To Ease the Passing of Time

To Ease the Passing of Time

Selective Memories

If you ask her how it was when she left her country and became a refugee, Maria will tell you that it wasn't all that bad, that the dolphins were following her boat as they were sailing across the sea, that she was the only one who didn't get seasick, that the food was good and the people were nice on the island. Only if you ask her, will she tell you about the bad things: the rats biting her ears during the night, the lack of privacy, the things that were stolen from them either by pirates at sea or by other refugees in the camp, the drinking water that was not always clean, how she cried when she saw the oil rigs of Indonesia, when she knew that she had made it, and realized at that moment that there was no turning back. She'll tell you that overall it was a good experience and that she had a good time, even if it was right after leaving her family, her dog and friends in Vietnam, not knowing whether she would be able to return and see them again.

 

Sometimes we choose the memories that we are going to cherish for the rest of our lives. I remember a few years ago when I wrote an article in French about my father who was an alcoholic. I didn't know what I was going to write before I started. At first, I wrote about the sleepiness nights, the guilt, the anguish and everything that I had lost, but as I was writing, those memories became less painful. It turned out to be a liberating experience, although I think that writing about it was only the conclusion of a healing process that had started long before. I ended my article by describing a scene: I was a boy scout in the fall of 1964 or 1965. My father was the chief of our troup and he was walking in front of us on a trail between the river and the mountains that were turning yellow and red under the bright blue autumn sky. I was full of joy and I was very proud of my father.

 

Maybe it didn't happen on a specific day. Maybe it was a collection of memories that I put together to create something that resembles a painting, but I must say that everything was based on facts: I was a boy scout. My father was the chief of our troop. We once went to Sainte-Rose-du-Nord, a quaint little village on the Saguenay River, in the fall. When we walked, my father was often at the front, leading the troop. That scene summarized what I wanted to keep of my father in my memories, that he was a good, sensitive man, with a heart as big as the sky, who had to struggle with his demons, but who did his best with the little that he had. My father had his first heart attack at the age of 45, he had a stroke ten years later, and was paralyzed for two years after before he died. He was ten years younger than I am now when he passed away.

 

To have a selective memory is often said of people, like Donald Trump, who pick and choose the facts that they will tell you are the only ones that are true in order to serve their own interests, to make a point or to win an argument. 

 

I think that what Maria and I did by deciding not to dwell too much on our bad memories was something different. We are not trying to fool ourselves or anybody else. We know that the past is the past, and that we cannot change it, but we also know that if we look back at the bright side of what happened to us, it will make us feel a lot better. As an old man once told me at an A.A. meeting, spirituality is not too complicated. You have to choose what is better for your spirit and your soul. That's all. Sometimes it means to forgive and sometimes it means to forget.

 

That's why in our memories the dolphins will forever be following a boat full of refugees in the South China Sea, and my father is still walking proudly under the bright blue sky between the colourful mountains and the Saguenay River.

 

 

 

Dolphins.jpg



26/03/2019
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