I’ve often thought perhaps it is just me who feels inspired by sadness. Perhaps I am strange. Perhaps it is not natural to find comfort in a melancholy state of being, to believe that darkness can offer solace, tragedy can create hope. Perhaps I am a touch insane for thinking that crying is beautiful, even if I’m the one with tears pouring down my face. Perhaps melancholy is my inner ego, a monster of my own invention that keeps gratitude at bay. Perhaps I ought to wake to the light that surrounds me and bask in all things positive, turning my back on life’s raw moments and celebrating only those that dazzle. Perhaps if I did this, it would heighten my sense of communion with all fellow humans, strengthen my personal relationships, and make me a better person. Today, I say Perhaps not.
I’ve always known there was something inside me that connected to universal love through solemnity. Some of my most powerful memories still bring tears at their recollection. Like when I was five-years-old and I learned in Catholic school that Mary had to watch her son die on a cross. I was quiet for days. I felt a concern and compassion that my young self didn’t even understand. I sat with the feeling until it seemed like I personally knew the woman who’d carried Jesus inside her. Then there was my grandfather’s funeral. My grandfather’s barbershop chorus sang him a tribute and, for the first time in my fourteen years, I witnessed tears cascading down my father’s face. That moment–with the lilting sound of men’s voices, the hushed audience, and my father’s sadness—is permanently etched on my heart. And when our family first had to euthanize a pet, the love in that room—shared by my father, brother, and me—took my breath away.
You see, when I think of these events, it is not the sadness that I most remember. It is the union between souls. When we experience sadness, we share in a common suffering. It is one of the few times when people allow themselves to be truly vulnerable. It is a time when our culture allows us to be completely honest about how we feel. And this appeals to me more than most things I can think of. I believe in vulnerability, in transparency. I cherish the relationships I have where I can be truly open. Perhaps my love of all things intense, my affinity for serious movies and thought-provoking novels, is all an attempt to recreate the beauty of my life’s most honest moments. I recognize that, in order to function in society, we cannot all walk around with our hearts constantly overflowing, so I visit these moments in my mind, re-experience them through art, and appreciate the occurence of new, utterly vulnerable moments when they come.
What I’m realizing now is that it is not so much melancholy itself that I appreciate, but the openness it brings out in people. I have experienced loving, positive, at times downright giddy moments of vulnerability with people I love, and these memories are no less sacred to me than the sad ones.
I read an interview on happiness last night on Gretchen Rubin‘s The Happiness Project blog. The interview was with Susan Cain, author of, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. (I am fascinated with the title alone, but will leave the discussion of introversion and extroversion for another time). For the last question of the interview, Rubin asked Cain, “What is your most surprising way of feeling happy?”
Cain’s answer? “Recently I’ve been thinking about a state I call the ‘happiness of melancholy.’ Why do supposedly sad things, like minor key music or the evanescence of cherry blossoms, make us happy? I think they help us appreciate the fragile beauty of life and love.”
Well put, Ms. Cain. I couldn’t agree more.