The amazing powers of nostalgia.

Are you a nostalgic person? I have a writing exercise I want to share with you to help answer that question. But first, let's visit some Christmas geese.

I’m sitting in the front seat of my mum’s old Nissan Micra, as it bounces along the country road. Trees line up either side, clinging on to the last crisp leaf which will easily fall while it waits for the slight gust of wind. The sky is grey but rain holds off.

Across the fields the big house comes into view, the landmark I had been searching for. I move forward in my seat, the seatbelt holding me tight, and press my nose up against the cold window. Steam from my nose fogs the pane so I wipe it with my hand leaving smudgy finger prints. I am searching for the Christmas geese…

Every morning, as I sit snuggled on the sofa with my toddler, I have been doing short writing exercises.

They started out as a way to pass the dark winter mornings when my toddler wakes so darn early, but now they have become so much more meaningful.

I want to improve my skill. Like a swimmer goes to the pool every day to practise even though they can already swim. Or a gardener still reads books on flowers and discovers a new variety they hadn’t come across before and now wants to nurture.

Writing has enabled so many of our adventures over the last couple of years, I am excited and keen to see where it may take me in the future. That is why I practise every morning.

(If you are interested I am reading a book by Beth Kempton, an author, Mama and Japanologist. The book is called “The Way of the Fearless Writer”. It feels like a breath of fresh air as it isn’t like anything I have read about writing before; allowing for a different take on why and how we write.)

Most of the writing exercises has prompted a lot of nostalgia. Like the opening to this Substack. It was a memory from when we lived in Oxfordshire. I must have been around ten and still found great enjoyment from spotting the Christmas geese in a farmers field. I loved how the exercise brought back such a vivid memory and I can’t even remember now what prompted it.

Another of the exercises was to write about the contents of my handbag.

I will share with you what I wrote and then ask you a question at the end.

The Bag.

Something that is carried around with me, everywhere. Either on my back or slung over one shoulder, swinging as I chase after the toddler.

The bag has symbolised me since I became a mum. It shifted from being a smart, Cath Kidston handbag to a practical nappy bag. Now it is a pink backpack.

It is needed and essential. We can’t leave the house without THE BAG. It defines me as a mum. Slowly, over the years, after three children, the bag has been filled with more and more “stuff”.

Little pieces of childhood.

Crayons, tissues and a squashed, forgotten about biscuit. An opened box of raisins has spilt everywhere at the bottom, hidden beneath spare clothes, nappies and wipes.

I quite like it.

One day they won’t be there.

One day I will carry around an adults bag. It will be small (possibly) filled only with the essentials I need. Phone, purse, a pack of tissues and a lipstick. Oh and hand cream because I can’t go anywhere without it.

I think then, I will miss the “mum bag”.

Is the bag a burden? No. It is carefully, and unknowingly, carrying motherhood.

How does your bag make you feel?

This probably leads more to the question, how nostalgic can you be over a bag?

Try writing down all the contents that are in your bag. See where it leads you. What memories do they trigger or what memories are they already creating for future you?

Does anything surprise you about how it makes you feel?

Or perhaps the bag is just a bag to you, yet the pen you hold to write your list is in fact a favourite pen. Why?

I could go on… but I have a food shop to do. So I shall catch up with you next week, and who knows, I may have tidied up those raisins by then.

Photo by Keith Polischuk on Unsplash