My early exposure to the nostalgia of others began during my childhood on a commune, where there lingered a prevailing sentiment that the most glorious years had transpired before my time. The essence of the late ‘60s and ‘70s was perceived as the foundational era of our world. However, by the late ‘80s, during my awakening consciousness, that world was gradually disintegrating as individuals pursued careers, started families, tied the knot, and inevitably parted ways. As a dependent child in need of supervision and financial support for extracurricular activities, I vaguely grasped that I might be a fragment of a larger predicament. I harbored resentment towards this realization but acknowledged it as an inescapable aspect of life. Every social circle experiences its zenith, and ours had already passed. While some children are enveloped in religious dogma, this was the equivalent within my community.
The notion that my community’s prime had elapsed before my arrival felt like a slight in my youth. As an adult, it has instilled in me a profound wariness of nostalgia in all its forms. My sentiments towards nostalgia mirror the sentiments of some children raised by alcoholics towards alcohol. And during the festive season, nostalgia, akin to alcohol, permeates every facet of our lives. Each of us harbors a unique relationship with nostalgia. Understanding how it influences my emotions and actions has been pivotal as I’ve matured.
Approaching holiday nostalgia should mirror handling a controlled substance – simultaneously enjoyable and perilous. Even for those of us discontent with our origins or for whom nostalgia holds minimal significance throughout the year, the holiday period entices us to gaze into the abyss of the past for an extended duration. Ideally, holiday nostalgia serves as a stimulating state that intensifies one’s existence, akin to a microdose of ‘shrooms.
Conversely, it can manifest as an insatiable craving – a yearning for a non-existent fix. To cope, we engage in elaborate theatrics, subjecting our families to reenactments of our deepest regrets and fantasies, draining everyone involved. We often rely on holiday nostalgia in a bid to mend past fractures.
My approach to managing nostalgia, particularly since the passing of my parents, has been to exclude it from my life. Adopting a shark-like mentality: keep moving forward. Nostalgia is too hazardous – despite my reservations, the risk of an overdose persists. Despite my fondness for the holiday season’s warmth, I struggle to indulge in its pleasures due to my critical disposition. Paradoxically, the more I shun it, the more daunting it becomes, leading me towards isolation. This strategy is inherently flawed. After all, isn’t fostering togetherness the essence of the holidays?
There exists an aspect of nostalgia akin to reflecting on the chapters of one’s life in disbelief, a sentiment I can endorse. It evokes a sense of humility in the face of time’s relentless march. Following my mother’s demise, one of my initial musings – inexplicable as it may seem – was the possibility of evolving into someone who sheds tears listening to opera. I envisioned grief as an enriching force in my life, introducing me to novel forms of nostalgia previously unbeknownst to me. While I am yet to weep at the sound of opera, at least not thus far at 41, the future remains uncertain – numerous factors could conspire to alter this.
I aspire for nostalgia to occupy a modest space in my life, particularly during the holidays. Consequently, I’ve endeavored, albeit perhaps futilely, to pinpoint the aspects of my past that evoke the most wistfulness and integrate elements of those experiences into my life annually.
During a winter when I was approximately 11 years old, I accompanied my mother on a visit to our friends residing on another commune across the country – a commune intertwined with a theater company. They were amidst their annual Christmas performance, where the audience traversed the woods on sleighs drawn by draft horses, witnessing unfolding scenes emerging from the darkness. Occasionally, I was permitted to contribute to the production: holding a lantern from behind a tree and similar tasks. I adored it fervently, akin to being nostalgic for a moment while still experiencing it. This spectacle endures to this day, prompting me to envision the prospect of flying out with my family to attend it – a form of nostalgia exposure therapy.
Several winters later, at the abode of family friends in a secluded region of Vermont, we careened down a slalom-like driveway on sleds, spanning approximately half a mile through the dimly lit surroundings, with candle-lit paper bags marking the corners. A pickup truck awaited us at the driveway’s end to ferry us back to the summit.
Over time, I’ve discerned that the wintry woods post-nightfall provide an ideal setting for me to microdose on nostalgia without plunging into the abyss. Following the birth of my first son, I resolved to establish a personal holiday tradition. My complete abstinence from nostalgia seemed devoid of warmth post-motherhood. I stumbled upon an ancient English custom known as “wassailing,” involving serenading trees in the woods. It appeared to be a charming tradition that a child might relish – or at the very least, mock.
Our inaugural wassail transpired in 2010, attended by no more than seven individuals, including the infant nestled within my parka. Amidst over a foot of snow, we laboriously made our way to the spruce tree I had earmarked in the park a few days earlier. We adorned the tree’s lower branches with popcorn and cranberry garlands, lighting a few candles that promptly extinguished in the wind. Encircling the tree, we vociferously sang the scant carols whose lyrics we could recollect. The event, albeit brief, lasted a mere 15 minutes. Nonetheless, it fulfilled my expectations.
Since then, we have partaken in wassailing annually, with the ritual evolving to encompass numerous friends and their children. As the children matured, we ventured deeper into the park where darkness truly envelops the woods. Equipped with thermoses and treats, our repertoire of songs expanded. It metamorphosed into a neighborhood tradition. Subsequent to the serenade, we engage in nocturnal sledding. My friend Andy invariably launches a flying lantern, a spectacle that captivates us each year as it soars above the city. One of the privileges of adulthood is crafting experiences that will evoke nostalgia in the future. It’s one of the few avenues through which we can genuinely shape our destinies. If nostalgia is akin to a controlled substance, at least I’m concocting my unique blend, aren’t I?