Dusting off memories

“Nostalgia is death” always sounded pretty harsh. Bob Dylan made that pronouncement during a newspaper interview in 1991. He meant that he did not wish to be defined by the music of his past, or to dwell on it, no matter how much his fans wanted to hear it. When you stop focusing on the future, he said, you stop growing.

So, in context, Dylan’s comment sounds less like a harsh judgement of others than a personal admonition. Coming from an artist, it makes a lot of sense.

There’s another quote attributed to Dylan that makes as much, if not more, sense: “Take care of all your memories. For you cannot relive them.”
That’s a softer side note to his warning about nostalgia: Savor as many moments as possible; they are fleeting.

I like the suggestion to “take care” of memories — that is, to keep them free of dust, and in a well-lighted place, so that you can find them when you need them.
We don’t live in the past. But we go to our memories for comfort, to remember the good people and experiences that shaped our lives. Everyone has regrets, too — some of the choices we made, relationships we had — but even dark memories carry life lessons. You don’t want to relive them — or dwell on the dark parts when so much else was bright — but they’re poured into the mix and make you who you are.

In case you’re wondering: All this ruminating about the past comes from a visit to my hometown.

I went to a football game at my high school and enjoyed watching the teenaged boys on both teams execute plays — traps and powers, counters and play-action passes — never for a moment longing to be 17 again. I remember how important football was way back then. It was the center of teenage boyhood in my hometown — until it wasn’t. The time flew by, from freshman to senior year, and it snowed during the second half of our final game on Thanksgiving.

There were bonds forged during football days that have lasted a lifetime. That’s what we took with us. That’s what I pull out now and then to dust off — memories of teammates and coaches, our friends in the stands and in the band, the cheerleaders who probably had the toughest job of all, the realization that we’d probably never have a football team experience again.

I think we get too self-conscious about nostalgia. It’s not death. It’s just a way of taking care of your memories — you pull them out, you dust them off, savor them, then put them back until you need them again.