Forgetting is not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, forgetting things like when my out-of-town guests are showing up or where my next turn is in one-way city traffic can be problematic. But temporarily forgetting how far I’ve come and what it has taken for me to get here? That’s fine. As long as I remember to remember. Because when I do, and do it right, it’s a special kind of magic. It’s fresh amazement.

Fresh amazement. Sure sounds good, right? And you know what? It feels even better, way better than worrying whether I’m just a dunderhead.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my thinking. Or, as Nana used to say, “lack thereof.” Unlike poor Nana, I’m not wrapping up empty boxes with Christmas paper or waiting for the streetcar to take me back to Malden. And I’m glad to report that I aced my annual wellness exam brain teaser like a trooper. “Apple, monkey, table!” I proudly parroted back at the nurse—–proof I can retain random words while doodling a clock face with big and little hands in the right places, then walk across the room, and touch my toes—–and, therefore, am not currently exhibiting cognitive shortcomings, hereditary or otherwise. So no worries about drawing a complete blank or going Nana flakey anytime soon, which left me not so much questioning my brain’s working capacity as I was it’s working order. As in why, with so many mundane details in there front and center, do I have to try so hard to keep hauling the monumental ones out of the archives?

Why do I need constant reminders of hard-won progress? How is it that I can readily recall what I wore, said, ate, and sang along to on any particular day way back when, but need sticky notes and other props to keep the big stuff from falling through my cranial cracks? What’s the point of forgetting how good it feels to feel really good, then remembering, only to forget again?

These were the questions seeding the early stage of Rooted In Rangeley story germination—-where I don’t know what I’m trying to say but I do know there’s something potentially profound planting itself in the ethereal mumbo jumbo of my inner ramblings. Something New Age-y that still made good sense. Something both thought and laughter provoking. Something maybe of value to others beyond myself.

Searching for answers, I took a psychoanalytical deep dive into reasons why the human brain, mine in particular, keeps handy what it needs for any given moment and stores the rest for retrieval and reuse. I read about recency bias, adaptive forgetting, and other innate tricks it uses to keep me safe, sane, and not whirling out of control like some backwoods R2-D2. Nothing really struck me, though, until I came across this pearly nugget: “Of course you can’t remember everything, every feeling you had about every single day. If you did, you’d spend each waking moment in an endless cycle of reliving the past with no focus or scope for the present. You’d have no relativity, no room for retrospection, no reawakened emotions. What fun would that be? You’d have no fresh amazement.”

Bingo! There it was. Amid my Psychology Today meets the Tao Te Ching search for share-worthy stuff, a nifty little word combo so spot-on it took whatever the heck I was aiming for and nailed it perfectly. Fresh amazement.

Fresh amazement is the upside to temporarily forgetting past hurdles to throw my energy at new ones. It’s why it’s OK, I’ve decided, to keep glancing over my shoulder and shoot for the next brightest spot on the horizon as soon as I emerge from the shadows. It’s a fleeting state of renewed awe and appreciation, a glass-half-full zone worth every prompt and reminder it takes for me to always return there. And lately, it’s why I have an unused pair of walking canes hanging up in my home like prized 3-D art curios.

“Sayonara, suckers!” I told the clunky “assistive device” canes, super stoked to be swapping them out for a new pair of sleek, portable hiking poles. But instead of putting the rehab grade, tripod-tipped set back under the bed or up in the attic, I left them hanging out in plain view. Because while I might not need to use the old poles, I very much need to see them. Every day. As I’m grabbing my “everyday” ones and heading out and around. As I’m remembering to feel fresh amazement with every step.

When I retired the ol’ clunkers earlier this summer, I promised myself—-for the second time in a row—-if I was able to walk again “like normal” I’d never ever take it for granted. Like normal, you see, means getting where I want to go using one, sometimes two, walking sticks with occasional, sometimes epic, trips along the way if I don’t pick my feet up and and start shuffling. In my case, it means powering through being born with mild cerebral palsy, then growing old with whatever wear and tear gets factored in along the way. It means finding balance, literally, between allowing myself to atrophy and pushing myself to exhaustion and more injury. Most importantly, it means remembering to pat myself on the back when it feels easier to just badger myself.

