way, perhaps, could free me from any slavery to the past. It could allow me to live fully in the newness of each moment. Perhaps then, the invitation of Isaiah 43-"Forget the former things, and do not dwell on the past. See, here and now I am doing a new deed. Do you not perceive it?"-would come alive for me in each moment.
What if I woke up tomorrow morning with amnesia? Then, maybe, for a little time I could say yes to life just as it is.
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.