Mind-less

In the face of old age this past weekend, I couldn’t’ help but wonder about the makings of the human mind. In particular, memories. My Dad was driving us around Calgary and I was reflecting on the many times I’ve been there, and all the memories of the back of my father’s head while he drove. The memories seem endless. Obviously they are not, but it is interesting how childhood memories feel so infinite. Maybe it is because the childhood brain hasn’t fully developed, but it is a little more interesting to view it from a philosophical standpoint. The mind collects but doesn’t quantify at such an early age. And even the term ‘collects’ isn’t appropriate. Most collectors can put a number to the items and even characteristics of their treasures. But the childhood mind masses memories into a ubiquitous blob. And in this age of classification, where each subset is carefully delineated, I find it hard to reconcile my need to classify with my inability to.

I can’t help but see poetry to the end of my grandmother’s life. Alzheimer’s is slowly ravaging her brain and is only leaving her this innocent conglomerate of childhood memories to depart this world. In her conscious state, she will leave much the same way she entered. The parallel is uncanny, and even cruel. But I think reliving those experiences may in fact be a blessing. The mind granting a gift to its host. A gift, even, to those close to her. Diseases like Alzheimer’s are a crescendo of staccato notes blaring at us with all their intensity, reminding us not to sweat the small stuff. All the chaos, all the seeming turmoil of life and its decisions won’t matter to my Grandmother when she finally leaves us. All that will matter are her memories and the collection of people around her – shades of her past or not.

And in the end, the mind decides it all for her – as does all of our minds. This super organ acting the rules of God.

It’s funny to see that it takes our childhood last, as a reminder of that blob of memories. For some reason whenever I think of this, the image of my father’s head driving the car always pops into my head. A metaphor for the direction of my life? Not likely...but I do know that many of my happy memories are from that view – looking at him driving a car, anxious for the end of whatever road we were taking. And although I’m not anxious for the end of my life’s road, at least I can be at peace with the knowledge that my childhood innocence can be tapped into through these memories. Even if it is the last thing my mind leaves me.