Time (to) Travel

HE seems so near, yet so far. 

Today marks the 25^th death anniversary of my maternal grandpa.  But no, this post is not about him.  Or my memories of him.  I was speaking to a well-wisher about how no dam could be big enough to withstand the gush of memories that my mind was getting inundated with.  She smiled and responded, “You live in the past quite a bit, don’t you!  And you seem to get quite a bit of comfort out of it.”  I don’t think I can credibly deny that!  But let’s dig deeper.

As I type this, I am several thousand feet above sea level.  I am traveling.  And I am ‘traveling.’  When I do get time to myself during work-related travels, I work, read or write.  When I work, I’d like to think that I am reasonably focused.  But when I read or write (non-fiction mostly), I invariably take a sojourn to dwell on memories.  Memories of a time when a significantly higher number of near and dear were alive.  Thoughts on the departed are akin to miniscule points on a longwinded path that I have to turn, squint and put on a pair of binoculars to look at.  Whereas memories that involve people who are still alive and a part of my life in some form are like pages of a taut screenplay.  The dots didn't appear to always connect in ways that we could predict but they did. 

The most pleasant memories of this kind are those of vital, transformative moments in my life which were enabled by people that had immense emotional intelligence and generosity.  It is a deeply fulfilling experience to be able to express my gratitude to people who penned meaningful thoughts in my book, drew upward arcs in my professional life or infused bright colors into the sketch of my personal life.  I am nobody without them.  And I continue to feel incredibly Lilliputian in front of them.  It is a soothing feeling to have continuity and longevity.  For instance, some of my mentors are people that I have known for decades.  There are past memories for sure.  But there is also a distinct present which makes me look forward to tomorrow with hope and promise.    

But the dulcet sounds of kind words delivered with grace by my heroes sometimes co-exist uneasily with harsher sounds caused by troublesome relationships.  I have made peace with the imperfections of relationships that didn’t always pan out the way I wished for them to.  As I grow older, I try not to let the weight of memories bulldoze the defenses that I have built for myself.  Because it is absolutely vital to not only live in the present but also to be acutely aware of the existing version of the self and the current version of the ones around us.  To accept the inevitability of change ranks only second in terms of importance as a determinant of lasting peace of mind.  To me, even more important is the refusal to dwell on the past if the present does not stack up to it in some way, shape or form. 

One of my favorite parts of the amazingly inspirational “Option B” is the part where Sheryl Sandberg recounts a touching poem of God interacting with a man.  The man asks God why there were two pairs of footprints in his path during good times and only one pair during times of adversity.  The man wondered whether God had abandoned him when he needed Him the most.  To that question, God responded that during times of adversity, the only footsteps you saw were of God himself – He was carrying the man (and his burdens, I guess).  Sandberg has a different interpretation of this rather striking visual.  To her, the second pair of footsteps represented the trustworthy well-wishers among her family and friends.  During good times, they walked beside her.  During times of adversity, they walked behind her.  I like Sandberg’s version better.  Because her explanation, to me, conjures up the present and how every step of her journey is marked by the definite, reliable presence of the people she regards as her near and dear.  To fall back on someone, they have to be right behind you when you need them. 

That to me is what makes any past memory of living, everyday heroes worth dwelling on.  There is a strong sense of comfort from a shared present.  As a result, when I turn to look back at shared memories of these heroes, I do so with the subject of the memories right beside me.  Or, as Sandberg suggests, right behind me during times of adversity.

In a sense, these memories are so far, yet so near.