Nostalgia Maria

About three weeks ago, it started to snow in Brașov. Not that three flakes kinda tease that we used to have for the last couple of years, but a full on snow that took me back to the good old days.

Safe to say, I was scared. Still needing Mr. Cane to walk about outside the house and with my history of always managing to slip and fall, I was hesitant to even take out the trash. As the snow was starting to pack up, so were my emotions. All the possible scenarios were running in my mind. Me slipping, me falling, me breaking something, me not being able to get up, me having to wait on the ground for someone to help me get up, me being hit by a car.

Unfortunately (on the short term) and fortunately (on the long term) I had to go to work and so I had to get out the protective cocoon my house was. It was, let’s say, interesting. The snow was fresh, so it was quite slippery. The people weren’t expecting the snow, so they were quite agitated. I was testing this for the first time, so I was quite scared. I managed to get to work, but it was tough. Dreading the moment I had to go back home, I was praying for a miracle: the snow stopping, the sun melting all of the snow already set, spring coming at the end of January or something like that.

The moment came and I ventured outside yet again. It was amazing. The snow layer was thicker and walking on it was easier. I even managed to enjoy the view and the way the city started to transform itself thanks to the white, clean layer of snow.

From that day on, I went to the park every day for a stroll. The fresh, crisp air was amazing and the cleanliness of the surroundings was great to look at. But what was even more amazing was the feeling of overcoming my fear.

I mean, look at that! I know it’s not much, just a random park in a random city on a random morning, but for me it’s more than that. It’s the proof that I can enjoy winter, that I can face my fears and that I am capable. For me, it’s freedom. Freedom from my thoughts, freedom from my fears, freedom from the cage I thought I was in, freedom from my so called disabilities.

The secret was that I asked myself what would seven year old Maria would do. Because kids are fearless, a good kind of fearless. Kids don’t have scenarios in their heads, they don’t fear the worst and they just want to have fun.

I know this post is a very random one, but it means a lot to me. Now that all the snow has melted, I can see the improvements when going outside. So, yes, face every challenge like a kid would, because the rewards won’t take long to appear. Fear is only in our mind, our soul is just a fearless child wanting to explore.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been contemplating the idea of success and making it in life. (of course, that week between Christmas and New Year is omitted from this contemplation because, let’s face it, we don’t know what day it is, who has energy for an existential crisis?)

As I soon celebrate a year of moving back to my home town to start adulting, I can’t help but wonder (insert Carrie Bradshaw’s voice) if I’m on the right path. Questioning all my decisions and constantly feeling a combo of “it’s not enough” and “is this all it’s ever going to be”, I decided to dig deeper and try to understand where it’s all coming from.

The first thought that crossed my mind was what impact society, and by society I mean movies, has on me. Even though I love a good bildungsroman, it really fucks up your expectations and your perceptions of success. Let’s take Erin Brockovich, for example. What can be more empowering than the idea that a woman who came from nothing, no higher education, no wealthy parents, no supportive partner, just her brains and her courage, just her kids and the neighbor who babysit them from time to time, just her balls and her realness, a woman like this could end up saving the world. It made me associate struggle with worth. It made me think that if you don’t suffer enough to obtain something, you are not worthy to have it. Personal or professional, emotional or pragmatic, people wise or property wise, you have to fight for it.

Many movies have this in common. Even The Devil Wears Prada has this underlying idea. We have to appreciate Andrea’s effort to lose weight, to walk on heels, to accessorize, to understand the fashion industry and to stand up to Miranda Priestly. One word: bildungsroman. She made it happen, she beat the odds, she struggled and she succeeded.

Think of Good Will Hunting. What can be more bildungsromanesque than the struggle of a young janitor at M.I.T. who happens to be a brilliant mathematician. Maybe Matt Damon and Ben Affleck’s stories. Even though, in the end, he chooses the girl over the job, he struggles to prove his worth. Do you see it, yet again? Struggle and worth, the fatal combo.

