More Forgetting

It was a memorable class on forgetting—beginning with an error on my part that had me waiting outside of the metaphorical school building long before school started. My brother and I used to do this. In junior high school, we somehow decided that it was important to be near the head of the line when the bell rang and the school building opened.

We would walk the half-mile to school and wait in the parking lot with a gathering horde of youth while the teachers, including Mr. Levernight, my 7^th grade English teacher, drove up and walked past us into the school.

Mr. Levernight was a scary man who used to yell at us when we misbehaved, and I mean red-in-the-face yelling. Once, early in the year, he had to leave the class on some important matter and told us all to wait quietly for him. As twelve year olds, we did our best but naturally fell into unruly chatter. He came back suddenly and was furious that we had disobeyed. He asked everyone who had talked to raise their hands. They did and then were given some kind of punishment which I can’t remember. All I remember is not raising my hand, because of course I would never disobey or do something to make an adult so angry. Later on, one of my friends said ‘Why didn’t you raise your hand?’ I said, ‘Because I wasn’t talking.’ He said, ‘Yes you were.’ I was shocked that he would say that. But then I thought back and realized I had both talked and then, in the moment of confrontation, I had utterly convinced myself in an instant and without even knowing that I had done so, that I had not talked. I can’t remember whether I could admit this to my friend or not, but I was shaken by my own duplicity and capacity for self-deception.

But each day, my brother and I would wait with friends. I think we sometimes played handball against the side of the building. We would be there a good ten or fifteen minutes every morning, in our freshly ironed shirts (thanks Mom) and partially combed hair. It’s not that I liked school so much, but I guess we liked the waiting. A little before everything started, we got into lines according to our homeroom. Then, precisely on the hour, a loud bell would ring, the doors would open and we would file, into the building and our school day would begin with me near the head of the line.

Yesterday I waited with the one friend who I had told about the forgetting course. We both, on our separate computers, clicked the link and appeared together on the screen. At the top of the hour, when the class was supposed to start, we were still the only two people waiting. I was about to email the teachers to see if we had the right link when my friend realized that the course, which began at noon Pacific time would actually begin at 3:00 Eastern time, not 9:00 as I had told them.

It was quite a moment. Of course I know that the west coast is three hours behind us, not ahead of us. I have regular meetings and conversations with people out there and never have any problem with adding the three hours. This time, however, was different. I had reversed the formula. It was an ‘aha!’ and an ‘oh no!’ moment at the same time.

On the one hand, realizing my mistake made sense of a confusing situation. Why was no one else in the Zoom room? I felt a sense of relief as the situation suddenly made sense again. On the other hand, I was embarrassed and apologetic. I had been so sure in my mind that the class began at 9:00. I had read the information, sent in the registration and relayed the information to my friend. We had both rearranged our schedules to be free for these two hours—beginning at 9:00.

And now, it turned out that I had gotten it all wrong. What I thought was the obvious truth was now evidence of my incompetence. My friend and I were both upset that I had gotten it wrong and that we both now had to re-arrange our schedules to be available for the class that began six hours later. It took some time, but we managed to reschedule our afternoons and did indeed appreciate the class that began at 3:00.

In the class we talked about our forgetting, and our parents’ forgetting—about the challenges of communicating when communication through the normal channels is not available. We spoke of the fears of our own growing incompetence and our natural irritation when others don’t behave like they used to or like we would like them to. All of this is normal and natural.

The invitation of the class was to make a bigger space in our hearts for ourselves and others as we go through the stage of life called growing old or when any of us move into altered states of confusion and disconnection. Consensual reality—all our appointments and shared understandings—will always be breaking down. Misunderstandings, mistakes and miscommunication are woven into the fabric of our days. Can we meet these moments of disorientation with kindness? Can we trust our connection even when the words are no longer there?

One of the teachers suggested that these challenging moments are actually opportunities to enter into the sacred ground of life. All we have to do is stay present and learn to follow whatever is happening. That’s a big ask, but it’s reassuring to know that even in extreme states, the heart can be the bridge.