The Moment Maker

In some ways, there’s a simple answer.

Every second, the world sends us a couple of billion bits of information. Our brain can only handle a few hundred.

It has no choice but to filter out 99.99% of information.

What it’s doing is a survival mechanism that the scientists call ‘active forgetting’. Many ‘lost’ moments get deliberately deprioritised. It’s why forgetting is not failure. It is strategy.

Our brain has to be better at forgetting than at remembering. Which is an odd thing to say. We think memory is there to keep hold of everything. But it also has another job. That is to let go of almost everything.

Life has two speeds. Busy. Busier.

Therefore, the brain has to protect us from remembering too much.

The brain is a great editor.

That’s how it survives.

That raises a more interesting question.

What does it choose to keep? And why?

Meaning.

I saw the film Mystery Train a couple of decades ago, and yet still remember it.

A Japanese couple - Jun and Mitsuko - make a pilgrimage to Graceland as mad Elvis fans. He carries a camera all day. Yet barely uses it.

Back at the run-down Memphis hotel, he suddenly starts photographing everything:

• the sink

• the lamp

• the worn-out room

She asks him why.

And his answer lands a non-obvious truth:

“I’ll remember today… but I’ll forget this.”

The scene stuck with me because it was not obvious, but it was true.

Most people take photos of peak moments.

Your daughter’s wedding. Your mum’s 80th. Your favourite band headlining at Glastonbury.

The things we are more likely to remember.

But Jarmusch pointed the camera at the most likely to disappear from our memory.

The dripping tap.

The paper-thin curtain.

The threadbare rug.

Graceland was important to a mad Elvis fan.The motel room was not.

The brain doesn’t treat all moments equally.

It can’t.

It survives because it chooses.

• Big moments → get filed under ‘I’ll never forget this.’

• Small moments → disappear unless captured

Jarmusch made a profound point, but did so with a small observed moment.

And that is one of the first clues.

What sticks doesn’t have to be big.

It has to have meaning.

It has nothing to do with budget or status.

A dirty sink can do it.

Consideration.

Chip and Dan Heath, in The Power of Moments, argue that memorable moments usually contain one or more of four things.

Elevation: Something lifts the moment above the norm.

Insight: Something happens that helps you see the world in a new way. And can’t unsee it.

Pride: The moment that tells you this mattered.

Connection: The moment that strengthens your bond with someone else.

I’m not saying it’s as simple as just these four. But it’s a good framework to start from.

Of course, life has peak moments: birth and death. The first day and the last day do not need much help in being remembered. Life, for the most part, happens in between.

The middle is where all the action is. Therefore that’s where all the forgetting is, too.

Hollywood knows this. Writers know this. Songwriters know this.

The middle is the Moment Maker’s stadium.

They take the everyday and find ways to make it worth remembering.

My tyre repair garage did exactly this.

I’ve had my tyres changed at many garages locally. But now I stick with one.

He’s not the cheapest. But he does one thing no one else does.

After changing the tyres, he gets into the car and resets the tyre pressure warning system so no notifications appear when I drive away.

It sounds small unless you’ve ever driven around for weeks with that warning light staring back at you because you don’t know how to reset it. And the manual has vanished after you didn’t put it back after the last time you used it.

He didn’t have to do it. No other garage does it.

It was thoughtful.

And that’s the thing about consideration.

It has very little to do with how much money you spend.

And almost everything to do with how much care you take.

So that was the second clue: Consideration.

Stacking.

If you look back at the list from the book ‘The Power of Moments’, it could lead a ‘Moment Maker’ to follow a formula.

A dash of elevation.

A smidge of insight here.

And a little connection to top it off.

Voila.

Except that isn’t how it works.

Wonder is not made by adding ingredients.

It is made by stacking moments.

What most people miss from within a peak moment is that it is rarely made up of one moment. It is a series of smaller moments, each one breaking the norm, each one building on the last.

This is peak stacking.

Bohemian Rhapsody was the first record I ever bought.

It became a hit. But more importantly, it rewrote what a hit could be.

In 1975, pop songs followed a formula: verse → chorus → verse → chorus.

This song didn’t.

It moved through six distinct movements:

It did not repeat the chorus. It broke the norm.

Up until then radio songs were 3 minutes. This was 5 minutes 55 seconds.

Record labels said it wouldn’t get played. Radio DJs were told it was too long. It broke the norm in how long a song could be.

Nor could the radio DJs define what category it fitted in.

At the time, these worlds didn’t mix. But Bohemian Rhapsody, was all of the above.

It broke the category norm.

To record it, they used only 4 instruments. And just the voices from the band. But Queen used multi-layered overdubbing to build the operatic section.

