Guiding Ghosts

Guest post by Chris ball for Sacred to Somebody

For this month’s Sacred to Somebody¹ my oldest brother Chris wrote a guest post for us. Enjoy!

Trinity Church in Manhattan, courtesy of the author. Poem below is also by Chris.

Pixilated

I hold you within my hands
and dream of memories same

Soon whisps of fog drift in
pushing aside each detail

My portrait into sentiment

Perhaps the brush strokes
of your being were never there

Yet I know you always

---

I used to resist rituals and routine as a matter of principle.

I believed that an action performed out of habit was devoid of meaning and creativity. I would listen to the Apostle’s Creed or Lord’s Prayer recited weekly at church and hear voices lacking inflection and emotion. Practiced rituals didn’t feel sacred. They felt lifeless.

Memories, on the other hand, are full of life. Most believe they are sacred. If we lose our memories, we cease to be ourselves. When it comes to others, well… when they lose their memories, we sometimes act as if they’ve already passed on.

My relationship with my memories is tenuous at best.

As far as I know, I’ve never had the kind of memory I’ve witnessed in others. I hear people recite movie dialogue line by line. I have friends who recall gatherings, describing clothing, conversations, locations, and weather. Of course, they could be making it all up. I don’t know because I don’t remember the details.

I’ve purchased one movie three times. I don’t know which one. I do remember that I didn’t like it. Not even once.

As a young man, I recognized that my memory was faulty. I would practice recording a special time into my gray matter. On more than one occasion, I paused after experiencing something wonderful. I went through each of the details, describing them to myself, trying to lock them down so I could enjoy them later. I don’t remember any of these events.

It’s embarrassing to have someone you care about begin a conversation with, “Remember when…”

Many times, my answer is, “No.”

I wish it were different.

My lack of memory is not related to a lack of interest. I can love you deeply and still not be able to describe that special moment that we shared.

Alzheimer’s disease runs in my family. I’ve witnessed a great-grandmother, a grandmother, and an uncle slip away. Each one was well known for their intellect and memory. It was frightening to watch. I hated seeing people I love lose parts of themselves that they so greatly cherished.

Of course, as I watched several family members suffer from dementia, I couldn’t help but wonder if it would also be my fate.

Will what is sacred about me disappear before I am ready to let it go?

As I’ve wrestled with how my memory functions (or doesn’t) and considered a possible future of dementia, I’ve developed some strategies.

I try to let go of the notion that memories are sacred.

I hang on to feelings of people, places, and events. I retain concepts much better than I retain facts. While I may not be able to tell you about the moments that shape my love for you, I know that love is true.

I also try not to hold things sacred. I don’t want to keep objects to tie me to memories. I want to let go of the past and be in the present. I permit my mind to wander.

How can I let my mind wander and be present in the moment? It doesn’t always work.

This is where I’ve found that rituals help.

Over the years I’ve learned that the things I resist the most are probably the things that I need to pay attention to. Rituals are high on that list. Developing personal rituals has helped me to acknowledge people and events that have meaning to me. Benefiting from personal rituals helps me understand the meaning behind cultural rituals.

One of my personal rituals involves walking. A few years ago, in the first week of December, I set out to hike around a nearby lake. A complete walk around the lake is about seven and a half miles.

I’d completed the loop once before with a friend. His wife had died in November of that year. I’d lost touch with him since, and I wanted to remember both him and his wife.

On that first hike, I didn’t know what to expect. We met at a parking lot on the lake shore early in the day. It was chilly, but warm for December. We had the right gear, layers of clothing and plenty of water. Aside from the company and the conversation, I remember seeing evidence of previous tree harvests. It was clear that part of this state park had once been a pasture.

I don’t know why that’s the memory that stuck. I’m often confused by what my brain chooses to recall. I was with a friend, in a difficult time and beginning a new phase. I remember trees with split trunks, indicating that they were stump sprouts. I can’t recite the words of our conversation. I can’t bring up other images of the walk.

I do remember how I felt.

I hurt for him. I remember seeing our breath as we began our hike and thinking it seemed appropriate.

When I pulled into the parking lot for that second walk around the lake, it was colder than the first walk. There was ice on much of the lake. Something else was different. There were birds everywhere. About a quarter mile in, I felt a deep whomp-whomp of beating wings and heard trumpets as a small wedge of swans flew seventy feet overhead. That was a new experience for me. I can still feel the beating wings.

I’ve walked around that lake many times since. Each time I pull into the parking lot, I think of my friend. I remember his wife.

I’ve walked alone. I’ve hiked with others. On that first trip around the lake, we went counter-clockwise. Sometimes I go the other way. Each time around is different. Different people, different weather, different things to see.

Every year, things change. Trees get bigger – or disappear. Buildings get more deteriorated – or rebuilt. Yet every trip brings to mind that first trip.

Guiding Ghosts

After my freshman year in high school, my Grandpa Diller made a deal with me. If I spent a week helping him paint his house, he would send me on a backpacking trip. It was an awesome gift. I went on a great trip to the Bighorns in Wyoming!

I had never backpacked before that trip. I had never slept in a tent outside of a park. It was an adventure! I wanted to remember every detail. I took pictures. So many pictures. This was long before everyone carried a cell phone. Photographs took work. I would use those pictures to bring the trip alive for me and anyone who would listen.

It didn’t work. I had beautiful pictures of trees and mountains and streams. I didn’t think to take many pictures of the people who were with me. Each time I pulled out a picture, the place in which it was taken became a little less clear, and the memories of the trip had a little less shine.

As time has passed, I’ve lost those pictures. But I learned that I gained much more. Every time I hike down a trail, I remember my Grandpa.

These days, I rarely take pictures to remember events. I have accepted that I probably won’t remember details of a gathering, a performance, or much more. I simply haven’t trained my brain to work that way. But feelings will return.

My ritual of taking an almost eight-mile jaunt around the lake is not designed to recreate a memory. I don’t take the walk hoping to relive a past experience. Each step is new, but each step also guides ghosts along for the trip. I like to be in the present while letting the past wash over me.

1. Sacred to Somebody is a monthly series in my substack in which I and other authors share a little about something they hold sacred. You can read more posts in this series by clicking here.