So many things can trigger childhood memories

I’m often surprised by the way our memories work. We can be doing one thing, while our brains are at work on something else, unconsciously digging deeper than we ever thought possible.

Oftentimes, I’m amazed by how simple something is, even when I haven’t done it in a while. For instance, riding a bike – it’s not something that you ever forget.

I’m not sure why summer usually stirs up most childhood memories. As I was catching up on summer cleaning, airing rooms and going through things that had been sitting around, I came across a box of floppy disks. Immediately, I smiled. My husband was confused – why would I keep a box of floppy disks when neither of our laptops have those drives? I hadn’t realized that I still had that box of floppy disks.

I immediately went back, in my mind, to summer vacations and weekends that I had spent in my room or on the sofa with a wooden tray, set up with my dad’s old work laptop, imagining stories. Those disks held the many “novels” that I had dreamed up, with the intention of one day being an author.

Just holding that box of disks, my mind became active – not only recalling the novels themselves, but when I would write them and share them with my parents. My dad even went so far as to try and help me get published. We sent off one to a literary agent, who then proceeded to send it off to publishing companies, all returning with rejections.

Along with that box of floppy disks, I found the file folder containing all of that information, with the rejection letters.

It’s amazing, to me, how simple things like seeing familiar objects and smells triggers our memories, but also our childhood dreams. It isn’t that I don’t still hope to attain authorship. I still have that dream, but no longer do I have the time to sit around writing and imagining, creating spaces for characters and story lines.

Instead, it’s easy to tell ourselves how easy it is to be rejected. The publishing market is difficult, so why spend hours trying to get published, when the real possibility of that happening is so slim? Those are dreams for another day: one day I’ll get back to it, as we always tend to say, but never do.

I was still thinking about finding the floppy disks and having old memories resurface when I went to Mass and the pastor was reminding us to return to confession.

“It’s like riding a bike,” he explained.

Even if we haven’t been in awhile, somehow, the words and actions come back to us. We never forget how to receive our sacraments – perhaps, it’s the mark of its sacramental nature. I know that I often put off going to confession until major religious holidays, like Christmas or Easter, primarily because it’s uncomfortable. We’re meant to recall our sinful nature – no one enjoys doing that. And yet, despite the discomfort and the rusty recollection of the confessional formula, the act of confessing is never forgotten.

The bike was the same simile I was thinking of when I had explained to my husband how memories seem to work. I don’t think we ever forget most things. Sometimes, we just need a little help from material objects or smells, or familiar surroundings to remind us what we’ve known all along.

Heather Bozant Witcher can be reached at [email protected].