What sounded effortless was actually relentless craft.

They broke the norm of production limits.

Lyrics were abstract, theatrical, unresolved.

No clear story. No obvious explanation.

Listeners couldn’t fully “solve” it.

It broke the meaning norm.

And then, if all that wasn’t enough, instead of touring to promote it, they leaned into one of the first music videos. As a kid watching it for the first time, it was a bonkers moment.

This broke the norm of how music could spread.

It became one of the most-streamed songs of the 20th century.

The peak moment came from stacking all the elements that broke the norm.

Together, they made it unforgettable.

A peak moment is rarely just one thing.

It is a series of norm breakers, placed in the right order.

An unforgettable cocktail of surprise, feeling, and meaning.

This is where the art is.

Another clue: A peak moment is rarely one thing.

It is a stack of smaller moments, each one breaking the pattern in its own way.

Grace.

A Moment Maker understands a peak moment needs layers. This is the art. Like a chef doesn’t just understand flavours. They feel them.

This is the subtle bit. Too much of one spice kills the dish.

The absence of another can make it.

You can read about it. You can study it. You can do every course going. But the only true way to become a Moment Maker is to watch those who are already doing it.

Watch what they notice. Watch what they leave out. Watch where they place the surprise. Then go and make your own.

Badly at first. Everyone learns the same way.

Your teachers are everywhere.

One of mine was a landlord in a Dublin pub. I was with one of my close mates. We agreed to go to the pub and have a single pint of Guinness. Just one.

There was a live band. And we were sat at the bar and just loving this small moment.

Then we finished our pint of the black stuff, and looked out of the window. It had started raining.

The landlord could see we were about to leave. He could see the rain falling. And we didn’t have a coat between us. Then he reached from under the bar and handed us an umbrella.

“Here you go, lads. Just leave it in the next pub. It will find its way back here one day.”

What was given here was not an umbrella. It was trust.

Trust is rare. Trust given to a stranger is even rarer.

So the fourth clue is ‘Grace.’

You do something without expectation of anything back.

You do it to feel human.

To help another human.

Belonging.

I was in Seville for a three-week work/life experiment. It coincided with Holy Week. The peak moment was easy to see - the paso (think of a moving golden altar) being carried through the streets carried by 40-50 people you can’t even see. For many this is the moment.

But inside the big moment are smaller, quieter moments. They don’t get as much attention. But for some people, they are the real human moments.

As the procession of thousands walks through the streets, the Nazarenos - the hooded members of the brotherhoods carry long candles called cirios.

And then you see the children.

They walk up to the nazarenos with silver balls of foil and ask for wax. Drop by drop, the melted candle wax is added to the ball. There’s a game in play. And it’s a simple one: the biggest wax ball wins.

With each candle, they add to the wax ball. But they are also adding to their memory of Holy Week.

For them, the peak moment is not the golden altar. It is the wax ball. Hopefully, the winning one.

For others, it is the smell of the incense. Years later, they can catch just a whiff of it, and it will take them back to the cobbled streets of Seville.

For some, it’s the corneta - the short procession horn. The sound is not beautiful. It is not meant to be. It is made to cut through a noisy crowd. More like an animal cry in distress. Ugly beautiful. But somehow it bypasses your ears and goes directly to your soul. For me, I stood on an overcrowded corner late at night, just as the corneta played his closing solo. A moment.

For some, the peak moment is walking barefoot behind the procession, feeling the cobbles underfoot and the warm candle wax left behind by those who walked before them.

A peak moment is different for each person, even if experiencing the same event. But the meaning can be the same. In this case, belonging.

So the fifth clue is ‘Belonging.’

It’s an invisible anchor. It hooks us to a place. A people. A way of thinking. A way of being.

In the same ways as not all giants are big, not all peak moments are big, either.

A Bit More.

The final clue came from a toaster.

But not just any toaster.

This toaster knows the exact moment I am in.

I put the bread in.

It toasts.

Then it beeps to tell me it’s done.

Then somehow it knows the question I am about to ask:Is this enough?

If it isn’t, I don’t start again and hope.

I simply press the ‘Bit More Button.’

It interrupts the conversation that is already going on in my head. Just a simple nudge to get my attention. That might be the hidden craft of moment making.

Not making something bigger. Not louder. Not more expensive.

Just to give it a bit more thought.

What do the children of Seville want? They don’t want to be treated like children. They want a game only they can play. They want to be a part of it. They want to belong.

What does the landlord in Dublin want? He knows the conversation going on in your head - I wish I brought a coat. And that’s his chance to show you he cares. Not with a fond farewell. Not with a shallow gesture. With an umbrella.

