I would love to have some sort of 'Back To The Future' Delorean

Questlove, the guardian of rhythm and memory, once spoke with both humor and yearning: “I would love to have some sort of ‘Back To The Future’ Delorean time machine travel device so I could go back to 1981 to see that very first Jackson 5 concert I went to, back when I was a kid.” Though playful in tone, these words carry a deeper longing shared by all humanity—the desire to return to a moment of pure wonder, to relive the fire of youth, to once more touch a memory that shaped the soul.

The image of the Delorean time machine is itself symbolic. It is not simply a car of fantasy, but a vessel of yearning, a chariot of impossible return. Questlove’s wish reveals a truth: our hearts often hunger to revisit the moments that awakened us, the moments when the world opened wide and filled us with awe. For him, it was the thunder and magic of the Jackson 5 concert, where music was not just sound but revelation, where a child’s ears were baptized by rhythm and his destiny as an artist quietly sealed.

Such longing is not unique to Questlove. The ancients, too, sought ways to journey backward. In myth, Orpheus descended into the underworld not only for love but for memory, longing to reclaim what time had taken. Even he, the greatest of musicians, discovered that the past cannot be grasped again. The yearning to return is eternal, but the law of time is stern: the moment once lived cannot be relived. This is both the tragedy and the beauty of memory.

Yet, though we cannot return physically, memory itself is a kind of time machine. It allows us to carry the spirit of past moments into the present. The child who saw the Jackson 5 in 1981 is still alive within Questlove’s heart, shaping his artistry, guiding his rhythm, inspiring his devotion to music. In this way, though the Delorean does not exist, the past still travels with us, not as an exact replay, but as a living influence upon who we are today.

History offers us another example in the story of Helen Keller. Stripped of sight and hearing, she could not physically return to her earliest memories. Yet through touch and words taught by her teacher Anne Sullivan, she learned to summon memory as light within darkness. Her past, once unreachable, became her strength, guiding her into a life of teaching and inspiring millions. Memory, though unseen, became her time machine, carrying her from isolation into purpose.

The wisdom in Questlove’s words, then, is not simply nostalgia. It is a reminder to honor the moments that shape us, to recognize that the joy of childhood wonder is not lost but carried within, waiting to inspire us again. We cannot ride a machine into the past, but we can honor the memory by letting it guide our present choices—by creating for others the kind of beauty, awe, and magic that once lit our own hearts aflame.

Thus the lesson is clear: cherish your past, but do not dwell in regret that it cannot be relived. Instead, let it serve as a wellspring. Ask yourself: what moments gave me light, and how can I kindle that light for others? If your memory is of music, create music. If it is of kindness, live kindly. If it is of wonder, live so that others may wonder. In this way, memory is not a cage but a gift, not an anchor but a compass.

So, O listener, take Questlove’s yearning as your own lesson. You may not command a Delorean to carry you backward, but you can carry forward the joy of your earliest awakenings. Let your past be the teacher of your present. Create moments for others as luminous as those once created for you. In this way, the circle of time is honored, and though we cannot return, we ensure that wonder never dies. For what is remembered, and lived again in spirit, becomes eternal.