The Maintenance of Memory
I don't think people tend to believe me, but I remember learning how to walk. There was a fairly short hallway in our house which had two corners relatively close to each other, and I distinctly remember using this space to practice walking. I couldn't yet stand freely, and lacked the coordination to stand even against a single wall. The corner offered me enough stability that I could stand easily and confidently. The difficulty was attempting to make it from one corner to the other. I would awkwardly and quickly hobble from one corner to another, not unlike someone who has to keep running when they're in the process of falling down a hill: stopping is impossible, keeping your speed up is the only way to prevent falling, and most importantly, it's not possible to keep that trick going for too long. I could not, for instance, have walked between the two corners of a room in the house. The distance would have been too great, and I would have certainly fallen.
When I was very young, I was somewhat neglected, and also quite introverted. As a result, I spent a lot of time by myself, thinking and introspecting. I don't remember if I realized this myself, or if someone taught it to me, but at some point perhaps around age 5-9, I was aware that memories were not permanent, and drifted over time. I spent a lot of time thinking, and trying to remember the clear facts of my earliest memories. At the time, I felt that my earliest memories were very precious, and the idea of preserving them felt like a self-evident good. I've always struggled with the concept of decay, but that's a story for another time.
In any case, it occurred to me that if memories drifted, it ought to be possible to preserve them. My distinct impression was that there were various parts of a memory which could potentially be preserved: the feeling the memory evoked, the experience of being there in that moment, the specifics of the environment, (color of the room, arrangement of objects, people present, etc.) and then the "concrete facts" of the experience. My impression was that the "feeling" of the memory was the most precious, but also the most impossible to hold onto. The concrete facts, if they were simple enough, could be preserved indefinitely. And so, I did my best to commit the the discrete facts of my memory to what I considered to be my "permanent" memory. I vaguely recall selecting three different memories for "permanence," but I only remember one clearly. The 2nd one I remember vaguely, and it's generally too crude and embarrassing to bring up when discussing these sorts of topics. (it was about diaper changing) The "learning to walk" memory is the one I bring up the most, and is the most interesting, since it can be roughly dated. I was just a bit over a year old. I don't recall the potential third memory whatsoever.
People will tell you that revisiting a memory is the same as "rebuilding" a memory, and therefore that you're modifying the memory in an unconscious way every time you do this. I disagree somewhat: you have partial control over how much a memory drifts. You can declare the facts (in the case above: the corners, learning to walk, and how precarious my walking was between the corners) firmly an indefinitely. It's only the the less important details that drift. What color were the walls? Was there carpet? Which house was I in when I made this memory? Not only can I not answer any of those questions, but I'm fairly confident that the hallway I "remember" forming this memory in is not the hallway it actually occurred in. The hallway I remember wasn't available to me until I was over 3 years old. And so, it is possible to compare facts and introspect in at least some cases and attempt to correct the record. In other words, I have some control over whether the memory "drifts" and associates with the incorrect house.
I anticipated this when I was younger, and now at 40 it's clearly come to pass. I don't "really" remember learning to walk. What I actually remember is committing the details to memory, and replaying it at regular intervals so I could be sure to hold onto the memory. I'm not sure if there's a real neurological structure to memory, but if there is, the original is almost certainly gone. I feel strongly that I have avoided remembering this event incorrectly because I Intentionally defined and practiced the memory in question. I also intentionally avoid details which were not part of that practice: which house did this actually occur in? What color were the walls? What was I wearing? I have no idea, and never will. That part of the memory is gone forever. But I did manage to preserve the core of the experience. In a somewhat perverse way, this feels a bit like a multi-generational cultural myth, passed from my childhood self to my current self. There's a core of truth which I've kept unmodified. It feels a bit reminiscent of the the cultural myths passed down across millennia: very basic and relatively simple. Anything too complex could not have survived the degradation that comes with time.