Time Travel

December 8, 2021 was Pretend to Be a Time Traveler Day.

(Whovians unite! And if you don’t know what a Whovian is, you’re not one, so let it go. Though I feel sorry for you.)

In honor of the day, I find myself musing on where when I’d travel, if I could.

Would I stay in 2021, eschewing time travel altogether? (Not likely. A favorite greeting card reads: Wise Kitty says, “Live in the Present.” The accompanying comic shows a cat sitting inside a gift box, looking quite pleased with itself. Normally, I agree with Wise Kitty, but the last few years have not been a “present” I want to dwell in.)

Would I travel forward in time to have a tea party in a bubble under the sea with great great grandchildren yet to be conceived? (Possibly. Though fears of finding terrible climate devastation make me leery of traveling too far forward).

Travel back to the 1800s, track down Emily Dickinson, and try to absorb some of her gentle genius? (What if she didn’t like me? Told me I’m a hack who should just give up writing? Probably best to stay away.)

Circa 1969 - the world was my oyster - or rather, my Easter Basket.

Take a shorter journey backward, to a time when I wasn’t facing down my own mortality, and the world truly felt like my oyster?

About that last itinerary: it is or should be obvious that a morose obsession with what was lost, what I used to have or be or do, is unhealthy.

And of course any amble through my own past would crash onto the rocks of my mistakes – and we’re not talking small, smooth, attractive stones, here. We’re talking massive boulders, cracked and moss-covered and hulking like bridge-trolls demanding a toll of shame every time I pass.

Many who are wiser than I have warned against dwelling in the past. Don’t remain mired in grief over what was lost, they say, and don’t let shame about misdeeds strangle your ability to move forward.

Amen to that, I say.

Mostly.

Because I have also come to believe that we should not be too quick to “shake the dust of these crummy little memories” (to misquote George Bailey), in part because our past, our memories, even our mistakes are what made us, what propelled us to the place and the person we are now.

Strike that. Reverse. (As the inimitable Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka would say). I’m uncomfortable preaching about what anyone else should do or think, so let me rephrase: My past, my memories, my mistakes – these are what made me who I am. I cannot hope to find joy in the present, learn from those times when I’ve stumbled, and forge a plan for the future, if I close the door on the dazzling, humiliating, blinding, perplexing kaleidoscope of my experiences thus far. 

My past was the first draft, the first take on my life, Shari Acts I, II, and III. Remembering is the intermission where I get to mull over it all, rejoice in the glory moments and learn from the screwups. According to Anne Lamott, the “sh*tty first draft” is a necessary building block. As I’ve already confessed, I’ve made a mess of my life on a semi-regular basis, but Anne Lamott also says:

“What people somehow forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes
in order to find out who we are and why we are here.”
Anne Lamott

And it’s not just about learning from my mistakes. This is me, the great and the good and the puny and the sniveling and the kind and the mean-spirited and the generous and the stingy. Cut out the “bad bits” and you have something less than who I really am.

I love Brené Brown. I do sometimes worry that taking little snippets of her wisdom, reducing her words to a soundbyte or Inspirational Poster, misses so much of the depth of what she has to say, but still I love this thought:

“You either walk inside your story and you own it, or you stand outside your story and hustle for your worthiness.”
Brené Brown

Just as importantly, memories are gifts, tiny glittering gems to light the synapses. And, dragon-like, I would never willingly forgo treasure.

Occasionally, I’ve caught myself recoiling from thoughts of a friend who passed away many years ago. That way lie sadness and regret, I’ve told myself. But the loss doesn’t negate the time we spent swooning over the Beatles (as if we two adolescents discovered them, while all the world dwelt in dark ignorance), or watching Casablanca with what can only be described as a vat of popcorn, or laughing mercilessly at old Mrs. (name withheld to protect the innocent) who pretended her ancient pug was not at that moment humping anything and everything its short legs could reach.

And the secrets we shared in the dim purple of the twilit park, sitting on swings as if we were fledgling birds vacillating between childhood and adulthood, unsure which direction to fly, the creaking of the chains a drumbeat to our vacillations - those secrets were sacred, and their holiness is not diminished by what came after.

All of this is to say: next December 8, I plan to call on my inner Trekkie, jump in my DeLorean or my Blue Box, brunch with Van Gogh (I’ll tell him to keep the ear), and party with my great great grandchildren in their gorgeous colony on Mars.

And maybe I’ll revisit that sweet, sweet moment, early in my time as a teacher, when all the students in my Latin class stood up and sang the first declension I’d taught them the year before (to the tune of Little Bunny Foo Foo, in case you’re curious).

And then I’ll come back to the present, recognizing what it owes to the days that have gone before, and the days yet to come.

Images by: darksouls1 from Pixabay; Eva Elijas from Pexels; Robin McPherson from Pexels; valmol48