I recently returned to my birthplace to attend the memorial service in honor of my mom. It was a short 4 day trip that I shared with family and friends, some of which I had not seen since before high school. The memorial was held at the baptist church of my childhood. The service was a simple one filled with my mom's favorite old hymns, ones like How Great Thou Are and The Old Rugged Cross. My father and I picked out these and others knowing that mom had held them very close to her heart. After the conference call with the pastor was over I had visions of what the service would be like. We would all be standing together, singing the old lyrics as the piano plays slowly just as it had when I was a child; "On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame..... I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown." Even though I no longer identify as a christian, these lyrics still effect me deeply. I am nostalgic, not only for the sweet sounds of the old hymns of my youth but for the city of my birth, and the four seasons that fed it's soul.
Nostalgia is defined by Merriam-Webster as "the wistful sentimental yearning to return to some past period or place...." And so it is in my memory; I remember sitting in church on a late august sunday morning, the sanctuary hot as blazes, my mom in the choir, and the congregation singing those old hymns. I remember those autumn days in early october when the trees were brilliantly displaying their rusty oranges, bright reds, and golden yellows. I remember the first snow flurries that announced that winter was coming, and the look of heavy wet snow as it silently fell on a windless February night. I remember the cold spring rains in early April that washed away the last of the snow and the warm southern winds of early June that heralded the end of another school year. I remember them all as clear as if they had happened yesterday.
The morning I was to leave I drove around my birth town. I had to. I needed to feed that part of my soul that still lives in those memories. A week ago on that cold overcast friday morning I headed downtown to the lakefront to see the old Episcopal church, the one built of the quintessential creamy yellow brick so often found in the old parts of the city. I turned right along the waterfront so I could drive down the brick paved College Avenue. I wanted to see those old Italianate 2 and 3 story homes made of the same yellow brick, one of which I have dreamt of owning for years. In my nostalgia place I can see myself waking up in the east facing bedroom as the sun rises over Lake Michigan. I can see myself having a cup of afternoon tea while the warm breezes off the lake gently rustle the lace curtains behind me. I can see myself puttering in the garden under those old maple trees or reading a book while I'm curled up on the porch swing. And I can see myself on sunday mornings, strolling down the few blocks to the episcopal church for mass, stopping to chat with my neighbors as I go.
My nostalgia place can be quite heady sometimes; but isn't that what it's suppose to be about? These heady memories of mine are like a shaft of pure golden light that is sent through the crystal prism of nostalgia. It breaks that light into an array of breathtaking colors so brilliant that it defies belief. That is what nostalgia does to me, it takes the banal memories of my childhood and breaks them all into brilliant shades of color that resemble little of the original. And I'm a sucker for it every time. So much so that I sometimes find living in San Francisco to be a bit tedious and empty. What I realized that cold overcast morning a week ago is that nostalgia is all about the nature of loss. These memories that I hold dear are a part of my life that I haven't yet grieved for. I also realized something else when I was driving around that day. Nostalgia, however warm and cozy, actually prevents me from living in the present.
I have to say that grieving has never been my strong point. You would think that after living in San Francisco for almost four decades and losing so many friends during the AIDS pandemic, that I should be able to teach a master class on grieving. I wish it was but unfortunately it is not. In the past grieving has usually been quite a messy and teary affair, one that generally sneaks up on me, taking me by surprise, at the most inopportune times. When I'm watching a movie, or riding a bus, or when I'm out shopping. Or as it did the day after I returned home; at La Boheme. Granted this may not have been the best choice for a few days after my mom's memorial service but I did enjoy it, up until the very end that is. That is when the water works took over. I didn't fail onto the floor in a flood of tears but I could have if I had let myself. That probably would have been fitting for the end of the opera too, on stage, but not in the audience. What's weird though is ever since that day everything seems to remind me of my mom. From the little things of my everyday life to the big things, they all seem to have some connection to her energy. I guess it's a good thing in some way or maybe it is my natural way of grieving, however messy. It may be me trying to hold on as my way of keeping mom alive for just a little bit longer. Or it may just be that she is sitting squarely in the front part of my brain because of recent evens. Either way mom is still a part of my life and will remain that way for many years to come. I love you mom.
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