Spiritual Nostalgia
By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar
Sometimes, a soft ache rises in my chest, like the tender pull of a memory I can't quite grasp. It's a gentle longing, deeper than words, a feeling that wells up, unbidden and bittersweet. It isn’t for a place I can point to or a moment I can relive, but rather a yearning to reconnect with a part of myself that feels whole and complete, a place within me where peace and purpose seem to dwell. I call it spiritual nostalgia the soul’s way of longing for a home it once knew, a home it’s forever tied to but can’t fully return to in this life.
When this feeling comes, it carries me back to warm summer evenings on my grandmother’s porch. I can still see her swaying gently on that old wooden swing, humming quietly, her voice far from perfect. Each note seemed to drift off-key, dancing in the air, rising to meet the Creator in the most unrefined yet honest way. She didn’t hum for anyone but herself; her songs weren’t meant for us, and yet I listened, captivated. I remember how each note felt like a private prayer, like she was reaching out beyond what any of us could see. Her humming was an offering a way of pouring out her spirit to the Creator, unashamed and unpolished, like only she could.
Watching her then, I didn’t fully understand what she was doing. But now, I see that her off-key song was more beautiful than the most refined melody, because it was real. It was her way of surrendering, of pouring out all the heaviness that life had placed on her shoulders. She let each care fall away with every hum, letting them drift on the wind, carried off into some unseen place. She’d tell me, “You gotta let your worries go so you can win,” and though her words sounded simple, their wisdom only deepens as I get older. Letting go, she taught me, wasn’t about weakness; it was about trusting that what you set free would return, transformed.
It wasn’t just on that swing that she found her way to the Creator. She’d stop wherever she was in the garden, on the sidewalk, even at the store and bow her head in silent prayer. She didn’t care if people stared or if it was inconvenient. When her spirit felt the need, she answered it. I remember the way her eyes would soften, her lips barely moving, as she whispered her prayers. The world around her faded, and all that remained was a quiet strength radiating from her. She seemed anchored, unshakable, as though each prayer restored something deep within her, some well of peace that couldn’t be touched by the chaos around her. No matter if the day was gray and heavy, or bright and hopeful, she found her way back to that sacred center, that place where her heart could rest in the arms of something greater.
There was a tenderness in her faith, a quiet but fierce love that wrapped around me even when she wasn’t speaking. In those moments, I knew I was in the presence of something holy not in the grand or dramatic sense, but in the gentle strength she carried. She didn’t speak much about her beliefs; she lived them. Her life was her sermon, each humble act a verse, each quiet prayer a hymn. She showed me, through her simple devotion, that faith wasn’t about being seen but about being true to something within that no one else could touch.
And now, in my own moments of doubt and joy alike, I find myself doing the same. I close my eyes and reach inward, calling out to the Creator in my own way, wherever I am. I find myself bowing my head when the weight of the world is too much or when I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. I feel my grandmother with me in those moments, her spirit reminding me that I am held, even when life feels uncertain. And somehow, that gives me courage to believe, to let go, to let my own song rise up, off-key and unpolished, trusting that it’s enough.
This nostalgia, this ache, is more than a longing for days gone by. It’s a call to reconnect with the love my grandmother carried, that unshakable faith, that trust in the Creator that allowed her to live without fear. Spiritual nostalgia, to me, is the soul’s way of reminding us that there’s a home within, a place of belonging that we carry through every season of life. It’s a pull back to the love she showed me, a love that was vast and quiet, steady and patient, like the old swing on her porch that rocked us both in its gentle embrace.
In my heart, I still hear her humming, still feel her prayers woven into the fabric of my life. And I realize now that my own longing for peace, my search for purpose, is not a journey forward but a return to that inner sanctuary, that simple, childlike faith that she nurtured within me. I am so deeply grateful to the Creator who holds me, to my grandmother who taught me, and to the quiet moments that call me back when I feel lost.
This spiritual nostalgia is the soul’s gentle reminder that we are never truly alone. We are held by the love of those who came before us, by their prayers, and by the Creator’s unwavering presence. There is a home, a place of love and wholeness, that lives within us all a love that, like her song, will never fade.
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