In medicine, the suffix -algia indicates pain. Neuralgia is nerve pain. Myalgias are muscle aches of the type that we commonly feel during an acute viral illness (it is one of the common symptoms of COVID 19).
Nostalgia combines the Greek nostos, to return home, with -algia, pain.
We regard others who dwell in nostalgia as prone to melancholy, pining for a past they cannot return to. Yet many of us have indulged in the practice of nostalgia since the advent of the pandemic, recalling those freedoms of movement and social interaction we took for granted in past seasons.
A poet I've known since childhood sent me a link to a 5 minute podcast exploration of nostalgia, a reflective essay, and it got me thinking of a few moments where happy memories mingle with a sense of loss and what it means to inhabit those spaces.
Someone I love is sick, and the available data seem to indicate this is a condition that will not get better. This is heartbreaking, and at times we've discussed what it means through tears, or feeling disheartened through the lens of the experience we had when others had similar symptoms that deteriorated.
At the best moments, however, we've looked back on shared travels we've taken, aggravations we endured, even misunderstanding and hurt feelings that required tending to repair - and all of it imbues the current moment with more meaning and affection rather than less.
It enriches our present to recall the past that has laid the foundation for our relationship.
In the past week, we had an unexpected power outage. It left our kids needing to borrow my more fully charged computer in order to continue online distance learning using the wifi hotspot on my phone, meaning I had the better part of a day to function with no electrical gadgets at my disposal.
I found myself looking through my high school yearbook from senior year (it's the only one I have, since we lost our house in a fire the summer after my junior year), recalling the intense feelings and deep friendships (a few continue to this day) that marked that stage of life.
After our power was restored, I've enjoyed sifting through memories enough that our family sat down one night to look through online photo albums of prior summer travel. Not surprisingly, we all had strong recollections of the meals we shared.
A Mexican national in Chiapas wore his heart on his sleeve. He had met had married (and later divorced) an Israeli woman, and the result of his heartbreak was aromatic homemade pita bread and falafel garnished with pickled jalapeño vegetables. My wife and kids recalled that he took forever to grill each order fresh, and it was absolutely worth the wait.
Another favorite was a roadside grill the size of a large walk-in closet. The place sold souvlaki on the one main road that ran north to south along the length of a small Greek isle not mentioned in the guidebooks and avoided by the cruise ships.
We stumbled across it when the scent that wafted into our rental car compelled us to pull over to the side of the road and track it down. The memory of the soft Greek pita and perfectly spiced meat remains the quickest way to engage my son in a happy memory to this day.
Did those reminiscences underscore our sense of loss at missing out on our original summer plans? Absolutely, and that made us a little sad.
But mostly it helped us appreciate how fortunate we've been to have shared those experiences; to weather the COVID storm in health and security when so many others have struggled; and to have each other for support.
This past weekend, a record-setting heat wave beset the LA area, with some regions in the San Fernando Valley reaching 121 degrees. It was touching to see how our kids responded. My son moved a mattress on the floor of his sister's room, and they doubled up on cooling fans and had an impromptu sleepover to cope with the extreme heat, distracting one another until they fell asleep.
I miss the way we were.
But recalling it makes me more grateful for the way we are.