In the book 1,000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names, Mario Giordano offers descriptions of emotions evoked by very specific experiences. Often we let one word do the job, but Giordano plays with the idea that one type of nostalgia is different from another. Reading a few entries in the book can bust writers’ block or spark a conversation around a campfire.
In the spirit of this book and those Scandinavian values that we don’t have direct translations for in English—sisu, lagom, hygge, and so on—I’ve written some of my own “feelings for which there are no names” based on travel experiences from these past months.
when you see a rock formation and rather than thinking of its sturdiness and longevity in this place, you are struck by the series of circumstances that brought it to its current form at this moment of intersection, understanding that all too soon—long after you—it will be something different
when you make a new friend who is just exactly your age
when it finally hits you that your beach body is perfect now compared to an uncertain future, so Midsommar weekend is an ideal time to enjoy a swim and an ice cream, sun-drenched on a public beach amongst liberated and unconcerned Swedes
when you become violently ill during your travels and as you lie waiting to feel better, you’re struck by how vulnerable the body is and marvel over how you’ve been moving through the world feeling so good most of the time
when you’ve run out of your home shampoo and switched over to a local product and your hair doesn’t feel quite right, and even its strange texture reminds you daily of your incredible privilege to travel, to be here now
when a friend buys you an ice cream
when you buy a friend ice cream
when you buy yourself an outrageously large ice cream with all the sauces and toppings and call it lunch
meeting a displaced person face-to-face at church or at the bus stop, from a war that is impossible to understand, and the miracle of getting to speak with them in a language that is neither theirs, nor yours, nor this country’s, but by God’s Providence, common to you both
the panic of walking hungry through a grocery store in a country in which you didn’t bother to learn any of the language before you arrived and don’t quite understand what’s inside the packaging, and must take refuge in the produce section
the delight over discovering in each nation, a new and brilliant window closure and lock design
developing a sense for how long a kilometer is that runs deeper and feels truer than a conversion equation
the imposter syndrome of setting about quickly and efficiently stuffing a duvet into its cover, although you’ve never seen it done before, coupled with the confidence you feel knowing that life so far has prepared you for success
the romance of a national holiday on which you wear a homemade crown of flowers and dance around a decorated pole to a song about small frogs with other grown-ups, all for the sake of teaching the children how it’s done, so that they may grow up and teach their children the same
the warmth of a morning hug from a pajama-clad seven-year-old
the surprise of hearing the familiar music of an ice cream truck in an unexpected and remote place, leading you to wonder if such a joyful thing exists the whole world over
the sleepy lull of a commuter train
the comfortable, unobtrusive time marker of seeing your local bus pass at regular intervals as you work from the kitchen table
the satisfaction and belonging derived from driving to your foreign home without the help of navigation
the annual realization that the perfection of ripe summer strawberries and whipped cream cannot be surpassed and yet somehow you forgot since last year
stumbling upon small and meaningful reminders that people are the same all over the world. Girls will giggle and choreograph dance routines at bus stops. Boys will zip wildly through the city streets on electric scooters, looking everything as cool as they hope. Everyone seems to loves coffee and chocolate and sunshine.
living in a home where at least four flags and five languages are spoken, honored, and loved
the unifying grace of a great pop song that you can all sing together though you grew up in different places
the thrill of following GPS through a landscape you don’t know, to coordinates sent by a waiting friend
regardless of language, feeling at home in the divine liturgy
when surrounded by a cloud of foreign language, feeling wonder at the sounds and fluency of others, the thrill of picking out new words or usages. Then ping-ponging between the happy ambivalence of not understanding and feeling left out; the joy to be alone with your thoughts followed by the frustration and longing to understand more
the deep sense of well-being that comes from standing still in a vast and wondrous landscape
the mixture of embarrassment and pride worn on a sunburnt face—yes, you should have applied sunscreen, but also, well done, you, for being out in the sun all day
gratitude that this park bench, this airbnb, this train, this queue, this field of tall wet grass, this tick-infested forest, this cafe without electricity, this warm rock, this campfire of many nations, is exactly where God has placed you now
and so much more,
Thomaida