Let’s not forget that books, movies and shows are made to impress, attract and, ultimately, bring in the big bucks. Who would want to sit two hours in a cinema watching someone effortlessly make it through life? It has no cinematic value, so it has no cash value.

If we go further back with this analysis and try to escape the story told by the movies, we see that, in fact, the story told by society is pretty much the same.

Van Gogh was poor and ill and died, ear cut off and all that, at a young age. Manet was born upper-class and had all the privileges. Even though the latter may be one of the founding fathers of Impressionism, we empathize with van Gogh more. Look at the talent and look at the struggle, what an amazing, worthy artist. For God’s sake, he cut off his ear, his struggle must be worth it!

Sure, Balzac and Tolstoy are both prominent literary figures, but imagine this. A French poor artist being paid by word, living from paycheck to paycheck, eating and drinking off his friends, sleeping in brothels and falling ill most of the times versus a wealthy Russian author, son of a count, living well, having the comfort of Yasnaya Polyana to write his masterpieces. Who do you find more worthy? Who do you appreciate more? Who do you feel is more deserving of your empathy and appreciation?

After analyzing these aspects, something hit me. When the stories are told, nobody tells you what you should feel. The story is just told, objectively or subjectively, it is just told. The feelings, well, they come from you. So, all that pressure to be worthy, all that pressure to struggle and overcome obstacles, that comes from you. Society may show us these stories, but we are the ones who let them affect us and propagate the wrong mentality.

It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me. Well, yes, Taylor, you are again right. We are the only ones responsible for our well-being. Why is it easier to feed the bad, the tragic, the self-deprecating, the blame, the tragic? Is it an inheritance from the Greek to dwell on tragedy or is it an inherently easier way to cope with life?

Whatever the answer, we all deserve to feel worthy. I’m worthy because last week I walked more steps than the previous one. I’m worthy because six months ago taking a shower was challenge and now it has returned to being a pleasure. I’m worthy because I’m calmer and more flexible. I’m worthy because I didn’t give up. I could sit here and type away a thousand reasons for which I’m worthy. But you know what? I’m worthy just because… just because I am.

Trying to figure out what I should write about next, digging through my feelings, turning my ideas around and trying to wrap my head around what defines me, I realized I wanted to talk about nostalgia, ‘cause I’m a nostalgic girl.

Kinda obvious, you could say. It’s in the title…Sure, when I chose the title I was thinking that I’m an old-school girl, I love black and white movies, I like reading books, not kindles or audiobooks, I like vinyls and the fact that I have a pick-up, I like landlines and phones without a screen, I like traveling by train and I simply adore the fashion and the care for details of the 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and 50’s.

Then it hit me. I also like the changes that the 60’s brought to the history table, I am fascinated by the freedom of the 70’s, the 80’s seem like an amazing, whirlpool of a ride and the 90’s…well, the 90’s have my heart forever. So I’m not only nostalgic for events and trends that were cool one hundred years ago, I’m nostalgic for anything that isn’t now. Again, that’s the definition of nostalgia, Maria. Pardon my repetition, it’s just the way my train of thought. So, yes, I’m not just old fashioned, I’m a true nostalgic.

I can divide my nostalgia in two main categories: nostalgia for my own life events and nostalgia for places or events outside my life line.

I miss coming back from school with my best friend by my side, my grandma greeting us with love and food. Then we would just sit in my room laughing, talking or watching a movie. I miss making earrings with her after school, I miss the freedom that the first three years of high school had to offer, I miss getting ready for prom, going out after hours, going to parties or summer camp at the seaside.

Besides events, most of all I miss feelings. The security I felt when I saw my father picking me up from piano lessons, the walks we took in the city center, the summer afternoons when we played whatever I wanted and felt so spoiled. I miss the feeling of adventure I felt when first going abroad with my mom, visiting Vienna and Paris, going to Disneyland at eight years old and imagining I landed somewhere in heaven.

