In Defense of Melancholy

Melancholy (n)

Pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause.

-Oxford Dictionary (paraphrased)

An almost pleasant state of mild, thoughtful sadness or longing. 

-Shawn O'Neill

Life isn't perfect. That's a lesson most of learn rather early on. That's not to suggest that life is terrible- sometimes it's that very imperfection that drives home the point of just how lucky so many of us are. But it's undeniable that as our days tick by, there's more than passing reason to experience a bit of adversity and loss. In not only processing that fact, but embracing it, I think we learn what it is to be human. 

I know no one likes to be depressed. Or in despair. Or tormented. But I think melancholy is much different. It's accepting the fact that nothing is perfect- loss, inadequacy, and pain are inevitable- and pondering what are we going to do with that? And not only what are we going to do with it, but can we find beauty in it? And if finding beauty in sadness isn't part of what it means to be human, than maybe nothing is. 

If we all think about it, the answer is yes, we can find beauty. Possibly the most beautiful things we create- relationships and art- are out of melancholy, sadness, longing. The whole body of music points to this. The most powerful songs seem to have at least an air of sadness- from The Moonlight Sonata, Claire de Lune, or even the best of Springsteen, U2, and Eminem- the music that moves us undeniably touches our downer receptors at least just a bit.  The best literature points to a not-yet-realized ideal. Brothers Karamazov, To Kill a Mockingbird, and even Lord of the Rings long for something greater. Indeed leave us longing for something greater.  Monet obsessed about not quite being able to perfectly capture fleeting light on a subject and spent his life in pursuit of it. There is something deeply poignant about that. And the deepest, most fulfilling conversations are souls laid bare in honesty. Friendships may be formed around the water cooler, or in the baseball stands, or on the golf course. But they are cemented in the forge of shared adversity or loss.

I might even suggest that we have become so obsessed with "feeling good" that the essential experience of pressing in to our melancholy is a lost piece of actually living. Sitting on a deck, watching the sun set and wrestling with our quiet selves in reflection is usually not a ticket to a good time. But it is a necessary time. It can be a messy time. But with practice, the messy becomes beautiful. The passing of time, the milestones jetting by to quickly, the imperfect execution of our best intentions, the heartbreak and losses mourned, and the mistakes we all wish we could wish-away, are as essential as the highs of success and happiness. 

I once read that true joy is something closer to melancholy than it is mirth. I think I agree.