(Reflections on memory)
It was pretty crisp when I went for a walk this morning. It's a feeling I like. Part of the newness of the day, I reckon.
As I walk, I listen to music and think. When I say 'think', I'm pretty content to go with whatever happens to bubble to the surface. This morning, as I walked through the early chill, I was struck by a small memory; a young boy playing soccer, from my time coaching a determined group of year 8s at Trinity College, in the early '00's.
I recall we were playing at Guildford, and the weather was rough. The cold rain and colder wind cut into you like punishment. And these were skinny, raw-boned lads, drenched and chilled to their raw bones. This one kid, Ben, was playing his heart out. At one point, their full back blasted a clearing kick down the spine with impressive connectivity, given the sodden conditions. Ben was in its line. I watched that boy - in the split second he had - make the decision to stand firm and let that ball smack into his torso. Christ, it must have hurt. But he did it. I knew - and he knew - what was coming.
And he took it. I've always been moved by the courage he displayed at that moment, and I've often wondered if it's a memory that's stayed with him as it's stayed with me. There are certainly times in my life when I could have done with knowing that at some past point, no matter how I might be feeling in the moment, I once had the courage to stand firm and take it. A good memory can go a long way.
But memories are funny things. Oftentimes, it feels like we drag them around; a bulky, hulking sack of memories, mashed against each other like ill-fitting Tetris polygons. If only we could fit them together, perhaps we could sit astride them, and just glide along. Easier said than done, though. I've certainly never managed it.
I've been thinking a lot about people and places from my past, recently. Death has featured prominently. My wife's grandfather, an incorrigible force, finally at rest in his early nineties. Two former students, Josh and Hamish, snatched out of life when still just boys. Such incomprehensible facts must have some truths attached to them somehow, but they certainly don't make themselves easy to find.
And digging a little deeper into myself, into my heart, I know I'm still struggling to come to terms with the loss of my grandmother, who was - and will always be - so impossibly special to me. I think that if I'm ever to come to terms with her loss, I'm going to have a grow as a person, because right now, it feels like her importance to me - who I am, how I grew - is bigger than I am. I know it's never easy to find a way to live with certain things, but it's good to know the way forward, even if getting there is going to be hard.
In that moment on the sporting field, Ben made a choice between courage and cowardice. He went for courage. He won't always. None of us do. But perhaps life can be digested more easily if we simply try to see it in refractory binaries. We can choose to be courageous or cowardly; selfish, or selfless. And when it comes to the things that happen, in the end, they are little more than simply fair or unfair. These might not help us explain, but they may assist us to accept. And in the end, I'm not sure we have much more to hope for than that.
As I walked this morning, I was listening to a David Bowie song. I am listening to that same song again as I type this. (Bowie fans, if you've not heard it, you're in for a treat.) This chorus of 'what have you/we/I done' (it changes throughout) is easy to perceive as accusatory, but I prefer to think of it as a chance to look inward without fear, recrimination or ready-excuse. In the end, we are what we are. Actions and thoughts, transposed to memories, which don't just reside in us, but rather, in all those we encounter. It's a good reason, I think, it live mindfully, courageously, and open to the morning.
I hope it's bracing.