Solastalgia Revisited - Part 2

For a moment, solastalgia had morphed into life

While sitting quietly in our classroom, practicing printing letters on wide-ruled sheets with sharp wooden pencils on a Friday afternoon, we heard the principal’s voice on the PA speaker.

“Students, I just heard on the radio that President Kennedy has been shot in Dallas.”

Our teacher, Sister Mary Stanislaus, gasped and ran into the hallway joining the other first grade teacher, Sister Dennis, and one of the second grade teachers, Sister Ann James. Hushed tones, and gasping words were spoken through hoarse whispers. We tried to hear what they were saying but we couldn’t make out the words, then soft crying, muffled sobs. I was six years old and I had a vague idea of who the President was. What did “assassination” mean?

My parents, our neighbors, the mailman, the gardener, every adult I came in contact with over the next few days seemed to be in shock and overcome with this overwhelming sadness that I didn’t understand. A few days later, my family sat in front of our TV and watched the silent parade marching behind a horse drawn casket through the streets of Washington, D.C. In the grocery store, Sav-on Drugs, the gas station, even at church, everyone seemed to break into tears whenever someone said, “...when John John saluted the casket..”

60 years later I learned that this was my first experience with the phenomenon of solastalgia. 60 years later solastalgia reentered my life.

When I first saw F and my friend H at Unincorporated Coffee shortly after the fire claimed all of our homes, we were still in the early throes of solastalgia. We all tried to be brave, to be calm, to be normal, as if the great catastrophe that robbed our lives was something that we could just move past. But everyone’s voice cracked at some point, everyone’s eyes welled and misted, and even our shiny new outfits couldn’t hide the remnants of trauma still festering.

But time does march on relentlessly, we mourn, we grieve, we adjust, we move on, we live. A few weeks ago I saw F and H at the coffee shop on a Saturday morning. It’s 10 miles from my house to Unincorporated, and I was happy to be taking a break .

”Hey Steve, if you’ve got a few minutes I need your opinion on something,” F asked.

I grabbed my oat cortado from the counter, pulled a chair up behind me, and joined them at the skinny metal table meant for two people. F pulled his tablet out from his backpack and brought up a drawing program on the screen. It was a hand-drawn sketch of a floor plan of his envisioned rebuild. F turned the screen so that both H and I could see the plan.

”This is basically the original floor plan that I had,” F began. “Here is the living room, there is a bedroom here and here, and here’s the kitchen.” F pointed out each featured item of the drawing with his electronic pen. H and I both leaned in to really inspect the drawing and F continued.

”I’m thinking about eliminating this space here alongside the outer wall so that the office can be attached to the rest of the house.” All three of us peered at the screen as if we could come to consensus on what to do. F and H gave their full attention to the screen but I only gave head-nod focus. Something else had distracted me.

It was their eyes. It was their voices. Their eyes widened with excitement, with anticipation, with hope. It was as if their eyes could smile, could laugh. Their voices rang with hope, with joy, with promise. Somehow from the electronic lines drawn on the screen with care and remarkable software, we three could see it. We envisioned F’s new home, his life redeemed. And for a moment solastalgia had morphed into life.

I thought about this moment while sitting with my friends. F is an architect, a designer by trade. H and I are not. He could have easily made his final decisions without us but I felt the warmth of connection when I realized why F had asked for our opinions. We did reach a consensus regarding leaving the original plan as is because leaving the gap between F’s outdoor office and the rest of house meant he did not have to eliminate a window. The window gave him an unobstructed view of the mountain and all of us agreed, he needed to see the mountain.

I stayed a bit longer with my friends, as we shared more stories of the progress being made on our sites. All of us had the rubble of ashen memories removed and the cleared landscapes are now waiting for permitted progress. We talked about our hopeful moments and we shared in the grief of those moments when loss remembered came to the forefront.

I overstayed my rest as my legs were now stiff and I imagined a difficult return trip home. We said our goodbyes with all smiles and glee in our voices but it’s their eyes that I remember. No misty eyes, no cloud of grief, no hint of pain.

Solastalgia is in remission.

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