I miss those parties or night outs when everything seemed possible, when we laughed so hard our bellies ached, when we drank so much the room started spinning, when we danced like we didn’t give a fuck. I miss prom and all that anticipation, the pure happiness I felt and the sense that everything was going to turn out fine.

I miss listening to songs for the first time, seeing movies for the first time or meeting people for the first time. I miss the endless possibilities of a late summer evening of the great anticipation of a sunrise after a night of partying. I miss discovering France with Erasmus, I miss the city breaks I did with my friends, I miss the first bite of that perfect cannoli I had in Catania, I miss the trip to Milan where we ate the best pizza and found an amazing restaurant with complimentary limoncello and focaccia.

I miss the shivers I felt on my spine when I first listened to Stole the Show, I miss the first time I realized Reality Bites is my favorite movie, I miss that almost-made-me-throw-up-but-in-a-good-way-anticipation of my first kiss, I miss the sunsets I saw from my dorm, I miss winters full of snow and I miss the joy of Christmas presents.

I miss my grandma and her unconditional love, I miss the smell of her house and the summer weeks I spent there, I miss her cooking and the way she spoiled me, I miss her voice and her soft hands. I miss the young version of my parents and the child version of myself. When I look at childhood photos I have a longing in my heart that I cannot describe. It’s a combination of love and ache and wishing I was there and thankfulness and joy and sadness that it has passed.

But the funniest kind of nostalgia I feel is towards places or moments I haven’t been to or haven’t lived through. I felt it while watching Legends of the Fall and finding myself longing for those places and those times. I felt it while watching Midnight in Paris and realizing I’m not the only one. Most of all I feel it when I see photos of movies from the late 80’s and early 90’s. When I see those scenes from When Harry Met Sally I am fascinated by that maybe emptier and simpler New York, by that easier life style and by those more authentic people. I cannot explain why, but seeing a landline or mom jeans or anything from that period gives me a warm, good feeling. Maybe because it reminds me of my childhood, maybe because it reminds me of the version of my parents I found invincible or because life was really easier and more wholesome. Who knows?

All I know is that it’s a good sign to be nostalgic for so many thing, moments, places or people. It’s maybe a sign you’ve lived a happy, good life. Maybe it’s a sign that even if it seems like you haven’t accomplished much, you have. Maybe it’s a sign to be thankful… for yourself and for those around you.

For the past two weeks I’ve been feeling kinda blue. Nothing made me feel right. I’ve postponed writing a new post because I felt like I had nothing good or meaningful to say. Then I realized that maybe just talking about these feelings is meaningful enough and that it will surely help me and, with some luck, someone reading this.

It’s fine to feel like shit, it’s fine to not be happy all the time, it’s fine to question your existence, it’s fine to want to improve, it’s fine to crave sweets, it’s fine to want to stay indoors, it’s fine to be blue. It’s fine to just be.

Not gonna lie, it’s been a rough year for me. I’ve moved back home, I’ve changed jobs, I’ve changed houses, I’ve changed the environment and I’ve questioned all my choices. Not to mention some challenges with my health. From frequently falling down to wanting to just lay in my bed, from not being able to properly move my legs to being in a wheelchair for two days before a steroid treatment, from crying alone in my house because I can’t pick something up from the floor to hating myself for every decision that I’ve ever made, from hiding my struggles from all my loved ones to again hating myself for all the pain I’ve put them through, let’s just say it has been a challenging year.

I wanted to figure out who’s to blame. So I blamed my parents for my childhood trauma, I’ve blamed my job, I’ve blamed the boy who broke my heart in high school, I’ve blamed the doctors, I’ve blamed society, I’ve blamed the Universe, God in all his forms or religions, I’ve blamed the food, the water, the microorganisms surrounding me or living in my body, I’ve blamed pretty much everything there is to blame. Few beings managed to escape my hate: my friends, my grandmother and my cat.

