Melancholy

I read voraciously. I inhale books like some people devour popcorn or sunflower seeds; quickly, by the fistful and without stopping until each tiny morsel is gone.

I don’t recall the first time I came across the word ‘melancholy’ in print. I do know that I didn’t look it up. I used context clues to make a reasonable guess and kept reading. Over the next few years, I encountered it enough to feel confident that I knew its meaning, and it became one of my favorite words.

Not too long ago, I had cause to look up the actual dictionary definition of melancholy, and I was shocked. This word did not mean what I had always thought. The dictionary tells me that it means ‘depression’ or ‘sorrow’ or ‘intense sadness.’ I had always understood that the word described a certain type of sadness, but another definition; ‘a pensive sadness,’ was a bit closer to how I had always thought of it. In my mind, melancholy has always been a beautiful sort of sadness.

It’s a ‘sitting on the floor surrounded by old photos that make your heart ache’ kind of feeling.

It’s the beauty and release of a long, ugly cry into the soft fur of a beloved pet.

It’s the scent of grandma’s meatballs, bringing a shocking swell of grief in the back of your throat where the taste of the garlic should be.

It’s your child hugging you through his tears when his best friend finds a new best friend.

It’s a sadness that understands its own value.

I’m not sure if it’s our culture or our human nature that compels us to escape pain as quickly as possible. We don’t often allow ourselves to sit with our sorrow. And it’s even more unusual for us to dwell in the pain long enough to find peace there; to bask in melancholy.

I don’t even care that I’ve had it wrong for all these years.  In my mind, melancholy will always be sadness clothed in wisdom and patience and beauty and peace. It’s not a sadness to avoid; it’s a sadness to embrace.