Memories

This morning, walking from the train reading "Amrita" by Banana Yoshimoto, I was struck by the quote:

"Please take care of yourself. Don't hurry through life like I did. Take time to savor the dinners that Mom makes, and look closely at the sweaters she buys you. Remember the faces of the boys and girls in your school class, and take time to stop and watch that old house they're tearing down in your neighborhood. Sometimes when you're alive you fail to realize it, but when you're waiting in the dressing room for your next chance to go out on stage, then everything becomes so clear."

I read the quote and stopped in my tracks at the back entrance of the Central Library on Hope Street. I paused to let my breathing slow down, I waited for my skin to sense the air warming from the sun rising in the east, and I began to listen to the birds chirping in the trees. I happened to have my camera with me, so I took a few photos of the world moving around me.

As I placed the camera back into my bag, my mind floated back to a brunch from a decade ago. It was a brunch with Martha and her son, in Coronado, CA. She had encouraged me to order lobster bisque for the first time in my life. When the waiter placed the bowl in front of me, I recall staring at the soup unsure of what was to come from something with such a unique color. My brain tried to quickly unscramble the mystery of the sour cream floating in the middle of the bowl and how it came to be in my soup. I was puzzled.

At the urging of Martha, I dipped my spoon into the bowl, raised the soup to my lips, and waited for the taste sensations to register. It was lovely. The soup was incredibly creamy, rich without being overpowering. I told myself to remember the name of the restaurant, so I could enjoy this soup again. I smiled at Martha & John and nodded at my delight with the soup. Still smiling, I turned my head towards the window and gazed out to the sun shimmering on San Diego Bay, and saw bright white sailboats easing their way across the water. The feeling of calmness, love, and acceptance from that memory made me smile again this morning. I continued my walk towards the office.

As I looked around, it dawned on me how little of this particular morning walk I would be able to recall from memory. Despite taking photos, writing this blog, and musing about how pleasant I was feeling in the moment, I knew my mind wouldn't retain many details of this particular morning walk. In a few months, I won't remember the distinct smells of the different amounts of chlorine used in the various fountains near the library. My mind won't remember the face of the person who asked the time. I won't be able to recall with precision the sound of laughter from the man who was replanting trees and installing the irrigation system along the escalator. Nor would I remember how fresh the morning air felt and smelled, before traffic ensnarled this portion of downtown Los Angeles with pollution. Instead, it's likely that the many morning walks will blend into a single vague memory of working for 2 months in downtown LA.

It's funny how memory works -- no matter how magical a moment may feel, it's hard to tell which details will remain with time, and which ones will fade. Despite that, even with fore-knowledge that so much will be forgotten, it's still worth every effort for me to enjoy the most simple moments.