On Nostalgia
Sometimes, I write with chants or instrumental music playing in the background; other times, I write with white noise in my head and my surroundings. I generally avoid music with vocals. But today, I grew curious about writing with the MandoPop I used to listen to as a young adult as accompaniment.
What happens when the hearts of two souls sing together?
The air within these walls thickens. Silky tones, the perfume of nostalgia, a sense of missing with mild floral sweetness. My heart breaks. With a light ache and into a smile.
Nostalgia takes me by the hand down the cold, damp alley, then shines the torch at a frail body in yellowed rags, curled in on herself, trembling.
“She’s been waiting for you,” says Nostalgia.
I feel her sniffles.
That happened, that was real, that is no more. While Grief mourns that as a loss, Nostalgia seems to keep that close as a salute to life. It can stir up longings, which can sweep us away from the present moment with a pang. We can also let Nostalgia permeate through these chambers into every cell, and feel how much we once enjoyed a moment in life.
These memories, experiences I am reliving, were exchanged with my youth. My life then was not in complete vain.
You know, when you spend a large amount of your time feeling overwhelmed by emotions than actually doing anything, you can feel like none of it is real or ever happened. More dots are connecting for me. The need for, and absence of, physical manifestation or evidence, along with the absence of an empathetic witness and having much of my inner experiences denied and overwritten as a child created a split in my experience of reality.
It was not all just pain. It was not all in vain.
The truth sets in. The dam lowers.
Waves rush in. Of loneliness and isolation. Of grief. Of fear. Of helplessness. I can barely hold my footing.
“Feel them. Feel her.” Nostalgia nudges from behind, breaking my fall. What a soft and reliable presence to lean on.
Nostalgia shows me that even in moments when I was by myself, I was not entirely cut off from the world. These songs streaming over the net now had kept vigil for me even when I was unaware. The voices that touched me had always kept me company. The people who sang to my heart, they were real. Across space and time, they have walked alongside me. Their hearts, in solidarity with mine. Back then, with the singers, and now, with the poets, like how they sat with me in my last note.
Yes, I recognize my need, the particular type of support that spoke to me. Speak not. Ask not. Sing to me. Sing for me. Sing what my heart is unable to feel and express. Suddenly, I experience a newfound clarity for my writing. No wonder, oh, no wonder, I am so drawn to Chopin’s wish:
“Bach is an astronomer, discovering the most marvellous stars. Beethoven challenges the universe. I only try to express the soul and the heart of man.”
―Frédéric Chopin
Nostalgia, the fragrance of white musk that endures with depth and comfort when the sparkles and spices fade. Enfolding my heart in warm mellowness, everything—even pain—tastes sweet from the inside out. Nostalgia points to what was then and what is still here. We are still here. Time did not pass. We passed through time, discovering treasures along the way.
As the chorus trails off, Nostalgia walks the sun into slumber. Even when the vibrancy externally fades, the glow in this heart persists, finishing the duet sotto voce, “Worthwhile, isn’t it?”
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Hello & welcome — I am glad you are here. I am Rosslyn Chay, an inquirer, poet, and coach. The Dandelion Notes are field notes on my process and learnings through my human journey as I go on a quest to mend our fractured relationship with our nature.
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