When I opened my eyes this morning I immediately began to weep. It was short and cathartic, not for bitterness but a weighty sense of nostalgia that often washes over me in great surges this time of year. I had been dreaming that I was at my alma mater as an alumnus, wandering the hallways of the old science building. I found, unsurprisingly, that everything had been transferred to locations built in my absence. Walking outside in the sun I saw a pick-up game of Frisbee taking place a short distance away. I recognized a boy with whom I had played this sport and waved. This prompted my briefly joining the game, but I found that the rules of play had changed and I no longer could participate in any meaningful way. I said to the boy, “It was good to see you, you’re my last connection here.” We shook hands, parted, then I woke up.
It was easy for me to think at first that the dream had been a direct interpretation of college memories; full of fellowship, laughter, and otherwise but often teasing the edges of my emotional breaking points. I haven’t been back to campus in years, in part because during my last visit I immediately felt an irresistible urge to smoke, had an anxiety attack, then without warning ran into a past lover for whom I still felt a consuming affection.
As I ground my coffee, however, it occurred to me that the setting of St. Olaf was an easy selection for my mind through which to express more general sentiments; perhaps not an arbitrary choice but not the necessary one, either. I recognized that the real source of the tears was a deep sense of loss. In the dream this was manifested as a passing of familiarity with a place and culture where I spent several formative years. I’ll cede to the risk of waxing maudlin, but offer that another, more recent loss weighs more heavily on my mind. Countless comforting reflections and memories now dead-end where they used to find easy passage, splitting apart until they’re diffuse enough to ignore or rationalize. It occurred to me that perhaps these short-lived cascades of thought, resulting from the impinging of remembered emotions upon the wall of reality, are the definition of nostalgia. The word itself derives from the Greek term meaning “to return home”. But, of course, you can’t go home again.
It was easy for me to think at first that the dream had been a direct interpretation of college memories; full of fellowship, laughter, and otherwise but often teasing the edges of my emotional breaking points. I haven’t been back to campus in years, in part because during my last visit I immediately felt an irresistible urge to smoke, had an anxiety attack, then without warning ran into a past lover for whom I still felt a consuming affection.
As I ground my coffee, however, it occurred to me that the setting of St. Olaf was an easy selection for my mind through which to express more general sentiments; perhaps not an arbitrary choice but not the necessary one, either. I recognized that the real source of the tears was a deep sense of loss. In the dream this was manifested as a passing of familiarity with a place and culture where I spent several formative years. I’ll cede to the risk of waxing maudlin, but offer that another, more recent loss weighs more heavily on my mind. Countless comforting reflections and memories now dead-end where they used to find easy passage, splitting apart until they’re diffuse enough to ignore or rationalize. It occurred to me that perhaps these short-lived cascades of thought, resulting from the impinging of remembered emotions upon the wall of reality, are the definition of nostalgia. The word itself derives from the Greek term meaning “to return home”. But, of course, you can’t go home again.
No comments:
Post a Comment