Thank God for big personalities. My grandfather and grandfatherly namesake, “Poppy,” was a big personality. An endearingly imperfect man, he was prone to hyperbole in colorful stories of dubious accuracy, the occasional expletive, warm-hearted teasing, nicknames, and entertaining colloquialisms. His approach to raising his children was as colorful as any exaggerated story he could produce, and being around him was always a bit of an adventure. My nickname? He liked to call me Pistol Pete, though I think it had more to do with cowboys and six guns than the sharpshooting Pete Maravich.

Though I don’t believe he ever used it on me directly, one of my favorite memories of his bright colors was his classic, “I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know” line, typically used with smart aleck children in both serious and playful ways. I’m pretty certain he didn’t hesitate to use it on his adult children when they got a little “too big for their britches.” I smile as I recall his voice and bluster.

I’m pretty sure I’ve used it (I hope playfully) with my kids at some point or another over the years, but it came to my mind this week-end during a fishing retreat with my sons, son-in-law, two grandsons, and my dad. Though I do have a rather precocious 7-year old who could, from time to time, be worthy of bringing out such a blustery line, it came to mind as we were gathered around a fire sharing stories.

On the surface, when one claims to have “forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” he is saying that his complete span of knowledge is so much more than yours, that the collection of knowing which he’s forgotten, is actually greater than the sum of all you’ll ever possess as knowledge. Yes, on the surface this is total bluster. However, there is a profundity buried within. Looked at slightly differently, there is truth in it. Anyone saying it is actually correct in the sense that you cannot know all of the things that I have forgotten.

Sitting by the fire, old stories came up (including many classic movie references) and I realized that we often remembered some things differently in our shared experiences. What stuck with me in a particular moment was not necessarily what stuck with my boys. We remembered different details from the same stories, and held different emotional connections to them. We saw many of our shared experiences under a different light; our own perspective and filter casting meaning across the moment.

Of course it did, how else could it be? Not only have I forgotten things that no one else will ever know, we’ve even forgotten shared things that we experienced differently – only to have them recalled in a new sharing, colored by time and distance. This is a gift of community, and the potential in unity-of-experience, even as we experience something uniquely. Bringing it all back together broadens it with nuance and texture, making it more even as we begin to remember less.

Our minds are such miraculous and mysterious things. The past is never really as clear as we think it is. Our filters refract experience and memory, as certainly as a prism splits a white ray of light into the spectrum we know as color. We receive certain colors at certain moments, and we often remember them differently in time. What a gift.

Considering the many stories, refracted rays of memory, emotional connections, and the ways we see our individual and collective pasts, I realize that, moving in parallel to our growing collection of memories, is the reality that I’ve forgotten more than I’ll ever know. Don’t worry, today has no need for a winsome reflection on all that is lost in time. Perhaps we’ll go there in another post. The truth is that our ability to forget is also a gift.

To have forgotten more than we’ll ever know is simply the acknowledgement of the rich depth of our existence and the experience accompanying it. There is more to know than we can ever know, and there is more to our lives than we can ever remember. And that is ok. I have forgotten more than you can ever know, and you have forgotten more than I can ever know. What a beautiful abundance.

Looking down from the cottage, I see the span of four generations, talking, laughing, and looking with wonder upon the sunrise and the countless mysteries of the water, and its abundant life. I’m reminded that, right now, it isn’t what I’ve forgotten that matters, or even what I remember. It is this moment, present, full, and full of life, that matters. Passing, soon to be remembered differently, and then to be forgotten.

Such a gift.