I just watched a rerun of Love Story - a movie that came out when I was just ten years old. It wasn't quite as I remembered ... the passage of time has somehow made the camera work a little shakier, the sweeping musical theme I remembered sounded tinny - a little thin. The dialogue was corny and Ali McGraw was wooden in her role as Jenny. Heck - even the famous, climatic line "love means never having to say you're sorry" that had brought tears to my eyes as a girl (and my mother's) landed flat. The reality of the film didn't match the memory I had cherished.
It got me thinking about other instances where the memory of something differed or was grander than the reality...
The first house we lived in when we moved to my home town was a grand, three storey brick home with an imposing front porch. I played in a forest at the end of our street and a well worn pathway led to a rushing river. Smiling yet? The last time I revisted the old neighbourhood, the house - although a good size - seemed smaller than I remembered, and the rushing river was more like a gentle stream.
How is it that our memory preserves these perspectives so carefully ... and when left undisturbed, they become our truth. It is just another example that absolute truth is not so absolute, but rather, viewpoints and events filtered through the colours of our looking glass - our personal prism.
So after watching Love Story once again, I kind of wished I hadn't. This one would have been better left undisturbed. But then again, love is never having to say I'm sorry!