The term “nostalgia” derives from the Greek words nostos (homecoming) and algos (pain). The literal translation of the word, then, is the suffering evoked by the desire to return to one’s place of origin. The phrase nostalgia was first coined in the 17th century by Swiss physician Johannes Hofer. At that time, many physicians considered nostalgia a mental disorder caused by the unremitting clanging of cowbells in the Alps, which caused brain damage.
This is hilarious to me. Obviously, our interpretation of nostalgia is much different these days, but the triggers for a yearning for the past can be equally absurd: broken trinkets and worn photographs. Interesting, however, is that the theme of painful longing for what is lost can be found in writings throughout history around the world. Ancient Greeks, Biblical proverbs, and modern-day writers often visit this phenomenon. It seems to be a universal time portal to help us remember that our lives are rooted in a narrative that gives meaning to our experiences.
The smell of rain-saturated leaves evokes an immediate lightness of being as I am whisked through time to find myself playing in the woods with my brother. My current surrounding fades as I step in time to once again feel the damp chill on my cheeks and remember the vivid colors of the ground darkened and shiny from the rain. My ears hear his laughter mingling with the rustle of fallen leaves beneath our feet; I feel jarred when I blink and see that in fact I am still here, nestled heavily in adulthood, thousands of miles away from those childhood playing grounds.
When I feel consumed with the ushered loneliness of faded friendships and miles removed over the years, I turn to the memories captured in old pictures. I hold to them as if it were possible to reach through and relive those times again. This reflective journey makes me keenly aware of how fleeting the moments are that comprise our days, and I instinctively want to clutch at time and hold it close to slow the growth of my children.
I heard a friend say while watching her 14-year-old son play from afar, “If I had known that moment, years ago, when my son held me that it was the last time, I never would have let go.” My heart shattered with her words and that inevitable loss shared by all mothers. For all of the unknowing lasts captured by these photos, they are but shadows of those beautiful relationships. My reflection turns more inward as I acknowledge the permanent influence these people have on my values and expectation of this world. It seems the longing eases with the realization that I when I act accordingly to these values and expectations, I am the breathing collection of it all.