England Below

I stand upon the peak of Scafell Pike.

All of England is below me. A large black bird circles the summit, diving out of view, then soaring upward, stealing attention away from the vast landscape. I don't know much about birds, but I'd guess it's a raven.

At sea level, things can become Sisyphean. There is nothing like breaking out of the cycle—getting the boulder to the top. Everything seems better atop a mountain. Is it pompous to feel nostalgic in these moments? Sitting here with friends, we reminisce. It's hard to live in the moment when all of our lived life feels behind us. Here is an attempt to live in the moment:

I am at the highest point in England

I see tired people

Crying people

Joyous people

There are loads of dogs

There is a stylish woman in a brown turtle neck and a skirt, hardly a bead of sweat on her.

Three people wear shirts that say "For Lucy."

I want to ask about Lucy, but I won't.

It is red hot

I am knackered

Nostalgia plays like a violin in a symphony– the most melancholic, yearning, tender part of the composition. It can cut through the noise, subtle yet powerful. A memory you did not know had such a hold on you. How can it be that our own experiences can inhibit the chance to appreciate current ones truly? The lies and deceit of nostalgia can be dangerous. Expectations of the current day, expectations based on the falsities of how great the past was, can lead to disappointment. 

Yet nostalgia can be the greatest tool, transporting us back to a time when the smells were alluring and the colours vibrant. We can be reminded of how to live. Nostalgia can be the bridge between every version of ourselves that have lived, connecting your present self to the child you once were. Memories of time and place can fade quickly, but it takes much more to erase the memory of a feeling.

After the mountain, we went into an ice-cream shop. It was unusually warm for an ice-cream shop. The smell of mint chocolate and pistachio, the crunch of the cone, the hurry to prevent the ice cream from melting all over your hands. In the future, when I smell mint chocolate ice cream, will I be carried back to the mountain top? Will I forget the aching in my legs? Or getting annoyed as people walked right in front of me?

Loss and beauty– a sense of yearning triggered by a song.

At the top of Scafell Pike, a mother comforted her crying daughter. I wonder if, in that moment, she felt the echo of her own childhood carried in the wind. I wonder if she felt like a child again, exhausted legs, looking for comfort in a world that felt too big. Maybe she wasn't only comforting her daughter, but also the memory of the girl she once was.

I wonder if the blunting of our sharp edges, the rebinding of a crumbling book, is always a bad thing. Maybe growing old is learning how to soften, without losing shape.