Toska

As I studied history in college, I would notice a strange phenomenon when studying periods of American history that I was particularly interested in: I would feel a dark nostalgia, a wish that I was a part of that era and a strange feeling that I really missed out on something in which I conceivably could have participated. I still get this feeling when I study the 1920s or the 1950s and read about the dynamic, tumultuous social scenes that shaped the American of the time. I have always interpreted this as a sure sign that I was the king of nerds in the history department, but as I grow older and find this feeling toward past periods of my own life, I think that maybe this feeling is a sign of something else – nostalgia for certain, but feelings like passion and interest as well.

As an example, the spring of 2010 was just a highlight of my existence. Although I was living 800 miles away from Nora, whom I had since decided was the one I was supposed to marry, other parts of life gave my life meaning and definition. I was living on my own in a city that was at the same time strange and my home, with people who were strangers yet my closest friends, at a time where I was young and learning but much wiser and more experienced in life than I ever had been before. I was learning how make it on my own, how to question and rethink long held beliefs, how to maintain old relationships and formulate new ones, and how to live as a young, independent man. There were, of course, definite challenges that appear in any period in one’s life, but it is not the negative I remember; only the positive moments that in a way still shape how I live today.

I learned a new Russian word the other day while reading an article in National Geographic magazine. The word, toskavat, means “to long for” and is derived from the noun toska, which is, according to the magazine, a dark nostalgia bordering on depression. When I think of time periods in my life that I am particularly drawn to, I experience this toska. It sometimes makes a physical impact; it is like the progression of time’s version of homesickness that makes me long for another place, another place in time.

I do not know why I get this feeling, or if others are plagued with this toska for the past. Logically, it makes no sense, considering my partiality toward this time period is inherently skewed with the faults of human memory, my opinion of this time period as favorable is arbitrary at best, and there is no way that I can possibly revisit this period in my life. I long for these times nonetheless and am affected by these feelings consistently, to the point that I take the time to write down my reflections.

I think one part of the gravity of these nostalgic waves is a guilt that I ended this time period prematurely. I voluntarily left the school where I taught, the apartment where I lived, and the bonds that I had formed with new friends, places, and routines. I could have stayed and could have continued the life that I loved so much, but chose to move back to Michigan and the routines that I had the very same feelings for while living in Frederick. Because I had gone through parts of my life that ended all too soon (or so it seemed), I knew that looking back at my time in Frederick, I would consider how strange it is that I once got up, drove to school, and taught five days out of the week. How strange that I maintained relationships with the people I played ultimate with twice per week, and how strange that I would happily make the hour drive down to Crystal City to spend time with my close friends there. I knew that I would feel the way I do now about my life then. And then, I had that same toska for the times of college, living with my roommates and going to classes. At the same time, I was so looking forward to moving back to Michigan, back to Nora, back to family, back to my old routines…

And this is where my train of thought ends. I must conclude that we (presumably – I know that I am, and can only assume that others are too) live our lives suspended in a web of a longing for the past and anticipation of the future. The present does not even really exist – we never really experience the present, as our thoughts are in the past and our plans are in the future – and we are thus never able to really enjoy it. We are left with the aftertaste of our experiences and a hunger for our arrangements, and no chance to really enjoy the digestion of where we are in the moment. It must be a delicate balance; to live in the past is not much of a life at all, but neither is a life built on intentions. I think that my toska for the past is an important part of appreciating my current situations and shaping my plans for the future, but to dwell on the past strips the present and future of all too much significance; almost making an unfair comparison to an idealized nostalgia that can never be matched in real time.

So it is difficult. It is a challenge. It is just hard to not wish one lived in the past as he remembers it, but it is so important to find that proportion of past and future that creates the present, and to make the limbo of time in which we hang balanced and tolerable. I may struggle more than others, but think it is important all the same to emphasize that the present is what we make of it, and any excess of past or future can make the present a meaningless unreality.