My son passed me a basketball the other day. I immediately started playing 2-on-1 with him and his neighborhood buddy. I thoroughly enjoyed pretending to be Kyrie Irving as I teased the ten-year-olds with my dribbling skills. Now, let’s be honest, it doesn’t take much to impress the young fellas on the court. My son will be dominating me soon enough.
In that moment, I didn’t remember the hours upon hours I played basketball in my driveway as a kid. I didn’t bring back memories of practice drills in high school or the endless pickup games at the local courts. I was quite a bit slower than I used to be, and a little more clumsy, too. But I didn’t have to remember how to dribble. I just knew.
The thing about memories is that even the best ones fade over time.
Sometimes I try to think about my childhood or my days in school. The memories come almost like an old photo album, sporadic prints as I turn from page to page in my mind. There’s plenty of white space, too. Experiences whose memories I’ve misplaced.
These experiences have shaped me. Sure, there are certain aspects of who I am that are innate. But I’ve been formed by my experiences, all of them. The ones that seem large and the ones that seem small. The ones I think of often and the ones that sneak up on me out of nowhere.
The forgotten moments have shaped me, too. I don’t have to remember something to be molded by it. The kindness and struggles. The childhood moments and the random Tuesday evenings as a young man. Every person I’ve known, every moment I’ve lived, they’ve all made me into who I am.
Our experiences are still part of us even when they’ve been forgotten. The memories may fade, but their impact never does.