In life you have to learn to count the good days. You have to tuck them in your pocket and carry them around with you.”
Richard Osman, The Thursday Murder Club
I’m not sure if I’ve used this quote in an earlier blog post and apologies if I have (I’m far too lazy to go back and check) but god I love the thought of carrying the good days around with me for when I need them most.
Now, I know I’m incredibly lucky in the beautiful life I have. There are far too many people in this world suffering in truly horrific ways and I am certainly not one of them. That being said, I do have my struggles and some days I feel inexplicably down despite all my numerous blessings. And I’m learning to be OK with these lows because without them the highs would seem infinitely less so.
As part of this process of becoming comfortable with my various emotions, I’ve learned to savour the moments in my life which are undeniably happy. Having been thoroughly enjoyed, I do tend to tuck these moments away and recall then when I’m feeling sad or hopeless. They really do help me to climb out of these dark ruts and back towards the light.
But what about the title of this post, you say. Isn’t nostalgia different than a positive memory? You’re right, brilliant reader. It is. Nostalgia is defined as a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition. Usually this means a sanitized and likely inaccurate memory of a time when everything was simpler and worry-free. So not quite the same thing as a genuinely happy experience which you tuck away for future comfort.
But what about when nostalgia and pure joy collide? That, my friend, is the sweet spot. And something I experienced just this past week…read on for a tale of unbridled joy and much-needed music therapy. And a little life lesson, lovingly offered, for good measure.
Something I heard more times than I can count when I was pregnant with my first child was: The days are long but the years are short. And I can confirm, this is exactly what my experience has been like. At least when it comes to the kids. I mean, that first baby is now almost four (when? how?) and my second is already over a year. I blinked and they grew.
However, somewhat confusingly, people would then tell me that it might be years before I feel like myself again but that this self-rediscovery would come one day and to just be patient.
It would be years until I felt like myself again? Would these be the aforementioned short years? Or interminably long ones? Who would I feel like? Would I like this new person? Would I miss myself? How changed was I going to be? I had so many questions.
Now that I’m one year postpartum from having my second daughter, I can confirm indeed that the drifting, discombobulating feeling of not being entirely yourself while trying to be 100% present for your kids is real and frustrating. And feeling this way does seem, strangely, to drag on and on even when your kids seem to be zooming through their developmental stages. How is it possible that my recovery is crawling at a snail’s pace but my kids are growing faster than I can comprehend? It makes…no sense to me.
So, I’ve been looking for ways to speed up the process of getting back to me (I know, I know, I’m supposed to trust that process thing but…I’m impatient, OK?). One of the things I have found works best to bring back little pieces of myself is music. Through familiar songs, I’m able to access memories and feelings long dormant.
And you know what’s better than listening to music on your stereo or car radio? Listening to it live. Even better? Enjoying said live music with a dear friend. This is where nostalgia and joy collide creating an intoxicating sense of youth and timelessness guaranteed to speed up any journey back to one’s previous self.
Which brilliant performer managed this particular brand of magic, you ask?
The Jonas Brothers.
And man, oh man. Was this music ever a potent hit of nostalgia and memory for me. From the very first chord. But lets back up a minute.
My friend Katie and I were both desperately in need of a Mom’s Night Out. This is not to say I don’t have enough support to take breaks from motherhood on a regular basis. I do, and for that I’m grateful. But a girl’s night out is an understandable rarity with young kids. And a girls’ night out for two moms? Even rarer.
Knowing this, we jumped at the chance to buy our tickets for this show months ago and gleefully made our way to our seats after an extremely unhealthy-yet-satisfying dinner of pizza, poutine and booze. Being the financially responsible matriarchs we are, we had purchased the nosebleed seats at the most affordable price and we dutifully climbed up to our dizzyingly high perch at the top of the arena.
Huffing and puffing only a little we finally reached our row and…it was covered with a tarp? Was our night about to end before it had even begun?
Don’t worry, dear reader, the universe apparently felt we were owed a win and boy did it deliver. Having been told by an usher that we had to change seats we headed down to the lobby expecting to be moved down a row or two at most. Nope. They were moving us down to Level 100. A full two levels down and only 15 rows from the second stage.
What?
We literally skipped to our unbelievably improved seats and proceeded to bond with the 20-year-olds sitting next to us immediately feeling even the tiniest bit younger as a result. And then…the music started and the Brothers rose onto the stage and launched into a medley of songs so familiar it brought tears to my eyes.
And I was lost.
The next 2.5 hours passed like a dream. We danced and sang our hearts out, not a single thought for sore backs or tired heads. We partied to this beloved music from our teenage years as if we were, in fact, teenagers once again belting to the car radio on the way to a matinee showing of the Lizzie McGuire movie to be followed by Starbucks and window shopping while talking about our hopes and dreams for our life ahead.
I felt…a huge weight lifted off me. It was as if all of a sudden I remembered what it was like to just be happy and not unhealthily focused on what brought me stress and anxiety. It was nostalgic, sure, in that listening to these songs brought me back to the best of my younger years. But it was also pure joy because though I understood that I could not go back, I realized that I didn’t have to. Such joy and hopefulness could still be mine even as an adult with the accompanying responsibilities. And what a glorious realization that was.
I left that show with a huge grin on my face and even though the next day was hard (I got home after midnight! I’m not that young anymore), I’m still feeling the aftershock of the pure exhilaration that coursed through my system that night.
You better believe I’ve put that particular experience in my pocket to pull out when needed in the weeks, months and years to come.
But you know what? That night brought me much more than a happy memory to grasp on to when times are hard. It reminded me that life is beautiful and wonderful and magical…even when it isn’t always easy.
So what’s my takeaway? Nostalgia is all well and good but remembering how to access, and revel in, pure joy is even better. Because when you know how to do that life becomes pretty grand indeed. Even on the not-so-good days.
So, dear reader: keep those good days in your pocket in case you need them. But, more importantly, try and remember that life truly is beautiful.
xo
Erin
Erin of the Hills 