Funnily enough, it didn’t work. All that hate and all that blame and all the rage and fury and loath and frustration and criticism that I threw onto them didn’t help me heal or feel better. On the contrary, it got worse. I was like a ticking bomb, ready to explode and take all those responsible for my pain with me.

Then it hit me. And it hit me hard. So hard that I cried for about an hour, laying on the floor, partially because I couldn’t get up, partially because I felt that I belonged there. All the feelings that I was so eager to throw at those around me where feelings I had for myself. I was, and sometimes still am, my own worst critic. Nobody has ever spoken to me as badly as I’ve spoken to myself. To nobody have I ever said words as mean and as hurtful as I’ve said to myself. Towards nobody did I ever feel the hatred that I felt towards myself. I was and have been destroying myself for as long as I could remember. Trust me, nothing is as powerful, as sly and as scheming as auto-destruction. Powerful because it’s constant. Sly because it’s hard to notice. Scheming because, even when you notice it and start to fix it, it has a way of coming back.

With this realization came another one. No external event could make or break you. It’s all about how you feel. You can be depressed in heaven and you can be happy in hell. It’s all related to how you feel about yourself. No amount of chocolate, pasta, good weather, friends, sex, money, travelling or success could cure you. Sure, it’s a good distraction and it helps to experience all of the above, but it’s temporary.

The important part is to acknowledge your thoughts, to embrace your feelings and to not let either of them control you. Talking helps. Writing helps. Singing helps. Drawing helps. Yelling definitely helps.

So that’s what I’ve been up to for the past weeks. Embracing my frustrations, trying to stop blaming others for my feelings and realizing that everything is temporary, even sadness.

Be your biggest cheerleader. Be your best friend. Be your fearless supporter. Be proud of your progress, even if you feel like shit. Nothing is forever and life is too short to blame yourself for the past.

And I told you to be patient…

And I told you to be fine…

And I told you to be balanced…

And I told you to be kind…

As my high school reunion was approaching I was trying to figure out what to say about the past ten years.

You may be familiar with the concept of bragging in front of your colleagues and teachers about your greatest achievements. Your successful husband, your attractive wife, your well behaved kids, the prestigious university you attended, the plethora of diplomas on your walls, the well oiled machine of a business that you own, the electric car that you drive and the exotic countries that you visited. Any one of these fulfilled goals could boost you in top five most accomplished people in your classroom.

As I went over the list and realized how far away from the ideal lifestyle I am, this realization hit me: does it really matter? Does having a seemingly perfect spouse make you happier? Does having walls full of diplomas make you more successful? Does driving an expensive car make you a better human being? Do you really want to be defined by the things you have instead of the person you are? The answer is, in short, no.

After realizing this, the next logical question was what matters? I know, a bit too philosophical and deep of a question for a high school reunion, but I was feeling contemplative, so bear with me. So, when do I feel most alive? When do I laugh so hard my stomach hurts? When do I feel most myself? When do all my problems disappear? When does the world really seem like a better place? When do I feel understood?

To all these questions there is only one answer: when I’m with my friends. And, thank God, I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by some great human beings, truly amazing, supportive, funny and loving people. The kind of people that make my eyes water with tears of joy just thinking how lucky I am to call them my friends. The kind of people that make me wonder what I did right to deserve such company.

When I tell others about how I met my best friend in secondary school and we are still best friends, how I keep in touch with about half my class from high school, how university helped me meet amazing and caring people who have a special place in my heart and how the three years of post-university studies brought even more amazing souls in my life, they are amazed.

The amazing part is that, as years go by, I feel our friendships growing even stronger. We are maturing together, we are more vulnerable and honest with one another, we can talk about deep meaningful subjects and just moments after we laugh so hard we can’t breathe. It’s amazing to see your childhood or high school friends growing up. It’s a blessing to say that you’ve known someone for seventeen years and they are still your best friend.

