A mild melancholy sometimes burrows into my consciousness, nudging optimism aside with a dark invitation toward despair.
I’m not given to depression, but perhaps age, loss, and change have a way of tripping the spring in one’s step.
The Banshees of Inisherin is partly to blame. It’s a movie I recently watched with my wife.
The film is a dark tragicomedy about two friends, Colm Doherty and Pádraic Súilleabháin, who live on the fictional Irish isle of Inisherin.
Colm, a musician, has grown bored with Pádraic, who is likable but simple-minded. Colm abruptly ends his friendship with Pádraic, who is confused and crestfallen over the situation.
The movie reminds me of a friend who is struggling with memory loss. He seems to be distancing himself. He sent a birthday and Christmas card but won’t reply to my phones calls, emails, and messages.
His friendship stretches back to childhood.
We used to get together for coffee and reminisce. He’d remember things I’d forgotten, and vice-versa.
But now he is receding, taking the memories I’ve forgotten with him. It’s like a small part of my past is fading, never again to be retrieved.
My grandparents passed away many years ago.
Dad died in 2004, and my mother in 2021. My older sister and I are all that’s left of our little family, save a few cousins.
Thankfully, I have a family of my own. A wonderful wife and son, in-laws, two loyal dogs, and an indifferent cat. They bring me great joy.
But it’s hard not to mourn what was.
Another thing that has frayed my optimism is the demise of Christmas cards.
People don’t send them much anymore. I guess they feel a Facebook greeting will suffice. If they send any communication at all.
I remember my father, in his Cardigan sweater and trusty Waterman fountain pen in hand, signing Christmas cards for family and friends. He always had a large stack of cards to mail.
Dad believed it was important to send handwritten correspondence. To wish friends and loved ones well. To remind them that they are remembered. Especially the old ones, who are often the loneliest and feel the sting of growing irrelevance.
Last Saturday, with all these thoughts swirling in my mind, I stepped into the grocery store. The list my wife provided wasn’t very long, but the lines to the checkout stand were, thanks to the holiday bustle.
An elderly woman foraged in her purse, assuring the cashier the credit card was in there. Others in line grew impatient. A man sighed loudly, which only flustered the old woman, making things worse.
Eventually, my turn came.
“It’s the silly season,” I said to the cashier.
“Exactly. And I still have three hours before I’m off.”
“Well, hang in there. We appreciate you being here, helping us.”
“Thanks.”
I noticed the young lady bagging my groceries. I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her often.
Like many of the store’s baggers, she has a mild cognitive disability. The store must participate in some kind of employment program.
As I finished the transaction, the bagger was smiling warmly and waving at me, like I was a beloved family member. I looked behind me, thinking she must be waving at someone familiar. But no, I was the subject of her friendliness.
I smiled back and said, “Thank you very much.”
She said nothing but continued to smile sweetly. She had a kind of glow about her.
Walking away, I realized how often I see this young lady working at the grocery store. Sometimes she’s bagging. Other times she’s collecting shopping carts. And she’s always smiling, waving, spreading good cheer, and glowing.
Any kid with disabilities can tell you about the cruelty of children. And the cruelty of adults. I’m sure the young bagger has her stories. Yet here she is, glowing and being kind to everyone.
I sat in my car, moved by her shining example of goodness. Especially during the stress of the holiday season.
Maybe her disability channels some kind of divine access?Something honest and pure.Something the rest of us, with our complications and petty complaints, can’t readily conjure.
She made me feel peaceful and hopeful.
I remember feeling the same sense of hope while on holiday in Tuscany.
There were crowds and tourists all around me as I prowled the cobble streets, shooting photos with my rangefinder camera. Many looked rushed, lost, or overwhelmed.
I rounded a corner and two nuns walked my way.
They glanced at me, smiling broadly. I smiled back. There was an inexplicable serenity about them.
A stillness, almost.
Once they passed, I raised my camera and peered through the viewfinder. The nuns seemed to glow, in a way the camera could not capture.
After they were gone, I strolled into a nearby shop, ordered a Coke Zero, and sat outside. I am not a superstitious man, but something inside me changed.
I felt a sort of tranquility.
The world will always have its disappointments and heartaches.
We cannot escape loss, be it the passing of loved ones or the melting away of old friends. But as we navigate periods of stress, melancholy, and even despair, we’d be wise to pay attention.
We’d be wise to slow down and look for the light.
Because the glowing souls among us are there. Spreading their message of love, acceptance, and hope.
They are the light in the darkness. The bothies in a snowstorm. The passages back to serenity and hope.
They are the answer to despair.
Before you go
I’m John P. Weiss. I write stories and essays about life, shoot classic black & white photography, draw cartoons, and publish the free Saturday Letters.
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This post was previously published on Medium.com.
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Photo credit: John P. Weiss
