Heimwee

This word (pronounced, HIME-vay), has been on my mind a lot lately. I learned it during the year I lived in The Netherlands in my early 20s. To English, it typically translates as "homesickness" or "nostalgia."

While those words offer a valid translation, heimwee carries more emotional weight. It suggests a profound connection to a place or time or relationship that is no longer accessible.

I think John Mayer captured heimwee in his song, “Stop This Train.”

Once in a while
When it’s good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around

And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
Till you cry when you're drivin' away in the dark
Singing
Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again

But it wasn’t until recent years that I really experienced heimwee and understood its meaning. It began after our children were mostly grown and I came across old pictures of them. Heimwee is the sensation of seeing their little faces looking back at me like dearest friends I’ll never see again (not that I’d trade for the amazing adults they’ve become).

The sensation has grown stronger and more frequent since my mother died and my birthdays accumulate. A few minutes ago, Spotify served up a song from the ‘80s and suddenly, I’m a ghost, haunting the times and places of my high school days. Those moments are lost, except for their lingering shadows in my mind.

Heimwee hit me like a blast the first time I saw my son holding his son. I thought, “Once, that was me, holding him; and someday, he’ll be me, watching his son…” It was like staring deeply into two mirrors facing each other, peering simultaneously into the past and the future.

Heimwee is there in the smell of old things. I feel it in countless artifacts I can’t let go of, like my grandmother’s paring knife. We still use it, though it’s worn from my grandfather’s honing stone.

The old ways: wooden handle and made in U.S.A.

My grandmother used to stand at that counter, with that knife, slicing cheddar for grilled cheese sandwiches, made on her whole-wheat bread.

These old remnants possess little intrinsic value, but I treasure them because they are a tangible connection to the past—and a balm for my heimwee.

Ultimately, heimwee is not only a pang of sadness for all that has irretrievably passed. It is a deep appreciation for the unbelievable privilege of living a good life and collecting so many memories to savor with fondness and longing. Life itself is a quiet, enduring miracle—heimwee expresses the deepest reverence for it.

Photo by Haut Risque on Unsplash