Melancholy

Usually, I distract myself from melancholy. I’m afraid if I give it more than a cursory acknowledgement, I will fall into a pit of despair from which I will have a hard time climbing out. So - Turn on the radio! Text or call friends! Listen for the tone that indicates it is my turn on Words with Friends. Fix comfort foods and eat too much. Make plans. Or go out, into the world, to see what I can see. Anything to avoid feeling sad for more than a few minutes.

Early on a recent grey and snowy day, I decided to lean into melancholy. I wouldn’t listen to music to distract me. I’d eat only when I was truly hungry. I wouldn’t call or text friends or family, although I would answer anyone who contacted me. I wouldn’t shop, either in person or online. I wouldn’t make a to-do list. I wouldn’t leave the house, for I had no appointments; I didn’t need anything; and the weather forecasters were warning of yet another “storm of the century.” I wouldn’t rule out sitting and staring at the wall all the livelong day. I would feel the melancholy for however long I felt it.

Even while acknowledging the melancholy, I was quietly productive. I made my bed with a little extra care even though I wasn’t sure I might not burst into tears. I dusted the bedroom furniture and decorations with a damp cloth and care, a task I normally detest. I shook out the drapes and vacuumed along the top edge. I ran the robo mop and spiffed up the adjoining bathroom. I weeded out a handful of items from a couple of drawers. I did these things while it felt good to do so. I stopped when I felt myself become impatient, when it became a task to power through.

I found myself in the kitchen several times, looking in the fridge or cabinets for solace, and several times decided I wasn’t hungry for food and didn’t need to eat.

That day I burrowed in my bedroom. It measures about 11’ by 15’, room enough for a queen bed, two nightstands, a comfortable upholstered chair, a small secretary desk with a padded bench, an exercise bike, and a shelf for a candle and items that please me. I can adjust the light sources according to how I feel or what I want to do. I have throws to warm me if I am chilled. I wheeled in a small acrylic table from the living room to use in front of my comfy chair.

What do the School of Life and Alain de Botton have to say about melancholy? I wondered. According to the School of Life, melancholy has an important function. It honors the fact that life is hard, that life doesn’t seem to be weighted on the side of fairness, that the course of our life might not go the way we envisioned, that many people suffer from things not of their making. Life is often sad.

I thought of the things that hadn’t turned out the way I wanted. I thought about those loved ones I had disappointed or harmed. I thought about how difficult it could be to love oneself, let alone anyone else. Some tears slipped down my cheeks.

The School of Life proposes that the saving grace to melancholy is that it can be a reminder that we can focus on what matters to us while there is still time. What is important to me in whatever time I have left? What do I have efficacy over? I pondered those questions that day and evening. It’s a good exercise at any age.

In the late afternoon, I considered the marked down Valentine candle that I had purchased for myself. I had stood before the store display wondering once again if it was pathetic or nurturing to buy oneself a Valentine present, and a clearance-priced one at that. I decided that since I had already bought my favorite candy, the prized Valentines-Day discounted foil-wrapped Cella’s in a heart-shaped box, I might as well buy a candle. In my bedroom now, the match flared over the wicks. I turned off the lights to watch the three flames wiggle and dance, seemingly joyous.

Later, I read for a while, mended, and wrote some collected quotations in a journal I keep for that purpose. The candle was keeping me company still, and the room was cozy and warm.

Was I feeling less melancholic? Possibly. It seemed to wax and wane.

Upon further reflection, I concluded that I was more at ease with the feeling. I was still sad, and my heart still hurt. Nothing in the external world had changed, so far as I knew, save for a few more inches of snow. But now I knew that some comfort was possible in the midst of fully acknowledging and feeling melancholic. Maybe the next mournful day would be easier because of it. And I knew also that the experience was not going to take me down, never to recover from the depths.

As I slipped between the sheets and turned out the light in my little sanctum, I prodded my heart like a tongue probes a sore tooth. Yes, it was still tender.

But I had done a hard thing that day. It had tired me, and I slept well.