When I most needed help, they helped me. When I most needed to talk, they listened. When I most needed to laugh, they made a joke. When I most wanted to drink, they poured me a drink. When I most wanted to eat, they made some food. When I most wanted to stay silent, they stood silent with me. When I was vulnerable and defeat, they had my back. When I needed support, they held my hand.

That’s why my biggest accomplishment so far is my friendships. They make everything better. They make me a better person. And for that only, they have all my love and gratitude. Thank you! Love you with all my heart!

On the 23rd was Iusti’s 56th birthday.

“I remember being woken up by my parents and then my father taking me in his arms to the living room. The sofa was full of presents, a puzzle, crayons and sparkly stuff that a soon to be seven year old could only adore. I was surprised, Santa wasn’t supposed to come for another few days. Then I saw him and I was utterly fascinated. Not the Santa you would imagine: tall, dark haired, young, smiling and very charming. My parents told me who he was, that he had been close to us before moving to Canada and that he was always around for the first three years of my life. Although I don’t think I remembered any of the things they told me, I felt safe around him and I liked him very much. Only a few days ago did I remember that on that evening I stayed in his arms for a long time. I liked him, he made me feel special, he made me laugh, he made me feel like a princess. This is my first memory of Iusti, the charming Santa who surprised my parents and I the first time he came home from Canada, after his departure four years earlier. I have a vague recollection of how happy my parents were and how joyful everything seemed. It felt like home. This is how I will remember him: charming, tall, joyful, bringing the best out of the ones surrounding him, protective, generous, kind and funny, in one word: HOME.”

This is the message I wrote for his funeral two months ago. I was in Greece with my mother and we received from his family the link for the live stream of the service. I knew how important Iusti was for my parents and I wanted to honor somehow his memory and their thirty year old friendship. So I wrote the message and sent it to his wife, asking her if it could be read by someone during the service. And there was also the desire for people to know how dear he was to me.

For as long as I can remember, Iusti was there. My father met him at university and they soon became good friends. Both very smart, both much in love with reading and talking about books, both making jokes and both living in the university dorms, it was easy for them to bond. For a couple of years after uni they took their separate ways, only to meet again in Brașov in their late twenties. It was the 90’s so no cellphones or social media was available. You just bumped into your friends on the streets or you called them at home. Iusti became a regular at my parents’ house, they played cards, drank wine made by my grandpa, chatted and laughed a lot. Then I came along. Iusti called me “iubita” and I replied with “ubutu”.

My mom told me how sad she was when he told them he was moving to Canada. She cried and begged him not to go. I was almost three then so I don’t remember this part of the story too well.

Before my seventh birthday he surprised us all, just a few days before Christmas. That’s the story I wrote for the service. From then on, I remember. I remember his kindness, his generosity, his funny way of telling every story, his loud voice, his laugh, his interest towards me, his presence.

I think I will always remember that Tuesday my dad called to tell me what happened. How it was an accident. How he was tubing on some river in Canada. How he could not be saved. I could feel the hurt in his voice. We had seen Iusti just a month earlier and so it felt unreal. He was there, laughing and eating and telling stories and just enjoying life. And now he was gone. I cried and I cried and I cried. The following day I was sitting on the balcony, just thinking of him. Outside, some kids were playing and started to shout out each other’s names. “Iustiiiin! Iustiiin!” I heard one of them calling another. What were the chances? Maybe Iusti knew I was thinking of him and wanted to give me a sign that’s he’s also thinking of me.

As kids, we never think of our parents or friends or protectors as mortal. Especially when they make you feel so safe, when they live life to the fullest, when you see them enjoying every bite of food and sip of wine, when they laugh so loud the room seems to shake, especially then, they seem immortal.

Thank you, Iusti, for showing me how to enjoy life and how to be carefree. Thank you for surprising me on my birthday. Thank you for being my parents’ friend. Thank you for caring. In my mind, you are alive. In my stories, you are present. In my heart, you are loved.