Hüzün and Learnings - Wrapping up 2023

When I take stock of a normal year in December, I tend to think in terms of the vacations we went on, the warm moments spent with family (this year was made extra special by the rambunctious and adorable Iggy), and oddly enough, the highlights of what  transpired at work.

I also divide the year in terms of the books I read, when I read them, where I was while reading a specific book, and the characters that have lived on and evolved in my heart - long after I have finished the book.

The last book I read this year was Orhan Pamuk's 'Istanbul'. It is about the city and the Bosphorus strait, but it is more about the essence of Hüzün - melancholy - the permanent state of the city. He describes how Hüzün sets in on Istanbul, as the sun sets early in the evenings, in the teahouses packed with unemployed men, or the discolored and dusty apartment buildings looking over the Bosphorus. A city that has embraced its ruins but longs for the old glory of the Ottoman empire. People of Istanbul wear this feeling of despondency almost like a badge of honor.

 Seattle winters can be difficult. It’s dark, rainy and depressing for three straight months, and needs a certain amount of resilience to go through it. It is almost like a sense of communal sadness descending on the city. Huzun rolls in over the Seattle skies,enters our homes and empty streets and hangs there like a dense fog -'melancholy spreads like a stain'.

Grief straddles on a thin line, and breaks one when that line is crossed unknowingly or intentionally. It comes in waves. When I am least expecting it. The sadness that comes out of nowhere and drowns me in it. 

I tend to be OK with living inside my own thoughts, within the familiarity of my house, and checking off the chores that life demands. But then some triggers force me out of that complacence and comfort zone. They make me rethink my choices, the paths I have taken, things I could have handled better in retrospect. 

All sadness is interconnected. My recent knee issues take me back to my mother, I remember how she had suffered from osteoarthritis and rallied on through that, with some strange compulsion to prove her resilience. It didn’t buy her anything, was just detrimental to her health. That was not the age of self care, of putting yourself first. So while I am in a position to step back and take care of myself, and not put up a facade of bravery, I feel dismal that I didn’t stop her, force her to take a backseat. And the floodgates of unresolved grief are broken.

This is an age of positivity - influencers, self help gurus and social media - relentlessly pushing the message to rise above negative thoughts. It can be draining, especially when you are not ready for it. 

However, when those joyful moments come unplanned, and without much fanfare, my heart fills with warmth. Days spent this summer with Ponti, Natalie and Iggy staying with us for some weeks were hectic, full of surprises as we learnt how to take care of a pet for the first time, and ended comfortably as everyone came home at night and we had after dinner catch up sessions in my bedroom with Iggy sprawled comfortably in the center. Backyard barbecues and park birthdays made the family feel complete.

These last few years, with Arindam's weekly travels to Eastern Washington for work, our life has taken new turns, with constant adjustments and planning around his schedule. It is as they say, the 'new normal'. We can no longer do the impromptu weekend long drives coupled with short hikes to enjoy our beloved Seattle mountains and forests. Saturday nights are now for packing food for the week, getting his essentials into the small carry-on. It is not a routine we had anticipated, and it comes with quite a bit of frustration, some loneliness,  but also a bit of looking forward to uninterrupted evenings to which I owe nothing at all. The feeling can be perfectly described as 'delicious melancholy'.

2023 also enriched me with an immersive learning experience that I want to end this post with. I had heard the term Plein air painting but had no exposure to it. Thanks to Seattle Visual arts studio, I signed up for a two day workshop of outdoor painting this summer - in a beautiful garden and on Richmond beach on the Puget sound. I was intimidated by the prospect of painting in the open, but did not expect the various dynamics that come into play - packing and bringing all the painting supplies and accessories to the spot, the changing light, wind and hot afternoon sun, paint drying up fast, sparing use of water and right way to dispose without environmental impacts. There were challenges but there was a lot of joy too in absorbing the techniques and trying to paint outdoors in a group setting.

Signing off for the year with an upcoming India trip, and the prospect of getting immersed in the sights, sounds, tastes and love of the motherland.