When I first think of forgetting, I remember that my left temporal lobe carries severe scar tissue. Things easy to remember before an illness caused that are now the things—the nouns, the names, the words, the scenes—I cannot recall. I still struggle to remember; forgetting is a common practice in my damaged brain.
I forget. Not by choice.
That forgetting, though, has reminded me of the wonder and beauty of forgetting. The wonder of my poor decisions being remembered no more. The beauty of my mistakes being recalled no longer. By God. By family. By those who loved—and love—me.
Choosing to forget. Not a normal tendency. But a needed one. A healing one. It is not avoidance or denial. Not pretending all is well when it isn’t.
It is choosing to forget.
Even when we remember.