Grandma is sick, very sick. The doctors refuse to admit her to the hospital. There is nothing they can do. She herself refuses to eat anything more than a few spoonfuls of milk in a day, if that. She may see the New Years, she might not. Everyone who could be by her side is. Everyone who should be or will like to be by her side is not. She's always defied the odds and she might again, as long as she has the will to do so, which is perhaps what has started to wither away. It must be agonizing to see more than eight decades of life start to slip away with each passing breath. The same breath that so eagerly awaited its next instance all these years now moves very slowly, fearful to cause a stir or a fire by rubbing against the dry leaves of memories in the autumn of one’s life.
A box found its way to the writer a couple days back. It was a box from a not so distant but seemingly long gone past. The box contained pieces of the writer, of the life that he had once lived, of the person that he once was, of the person that he still is and in some ways perhaps will always be. The writer has no clue as to what to do with the contents. Contents which tell stories of things that are no more, of rains that have rained and moved on and also of the waters left behind stagnant in puddles. Dumping them would be an easy way out but a difficult thing to do.
One wonders if there isn’t more to life than mere memories. Memories of things past and memories that one desires to create in the future, a future that would make for an endearing past. Memories, of things that one would like to hold on to. Memories, of things that one would rather forget. What would one be without memories? What is life without memories? And how does one find out given that one has never been without this faculty.
If it is indeed our memories that define who we are then it behooves us to create and strive for memories that shape a definition to one’s life. However, what if memories are mere toys of the mind, which the mind brings together in the form of a jigsaw puzzle, inventing meaning by connecting random parts woven together in a story? A mind that is scared to face the void that life would seem to be otherwise. A mind bent upon ascribing a sense of meaning and purpose to a life that would otherwise feel quite frightening.
Without trying or wanting once again stuff is accumulating around the writer. Like dust which settles down on objects which remain untouched, unmoved. As life becomes routine, becomes mechanical, it starts collecting dust. Dust of things, of people, of events, dust of memories. This dust, on occasion, brightens the colors of one’s perceptions and at others, fades them. At no time, however, does it allow things to be seen just as they are. The storms of dust that propel one forward also keep one tied down.
If this is life then there is no point in running from it and if this is not what life is then it is even more important to stay with it, to look closely at it, to understand the falseness of it in order to realize if there is any truth, anywhere, besides this and may be even beyond this.
Memories cannot be denied. Memories are not to be obliterated. They are an inherent part of one’s mind and one’s life. The cause of suffering and pleasure lies not in the existence of the memory itself but in one's grip into it, in one's attachment or aversion to it.
It is then worth investigating whether it is possible for the mind to cherish these memories not like leaves of the Spring but like those of the Fall, realizing that these can and will eventually wither away, fall away, and when they do be able to let go. And may be in eliminating the impermanent, in peeling off the layers of stories which the mind concocts, it might become possible for the mind to stumble upon that which is eternal, that which is the truth, that which is timeless, and that which is not of the mind.
Recognizing the keeper of the memories might perhaps free the keeper from the memories, clear the dust, and shine everything in its own light. Suffering is real. So is the possibility of freedom from it.
