Why does the past beckon so emphatically, so insistently? Here’s my dry opinion; it’s all at the feet of the amygdala, that imperious governor of most of our emotions, who points his finger at the past and says, “that way cannot hurt you.” And you reply, “But the future! It may broaden my understanding of the world!” And the amygdala says, “Don’t think on the future. That way lies hazard. I will make your life a hell of anxiety if you go that way. Now drink your cocoa and remember sunny days from long ago.”
The memory of hazards past. That fellow I visited in the field hospital, traveling a mountain road over a hillside cut, hit a mine that my jeep missed. He was a friend, the reinforced Battle Group's chaplain--the only airborne chaplain I knew to have been a devout atheist. At the time my youth defied all thoughts of existential threats. Looking back I ask, what if?
Your mother lived several lifetimes in that too short span. I find myself reaching for her, wanting to know how she did it, or maybe just to sit and hold those knowing hands.
Why does the past beckon so emphatically, so insistently? Here’s my dry opinion; it’s all at the feet of the amygdala, that imperious governor of most of our emotions, who points his finger at the past and says, “that way cannot hurt you.” And you reply, “But the future! It may broaden my understanding of the world!” And the amygdala says, “Don’t think on the future. That way lies hazard. I will make your life a hell of anxiety if you go that way. Now drink your cocoa and remember sunny days from long ago.”
The memory of hazards past. That fellow I visited in the field hospital, traveling a mountain road over a hillside cut, hit a mine that my jeep missed. He was a friend, the reinforced Battle Group's chaplain--the only airborne chaplain I knew to have been a devout atheist. At the time my youth defied all thoughts of existential threats. Looking back I ask, what if?
I like to indulge in what ifs of past hazards narrowly avoided. It makes the universe seem more benign than it actually is.
So much to unpack in this one, Irving. I’m very touched by your roads traveled and the memories of a slowly fading past.
Your mother lived several lifetimes in that too short span. I find myself reaching for her, wanting to know how she did it, or maybe just to sit and hold those knowing hands.
Your comment brought me to tears.