Nostalgia
“The past is always meddling. From your first memory — from the moment you have a past.”
What is the purpose of nostalgia? I know that it seems to be the act of indulging in the past. It’s mythmaking. It’s so hard to let go of the things we had when we had them, and by the very act of indulging in the past as if we are there right now, indulging in the details of the Legend that is our lives — we let the gifts of the present slip right through our fingers. I hate that I can’t stop looking back at what I had. Embroiled in details from a month ago, two years ago, yesterday — a decade ago.
One of my earliest memories is of translucent colorful beads in my hair, in a pink outfit, dancing in front of the sliding glass door of the balcony in the apartment where we lived for nearly ten years. I was four. My mother had a glossy cherry wine TV stand with two gold-handled doors on the front that opened up. The deep red cherry color always made me feel so regal looking up at it from the warm sun-soaked carpet. It made the room feel warm and sturdy with two large heavy drawers that held all our movies, CDs, and endless cords knotted so absolutely it would actually be quicker to buy new ones; instruction manuals with water stains and missing pages, and remotes to past TVs, VHS or DVD players with missing battery coverings, number markings, and even whole buttons.
When I can’t find much happiness I remember myself laying on the warm carpet watching movies, dancing, and singing. I would watch my favorite movies or listen to my favorite CDs over and over, rewinding the parts with my favorite songs and tenderest moments. I try to imagine happiness as that impulse to seek pleasure without guilt, unconcerned with arbitrary notions of dignity or pride. I try to remember ‘happy’ as an impulse.
The world seems to be imploding and I don’t know when I’ll find soft ground again. I don’t know how to move forward. I feel like a broken toy-train, constantly coming off the tracks. I feel glued down, and maybe if I can just pull hard enough and the answers will fall out like loose change, clattering to the floor.
I was a fearless five-year-old who loved color and a sad ten-year-old hiding under clothes that were too big. I remember how ugly I felt at 10. It felt like a cruel joke not to have flowing hair and perfect skin. That was what being loved looked like to me then. I find so much pity for my ten-year-old self. Or I find memories of ugly jealousy and how much I wanted to be someone else. As I reflect now I know she deserves better from me and I feel sadness, for not having more wisdom for her. Something enough to make everything good again. Young me needs my love, she needs me to fix what is broken for her. Why haven’t I fixed it yet? I feel like I’m failing her and she seems to be in every decision I make.
I kept wishing for the body I had six months ago, and a year ago, and five years ago. What I wouldn’t have given for the body I had five years ago. It’s an emotional paradox to always want what we don’t have. I know this and still, I wonder — This body, this face, these thoughts, this money, these things, and these talents — Will it run out? Am I appreciating it enough? All this time and the words have never run out, assuring me that yes, others still know what I mean. These things have changed not disappeared. But nostalgia steals. It hangs out in my childhood home, peeling paint off the walls, jiggling loose those drawers, and stirring up dust. I can’t remember exactly when happiness stopped being an instinct. I just know that one day a blue shadow fell across the carpet and I couldn’t get warm there anymore.
No amount of loathing for time passed will change where I am now. There is no satisfactory amount of remembering, — sunny summer afternoons in the pool of a girl I loved, the anxious set of my arms as she leans her head against mine, her arms around my neck. I’ve learned to empathize with myself for loving so selflessly then. To learn from it is like trying to look both forward and back, not just with the knowledge of better but the ability to do better. Still what I wouldn’t give to trust so freely, so ready to love and hope for things no-one ever promised. My face in their hands, my eyes still bright. I shed tears for teenaged me, tears no-one else shed for her. She loved so beautifully and suffered so much. Did she have to? Was it all unavoidable? It must’ve been if I couldn’t change it — See? The past is always meddling. From your first memory — from the moment you have a past. There is no sunny past I can lasso into the present with no problems and perfect bodies. The sun is only in front of me now.
What I’m learning now is how to not live in fear, and to anticipate the good, and how to enjoy a moment. How to trust an impulse. How to not avoid feeling the present intensely. To abandon pride in crucial moments and trust my instincts. To let someone see me cry. Learning to enjoy again the flow of anticipation from words — written and read.
I feel any rush and I instinctively think: is it the next blow? The other shoe dropping on my head? Will I run out of words now? It’s cowardly. When did I get to be so cowardly? Nostalgia isn’t going anywhere. It continues to reimagine and re-examine the past; blowing cold grief through my memories that threatens to bow me like a sapling.
And the present always beginning.
Now. And now. Even Now.
The present is an ocean wave arriving and receding over and over again. And the foamy past returns to the waves. I am on the beach with the gritty remnants under my feet, the present stretched out as I wait for the next moment, the next chance; ‘I let that one slip away’ — marveling at how fast it goes, flowing almost imperceptibly over the sharpest edge of a blade.
How do I stop thinking about the wave that’s coming or the one that came before? I suppose it is rushing into the wave letting the salt into your nose, your eyes, your hair. Eventually, you learn to hold your breath, to shut your lids tight, and let the warm current flow around you. Poking your head out of the water, and enjoying the sun in between breaths, keeping all the cool shells for your window sill, floating on your back, anticipating the good. Enjoy this Wave. And this one. And This One.
Natalia is a writer aspiring to write professionally, and currently blogging at theproblemwithlemons.wordpress.com. Click Here for more of her work.
