For as long as I can remember, I've had a really good memory. For example, at the end of my Kindergarten year, my teacher told me to tell my teacher for the next year what reading level I was on. I told her I would, and for the entire summer, all three months, I remembered. And then on the first day of first grade, when my teacher was going over all that we would be doing in class, and had gotten to the reading part, I raised my hand. And when she called on me I told her, "My teacher told me to tell you I'm on level six."
Now, I haven't had very much interaction with children, but I feel it's fairly safe to say that little kids have the memory capacity of a gold fish. They hear something and forget about it. Or remember it, but not for a lengthy amount of time. The fact that I was able to remember something for the entire three months of a carefree summer at the age of five, was rather impressive. I think so, at least.
What's my point in all this? I suppose I'm trying to give you an example to show how my memory has been rather well developed. So that you'll believe me when I say that I have a good one. I will also give you proof by quoting a friend of mine. Something he said after only knowing me for a couple of weeks, was "Aimee has the memory of an elephant." Never has such an accurate statement been uttered in regards to what my memory is like.
There are things I remember from when I was five years old that I cringe about every time they come to mind. (I was an evil child, and terribly mean.) There are other memories that I am extremely fond of, and love to turn them over again and again in my mind when I recall them. And there are memories that are extremely painful, and every time they're triggered by something I see, hear, or smell, it's as if the pain of them is just as fresh as the day those events took place.
Sometimes I wish that I didn't have such a good memory. Because really, why do I want to remember how rude and mean I was to that little girl when I was five? Or how rude and mean I was to that other girl when I was 13? Or even yesterday? Or other memories, of sins that I have struggled with, and how one thought of that can recall images and whatever else that may have been associated with it to mind. That I have been trying for so long to forget and erase, but it just hasn't happened completely. Or how stupid I was in middle school, and cried over a boy who didn't like me. Or the drama of losing my best friend because she believed the lies of someone else.
I guess if I had a choice, I wouldn't give up how efficient my memory is. I won't lie and say I would keep all of my memories. The ones of past sins I would gladly give up. But for the most part, even the ones that make me cringe every time they pop up, I would keep. Because if anything, those help serve as reminders of who I used to be, and no longer am. They are there to show me what not to be like. And similarly, the good ones remind me of what kind of person I should be. The result of what my life is like when Christ is at the centre of it. And the painful memories, in their own way, remind me that I am alive. That despite the pain and heartbreak, life is glorious, wonderful, and a blessing to behold.
Perhaps it's because I'm a writer, and I love words, but my memories - even the bad ones, I suppose - are things which I hold very dear. They are a part of me. They do not define who I am in this very moment, but they are the shadows of past events and situations that have helped or hindered the person that I have become today.
Because of this, I protect my memories. I share them by writing them down, but usually in a journal which my eyes are the only ones privy to reading their records. Or, depending on the person and situation, another pair of eyes may have the chance to read them. Though, this hardly ever happens.
Sharing my memories...even the ones that aren't so private...is a big thing to me. To share something that is so personal, so a part of who I am, is a huge sign of trust. I am making myself vulnerable. I am sharing this moment with you that was heartbreaking to me. Or extremely exciting. Or incredibly impacting. Whatever it is, sharing it with you means that you, in some way, are special to me. And I trust you enough to open up in such an uncharacteristic way.
Of course there are memories that are just little stories from my past. These are the ones that I'm probably more willing to share with people, because they're more like stories, than life-defining moments. It doesn't mean that I'm going to volunteer at any time to tell these stories. There has to be a purpose in sharing them. (Not an extremely in-depth purpose, like, "here, have a story that relates to this life-changing situation that we were just talking about." It could just be we were talking about childhood mishaps or injuries, and "here, have a story about this mark on my finger that will permanently be there for the rest of my life.")
Memories are like bits and pieces to a puzzle. The whole of them make up who we are as individuals. For someone to share a memory with you, it is as if they are handing you a puzzle piece. A piece that will bring you one step closer to seeing the true, complicated, messy, wonderful individual that they are. Treasure that piece, that memory that they've chosen to share. It's one of the most honouring things a person can choose to do, when they open up, and reveal who they are.
What's my point in all this? I suppose I'm trying to give you an example to show how my memory has been rather well developed. So that you'll believe me when I say that I have a good one. I will also give you proof by quoting a friend of mine. Something he said after only knowing me for a couple of weeks, was "Aimee has the memory of an elephant." Never has such an accurate statement been uttered in regards to what my memory is like.
There are things I remember from when I was five years old that I cringe about every time they come to mind. (I was an evil child, and terribly mean.) There are other memories that I am extremely fond of, and love to turn them over again and again in my mind when I recall them. And there are memories that are extremely painful, and every time they're triggered by something I see, hear, or smell, it's as if the pain of them is just as fresh as the day those events took place.
Sometimes I wish that I didn't have such a good memory. Because really, why do I want to remember how rude and mean I was to that little girl when I was five? Or how rude and mean I was to that other girl when I was 13? Or even yesterday? Or other memories, of sins that I have struggled with, and how one thought of that can recall images and whatever else that may have been associated with it to mind. That I have been trying for so long to forget and erase, but it just hasn't happened completely. Or how stupid I was in middle school, and cried over a boy who didn't like me. Or the drama of losing my best friend because she believed the lies of someone else.
I guess if I had a choice, I wouldn't give up how efficient my memory is. I won't lie and say I would keep all of my memories. The ones of past sins I would gladly give up. But for the most part, even the ones that make me cringe every time they pop up, I would keep. Because if anything, those help serve as reminders of who I used to be, and no longer am. They are there to show me what not to be like. And similarly, the good ones remind me of what kind of person I should be. The result of what my life is like when Christ is at the centre of it. And the painful memories, in their own way, remind me that I am alive. That despite the pain and heartbreak, life is glorious, wonderful, and a blessing to behold.
Perhaps it's because I'm a writer, and I love words, but my memories - even the bad ones, I suppose - are things which I hold very dear. They are a part of me. They do not define who I am in this very moment, but they are the shadows of past events and situations that have helped or hindered the person that I have become today.
Because of this, I protect my memories. I share them by writing them down, but usually in a journal which my eyes are the only ones privy to reading their records. Or, depending on the person and situation, another pair of eyes may have the chance to read them. Though, this hardly ever happens.
Sharing my memories...even the ones that aren't so private...is a big thing to me. To share something that is so personal, so a part of who I am, is a huge sign of trust. I am making myself vulnerable. I am sharing this moment with you that was heartbreaking to me. Or extremely exciting. Or incredibly impacting. Whatever it is, sharing it with you means that you, in some way, are special to me. And I trust you enough to open up in such an uncharacteristic way.
Of course there are memories that are just little stories from my past. These are the ones that I'm probably more willing to share with people, because they're more like stories, than life-defining moments. It doesn't mean that I'm going to volunteer at any time to tell these stories. There has to be a purpose in sharing them. (Not an extremely in-depth purpose, like, "here, have a story that relates to this life-changing situation that we were just talking about." It could just be we were talking about childhood mishaps or injuries, and "here, have a story about this mark on my finger that will permanently be there for the rest of my life.")
Memories are like bits and pieces to a puzzle. The whole of them make up who we are as individuals. For someone to share a memory with you, it is as if they are handing you a puzzle piece. A piece that will bring you one step closer to seeing the true, complicated, messy, wonderful individual that they are. Treasure that piece, that memory that they've chosen to share. It's one of the most honouring things a person can choose to do, when they open up, and reveal who they are.
