What Do You Want To Remember?

The morning came early with a brilliant sun and more snow than any other day this winter. It was exhilarating when I stepped outside and brought all my senses to attention. Overpowered in that moment, my body reacted with shock, my mind with wonder. I was cold and everything was in sharp detail. I noticed small birds flying everywhere, stopping to feed at the bird feeder, looking up, flying off, only to come back a few seconds later. Trees hung in silence, covered in pure white snow. The early sunshine reflected off everything against a sky of perfect, cloudless blue. Dead calm cradled it all with not a hint of breeze. I stood as a small piece of an enormous, beautiful puzzle. Filled with secrets, riddles, myth, and beauty.  

Later, looking out the window at the amazing sight, it was not easy to read my book. I was very distracted. The night of the snow storm, I had been listening to a program on the radio. The show featured a 14-year-old classical pianist who played a few pieces and then took questions from the show’s host. “How much time do you spend practicing?” asked the host. The young man replied, “I don’t practice” and then spoke about an idea that changed him. He said his life from that point has been guided by the idea. Describing the idea, he said his ability to understand, comprehend and learn (and unlearn) had changed forever.

There is a memory I have of being on a road trip vacation in the car with my dad. He was driving while my two brothers sat in the backseat, and I in the front seat looking out the window as we drove along a curvy road next to the Pacific Ocean. I kept nodding off and my head would fall forward. Dad would reach out and hold me upright, which woke me up. I really enjoy remembering that very old memory. Another memory is of walking the dog on a leash when I was about 8 years old. About 3 feet of snow fell the night before. The dog lunged forward in the snow and pulled me along, into a rusty old tractor, sitting in a field. My finger was sliced open on the metal tractor. I still have the scar. The snow that fell recently brought that memory back in full color. White everywhere with red spots in the snow.

Memory offers me context. When learning a new idea, my effort involves gathering, storing and distributing knowledge. However, what I understand about the knowledge comes from my own perspective. Sometimes, what I understand is not the same as the meaning of the knowledge. The result is that I end up applying the knowledge to things unrelated to what the knowledge is intended. For example, riding my bike is a great way for me to spend time. I really like how the wind feels, the quiet of the bike, the scenery and just being outside. My knowledge of how to ride a bike is demonstrated physically. Staying balanced, shifting gears, steering, making turns, speeding up and slowing down. That knowledge is necessary

for me to successfully ride a bike. Yet, when I perform that activity, I am focused on everything but riding a bike. The memory of how to do it was created a long time ago. So, now, I do not consciously give attention to “how to ride a bike” anymore. Instead, I let my mind wander, focusing on riding the bike only when it is necessary, like at an intersection. The context is riding a bike which was at one time, a conscious effort, but now is nearly an unconscious act. Yet, I apply that knowledge unconsciously to enjoying time outside, feeling the wind, and pushing my pulse. Two different, unrelated reasons using the same knowledge. What could go wrong?

Fighting is never an answer. That is what adults told me when I was a kid. But I did not always take their advice. Sometimes, a fight just ‘happened.’ Almost like laughing, crying, or sneezing, there was usually no reason other than responding to instinct. I have since learned this is something referred to as a ‘fight or flight’ response. Basically, my brain reacted and my fists followed. Much the same as my ancestor 20,000 years ago. The idea that the 14-year-old pianist came upon was not thought of back then, but it probably saved my ancestor’s life.

I still have the ‘fight or flight’ instinct, but now it is buried deep down in my brain. Occasionally, it floods back, as a response. The difference now, is that I recognize the instinct and can use it. Where it came from, what it does, what it does not do. We are born with instinct, but memory is made by learning. Deliberate learning creates deliberate memories. Those memories can be recalled and used for understanding, planning, compassion, consideration, and, of course, for love. But, also for harm, destruction, and violence. Being deliberate about what and how I learn allows me to define memories which I can depend upon to offer a desired result. I suppose learning a recipe for making chocolate chip cookies is a way to happiness.

The 14-year-old pianist discovered this idea by his piano teacher who introduced him to the ideas of Arnold Jacobs, a principal tubist for the Chicago Symphony and world renown music educator. Arnold had students visit him from around the world to experience his lessons. The ideas he presented were unlike any most had ever considered. A particular idea of Jacobs was that a memory is never erased and “relearned.” It will always be a memory. If the memory provides for a method that has negative effects during recall, the only way to change the result was to create a new memory and let the old, negative memory wither and be forgotten from lack of use. Older memories slowly make their way to a part of the brain used for long term storage and recall. These memories have become part of my unconscious. Newer memories are stored in another part of the brain that has an immediate need to remember and is controlled by the conscious mind. By deliberately creating memory that offers a positive result, first in the conscious brain area, which is done by learning, the memory then gets stored back to the long-term memory area, where it is stored for recall by the unconscious mind. Arnold proposed that mastering memory creation and recall processes is a way to connect muscle motor skills to artistic intelligence that can be demonstrated by playing the piano, for example. Without thinking about how and what I do, I can do it better by not thinking about what I am doing! This was the epiphany the young pianist found. He said his daily practice routine is usually 6 minutes.

The conscious mind is always being challenged and engaged. It is one of the reasons that early snowy morning became such a physical, and spiritual experience. I will have the memory a long time and recall it, fondly. I had decided that morning to step outside and experience the snow, sunlight, serenity of it all. It was a deliberate act. Now, I have a gift that I can enjoy at any time.