He knows you will leave with a smile and a warm feeling.

The Moment Maker knows that it is as simple and as complicated, as that.

A bit more warmth. A bit more care. A bit more clarity.

Which all comes down to being understood.

To know the conversation that’s already going on.

To interrupt it gently.

To push it forward.

And to do it so uniquely it never gets forgotten.

The Moment Maker knows every moment has two audiences. The person seeing it and feeling it right now. And then the person who will try to remember it later.

Most experiences are designed for the first. A world-class Moment Maker thinks about both.

The umbrella helps you through the rain tonight. But it carries the feeling of trust for years.

The wax ball gives the child a game to play today. But one day, it will take them all the way back to Seville.

The moment creates the feeling.

The handle gives that feeling a way back.

Why Unforgettable Moments Fade?

This is perhaps my most important takeaway:

Memories do not survive because they mattered. They survive because they can be found again.

Memory, like a saucepan, needs handles.

Without a handle, you cannot pull it out when you need it.

So the job of the Moment Maker is not just to create the moment.

It is to make it easy to find again.

A name. An object. A phrase. A smell. A ritual. A story.

The children of Seville have the wax ball.

The Dublin pub has the umbrella.

The toaster has the Bit More button.

These are not just details.

They are handles.

They make the moment easier to retrieve.

So if you want a moment to be remembered, ask this:

What will help people retrieve it later?

These five levers are simple but they create handles.

1. Give it a name. What word will they use?

2. Give it an object. What thing will they keep?

3. Give it a sense. What smell, sound, taste will bring them back?

4. Give it a story. What phrase will they often repeat?

5. Give it a return. A story that gets told, gets remembered.

Because the moment happens once. But the handle lets it happen again and again.

A handle is the thing the memory grabs onto when it wants to bring it back.

So the question to ask is not: How do I make the memory stick? It is, what will make it easy to call it back?

How to make a strong handle?

Let’s go back to the umbrella.

It has all the ingredients of a strong handle.

An object: Umbrella.

A line: “It’ll find its way back here one day.”

A sense: The taste of that one perfect pint of Guinness.

And a meaning: He didn’t give an umbrella. He gave trust.

Each detail gives the brain something to grab hold of.

But you need to be able to compress it down without losing its essence.

The story needs a small enough name to travel through time.

The Umbrella in Dublin.

That is the handle.

Then you write the story in a way the brain likes it. So it can find it again.

Dublin pub.

Rain outside.

One perfect pint.

Heading to another pub.

No coat.

Landlord notices before we ask.

He offers umbrella.

We say we’ll bring it back.

He says it will find its way back one day.

This is not a story about an umbrella. It’s a story about trust.

That is enough.

Not the whole essay.

Just the bones of the memory.

Then you let the story travel.

You retell it.

Same title. Same line. Same lesson.

Not word for word. But bone by bone.

A week later. A month later. Six months later.

Each retelling clears the path to the memory.

The more the path is walked, the easier the memory is to find.

That is the hidden work of the Moment Maker.

They don’t just make the moment.

They make it easy for memory to come back.

Can It Come Back?

Perhaps the question is no longer: Can it be remembered?

But, can it be found?

Most people start with the moment.

A Moment Maker starts with the return.

They ask:

What will people call it?

What will they repeat?

What will they point to?

What will bring it back?

Because the moment happens once.

But a strong handle allows it to happen again.

A name.

A phrase.

An object.

A sound.

A story.

Something small enough to travel.

Something strong enough to carry the meaning with it.

That is why small things matter.

The wax ball.

The umbrella.

The corneta.

The Bit More button.

They are not decorations around the moment.

They are the way back to it.

The skill of the Moment Maker is not just making people feel something while they are there.

It is giving that feeling a way to survive after they leave.

So don’t just ask: Was it good?

Ask: Can it come back?

So what did I learn?

I started this essay wondering why we forget important moments.

The simplest answer is that we have to.

The brain cannot keep everything. So it edits. You know, deletes.

But it doesn’t always keep what matters most.

It can forget going to a wedding, but remember the napkin folded on the table.

It can forget Graceland but remember the sink in the hotel room.

For a Moment Maker, that is good news.

Most people think the answer is to make moments bigger.

Bigger stage.

Bigger speaker.

Bigger reveal.

But memory doesn’t reward size or budget.

It rewards meaning.

And meaning needs something to carry it.

An umbrella.

A wax ball.

A sound.

A phrase.

The art of a Moment Maker is not simply to make a moment.

It is to give the moment a handle.

The moment happens once.

The handle gives it a way back.