Feel it all

Memory is a fascinating aspect to being human. Entire functions of our brains are solely devoted to the storage, creation and recollection of memories. And they take different forms, sensory versus informative, short term and long term. As I’ve entered my half-century year, I’ve been considering the role of memory in my drive to tell stories.

When I look at this photo I remember the feel of the waves beneath kayak, the drip of water from my paddles, the creaking of the glaciers. (Photo by David W. Shaw)

My family is rife with memory associated issues. Dementia and Alzheimer’s are on both sides, something I’ve known from an early age. I’ve experienced my loved ones’ descent into forgetting. Since I was young, I’ve recorded my experiences in journals, poems, essays and stories. Was that a result of being aware of how fragile our brains are? Or just part of my nature? When I need to soothe my overworked and anxious mind, I turn toward specific recollections. Although our brains are masters of information storage, our recall can be faulty, especially as time passes. I imagine neural pathways as resembling the braided rivers in Alaska. Etched into the landscape, the smaller, feeder streams have plasticity, responding to environmental changes, while the main steam keeps the flow. Do our shared moments vary because of how we store memories, or because we experience the world different? I’m not a neuroscientist, but I would argue it’s both. When we take a walk together, I might notice what is growing along the path, which birds are singing, or if the cacti look parched. You might register that the clouds are building quicker than normal, or your new boots are giving you a blister.

So, how does this relate to storytelling? I don’t think you can be a writer (or any kind of artist) without being a bit of a creepy eavesdropper. Not just on conversations, but on life. We gather it up, magpies on the make for each shiny bit that we store away for another season.

This ancient baobab grove holds centuries of memories.

As we contend with the rise of AI in the creative arts (and all aspects of our lives), and when I descend into a rage spiral over it, one way I calm myself is being knowing that AI does not have our memories. It doesn’t have the ability to form new memories or turn them into stories. Yes, if you are using Claude (Anthropic’s AI minion), you are getting the benefit of my two books that were stolen to teach it, but you don’t know how I felt waking up at 3am to an evacuation order for a volcano erupting. Or the sweet sensation of breathing high alpine air while lying in a field of wildflowers.

I’ll keep recording those moments in my journals and in my stories, because even though it is likely that someday I may lose them, they get to live on through other people. There will never be another moment like this one, for good or for bad, so we might as well feel it all.

this was made by a friend, don’t steal it.