Trauma Nostalgia
For the last few weeks, I have had a serious case of trauma nostalgia. Despite all the terrible, life ending and upending events that came with the pandemic year, I feel wistful for the months when I had nothing better to do than write, read, take long hikes or bike trips. That year, when there few public places I was allowed to be, when time was surplus might be as close as I ever get to a period of true retirement. I know others who feel the same, bonded by those months of background fear that was eased by hours to paint, learn a language, or pursue some other stowed away passion. This is nothing new. After World War II, Londoners grieved that they had never felt closer to their fellow man then during near constant bombing.
Today is the first day of the new year. I have spent it tearing pages out of old journals or playing cards alone. I’ve organized and refiled poems, short stories, essays, and novel both finished and abandoned. January 1st is meant to be a day for resolutions, for returning to the task of building an ideal life, reaffirming that faith, what Baptists refer to as rededication. Or to say the same with brevity— purpose. The weight of the concept of purpose has caused me to waste most of the day. This is what Baptists call backsliding, returning to one’s old bad ways.
The Japanese have a term for one’s true inherent purpose—ikagi. It is like Aristoltle’s concept of ergon. A knife’s purpose is to cut. A flower’s purpose is to bloom. And my purpose is… That’s my current philosophical struggle. On one hand it feels as limiting to accept a singular pre-determined meaning as it does to believe in a solitary soulmate. On the other, moving from one thing to the next risks never achieving one’s highest potential. If one’s ikagi or ergon is inherent it should be obvious, an aspect of self that has always existed. If I accept this, then my purpose is to create. It’s what I’ve always done. The time has come to confess and rededicate my life.
Last year I wrote poems every week for a month and a half. Three were eventually published. By summer that spark dimmed and died. Maybe I lost faith in my work. It is a human thing to do. On her death bed even Mother Theresa confessed that she hadn’t prayed in years. But here I am, a prodigal son returning home to the page, making a new a confession of faith.
This year I will write. I will be teaching half of my course loads in two local prisons where I will teach others to write. And on this day, one year in the future, if I only have a stack of half-formed, flawed work there is a Japanese term for that as well; wabi-sabi, or beautifully imperfect.
I wish you all the best, and hope that this year you find your one unique ikagi through the trauma of being.
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