And that last part, the remembering the right way part, is almost as hard as putting one foot solidly in front of the other. “Remember when you could do power aerobics or ride a regular mountain bike in skimpy Spandex and high-top Reeboks? That was awesome!” I’m apt to tell myself with Chris Farley wistfulness and a vision of my 30-year-old self prancing around in my head. But that never leads to a good place. Reminiscing about my all-time personal best as I’m slipping into my comfy workout/wind pants and Dr. Comfort sneakers to go for an e-trike ride or a slow but steady walkabout does not bring fresh amazement but, actually, quite the opposite. I can get stuck in a state of stale indifference or, worse, rotten dejection. That’s when I need to bring my comparisons into the not-so-distant past, away from the leanest, sturdiest, most badass me, back to the still going pretty strong at almost 70 me—-who’s way better than she has been recently. That’s when I re-amaze myself. And that’s where props come in handy.

One long, mindful look at my clunker canes hanging by the door—-or at the empty corners of every room where I used to park Rosie (my bright red, all-terrain rolling walker)—and I recall just how badly I needed them and how desperately I had to muckle on, afraid I was getting closer to a wheelchair with each step. I remember the sadness of having my legs betraying me, of my mind losing control over my muscles, the pain in my old, achy hip, and my tired, bewildered spirit, the relief of finally getting the right kind of professional help, and daring to believe I might get better. I can see myself walking out of Maine Medical with a brand new Wonder Woman hip and, more recently, learning how to walk again after a nasty drug—-meant to calm my restless legs at night—-backfired, turning me into an anxious, clumsy rag doll unable to do so on my own. I feel myself recovering, twice in a row, and the superhuman sensations of the pain subsiding, the struggle easing—-of picking my head up, planting both feet, and getting back to being my old self.

I didn’t have such poetic words for it at the time but, man, when I was able to get back down to my lakefront without Rosie or the clunkers, using just my own steam and my everyday hiking poles, that was a whole new level of awesome! Has been ever since. As long as I watch my feet and the sleek red poles keeping ’em steady—and I remember to remember when that didn’t seem possible—my focus realigns and my path opens as wide as the Big Lake in my front yard the first time I took it all in again.

“Watch where your feet are going,” I’ve been told my whole life, advice I’d never thought I could put to positive use. Mostly because it came right after I stumbled and, often, right before I walked into a tree or a wall trying to watch where my feet are going. So it wasn’t the sort of advice that made me feel newly marvelous. But now that I’ve watched my feet and legs come close to going nowhere without a lot of help, I’ve found the right context, the right way to remind myself to watch, compare, and realize that this and all blessings are fleeting. I feel joy in every moment of moving forward in my own special way. I feel fresh amazement.

And while walking wonder is such a go-to source, being right in front of me and all, it turns out that fresh amazement is, actually, all around me. I just have to keep my mind and eyes open, keep finding my own answers to the old question: Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you got till it’s gone? Yes. But if you’re lucky you get some of it back and, when you do, you know enough to hang on to it hard because it could be gone again in a second. There’s no app for that, no customizable pop-up to spark that kind of mental clarity. That’s OK, though, I never have to look too far for more prompters.

“Wow, remember COVID,” I say to myself every time I see the stack of masks, unused test kits, and the tiny, go-anywhere clip-on bottles of hand sanitizer in the corner of my cupboard. “Remember how wonderful it felt when you stashed this stuff away because you were able to start going places again without being scared you might die?” Yup, sure do. And if that doesn’t fill me with fresh amazement, there’s plenty of other cues close-by: All the half-full bottles of awful prescriptions I’ve stopped taking for good. The pile of bigger girl pants gathering dust. The ancient dog bed where our fifth “best beagle ever” sleeps by my side. The useful space on my countertop, in my fridge, and in my life, now that I’ve given up drinking once and for all. The luggage I’m happy to unpack when I return to my home sweet home that stays right where I can grab it for my next adventure. And then there’s always the calendar, and the yin-yang Rangeley weather to stir my awe and appreciation.

“I’m gonna really try to remember this in January,” I said the other day as I basked in the balmy, bright, calm, bugless September air. Moments earlier, I’d been wondering why I couldn’t have weather like that in July and August, how long it would last, why the leaves seemed to be piling up on the deck faster than usual, and blah, blah, blah. Then one of those “this was how things were for you a year ago” type of Facebook flashbacks came on my screen, showing a sleet-covered path down to my grey lake, and me out there in my Elmer Fudd hat and serious jacket already. Outside my real window screen, however, summer was still waiting in all its fleeting glory. So I grabbed my poles, smiled at the ol’ clunker canes on my way out the door, and savored the fresh amazement.