Besides having my nose in a book too long, too often, and at the wrong times, the main reason I got in trouble as a child was forgetting. In sixth grade I forgot my books. That evening I had to write 500 times: I will not forget my books. The next day I left my boots at school, the rubber kind we pulled over shoes back then. That evening, I was writing sentences again—I will not forget my boots.
In junior high I sat in detention one long afternoon with other rule breakers—those who cheated and fought and smoked and skipped school. Why? I’d forgotten my clarinet on a band day, left it at home, under a stack of library books.
I just couldn’t stop forgetting. Back when I carried purses, I left them on shelves in mall dressing rooms and under chairs in restaurants and on top of my car after buckling babies in car seats. I missed appointments and didn’t renew my license on time. I dreamed that I forgot about a college class until three weeks into the term. Finally, I had enough. And decided to do something about it.
So I set up systems. I slipped notes in the bottom of my shoe and carried my credit card and license in a pocket. I kept scrap paper by my bed so I could write reminders in the night. Then I’d crumple up those notes and throw them into the middle of the floor so I’d trip over them in the morning.
And then came the age of technology with even better ways to keep track of my life and the lives of those in my care. Of all the new tools, my favorite is the snooze feature of Gmail.
Just yesterday, I sent myself an email about my father’s next Coumadin clinic check and then snoozed the email to the day before the appointment. I snooze when I want to remember the week a grandchild goes to camp, the anniversary of a friend’s death, and the month I can renew my passport.
Two emails I keep snoozing over and over. They’re not about what I need to do. They’re about who I want to be.
One email that helps me with my parents reads: As slow as possible, as soft as possible, as sustainable as possible, as sincere as possible, as steady as possible. Allow space and pause.
Another email reminds me of the lyrics of a song, one about peace on earth.
Each month when this email pops up out of its snooze, I plead for peace—that it will come to earth. I make an offer—to have it begin with me, and a vow (which I sometimes manage to keep) to take each step and live each moment in peace.
A snoozed email is better than stuffing a paper in the bottom of a shoe, especially when you’re over seventy. By snoozing and by wearing a crossbody wallet case for my iPhone, I’ve managed to avoid writing 500 sentences or sitting in detention.
It’s not that I’m forgetting less. Not at seventy-one. It’s that I’ve got some fancy tools to help me remember.
Apple to Apple 