At this stage I often get the question, “Does she still recognize you?” That’s hard to answer. She definitely doesn’t recognize most people, though she is totally friendly to them and excited to welcome guests. She can still access key conversational scripts like, “Where did you grow up?” or “What do you do for a living?” And she answers most statements with something like, “Oh, that’s terrific!” or “Isn’t that great?!” (You can take Happy largely out of the world, but you can’t take the happy out of Happy.)
As for whether she recognizes me in particular, I’ve concluded that we’re in this kind of nether zone where it’s just kind of hazy. She knows that if she presses a button on her speed dial, she can find a person on the other end of the line whose name is Josh, and she can tell me that that person is her son. But it’s not always clear when I visit that, in her mind, the person visiting (me) is the same person as on the phone a few minutes before.
For me, by far the most important practice has been letting go of expectations. I just try to follow her lead and respond with what I sense she needs and not get caught on what logic might be operating in my brain. Once I’ve let go of the idea that she thinks of me as “my son Josh” in the same way you or I might utter that phrase, I find it’s much easier to focus and do the mitzvah I’m here to do. It’s not about me—it’s about her.
All of that has led me to reflect more on the nature of memory and consciousness. We know these days that, even in healthy folks, memory is a really tricky thing. In its own way, this part of my life seems like it’s commenting on some of the questions swirling around AI: What is hallucination, what’s true, and when does that matter?
Anyone who has tried to sit with mindful awareness of their thoughts for even a few minutes will likely agree that consciousness is quite a mystery. What is it to be lucid? What does a healthy memory or consciousness look like? It’s not so simple.
A story is told of Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Rabinowicz of Peshischa (1766-1813), “Hayehudi Hakadosh,” the “Holy Jew,” when he went to visit his teacher, Yaakov Yitzchak of Lublin. He found the rebbe distraught and asked why he was so low. “I have transgressed the negative commandment, ‘Be careful lest you forget YHVH your God’ (Deut. 8:11),” he answered. “For one brief moment I allowed my attention to slip and didn’t give my full consciousness to the existence of the Holy One.”
The Yehudi Hakadosh responded, “We find taught in the Mishnah (Peah 6:6) that if one forgot a sheaf of wheat in the field, it is normally considered to be lost—the owner can’t go back to get it but rather has to leave it in the field. But if it is so large as to be two seahs [about 24 liters], it is not considered forgotten. Why? Because something that is good is not forgotten—if one forgets it, they will immediately remember it. ‘Forgotten but in the end remembered’ is not considered forgotten. So too in your case: You have not transgressed the commandment, for you immediately remembered.”
The rebbe replied, “You have brought me back to life.”
Perhaps the most basic gesture of mindfulness meditation is this: Set an intention, e.g. to be mindfully aware of your breathing. Try to do that. And then, when you inevitably notice that your attention has wandered, gently bring your attention back to your intention. Rinse and repeat.
Years ago, my friend and colleague, Rabbi Jordan Bendat-Appell, changed my life when he pointed out (in our online Gift of Awareness introduction to Jewish mindfulness meditation course) that this process is the very same one we practice during the High Holidays: it’s teshuva. We set a kavana, an intention. We miss the mark (chet, sin, literally means missing the mark, as in archery). We become aware of that and remember our intention (zekhira—remembering). At that moment, we have the opportunity to return to our intention (teshuva means return).
Like I said, a life-changing teaching.
Making such a choice is often lubricated by an underlying posture of hesed, compassionate love, for ourselves—or for whoever we may seek to be in relationship with. That is what I hear in the Yehudi Hakadosh’s words to his rebbe: Your intention is to be present and aware at all times. Inevitably, you will miss the mark. Given that this is hardwired into our human system, I think we can understand the teaching to be that it is neither possible nor healthy to imagine that inevitable human forgetfulness is outside the scope of Divine compassion.
Maybe it’s not an accident that my own mindfulness practice has deepened so much precisely in these years of my mother’s dementia. On pretty much a daily basis, I find myself living in that basic teshuva pattern: intention, miss the mark, notice, return. For her and for me, I find that holding it all lightly is essential. I try to notice and let go of impulses to judge either of us harshly or reactively. In doing so, hopefully I help make room for both of us to remember the love and compassion that’s never forgotten.
For Reflection & Conversation
- What does this reflection evoke for you? Are there relationships or aspects of yourself to which you’d like to bring more compassion? What, if anything, gets in the way of doing so? Who or what might help you to soften or dissolve those barriers?