Meloncholy, that old pal

It's a hollow place we go sometimes, don’t you think? There is an indention in the soil, and we curl into the indention where it is safe and comfy—even though we are lying about how comfy it is, since there are pebbles pressing into our skin, there is a chill in the night, and there is dirt under our nails that aggravates. We ignore the lamenting low call of the wise wolf, calling us back calling us back calling us back, don't we? Because we’re snuggled in our hollowed out space, curled just as we did before birth. The place in the soil upon the earth, in the hollowed out hidden forest, where we pretend how comfortable we are, and alone, don't forget how nice it is to be alone. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Who doesn't like a bit of melancholy from time to time?

Melancholy is an old friend, a good ole chum (unlike depression, that mean spindly spirit of woe). Melancholy won’t fuss at is, and even allows us to eat too much bad food, or drink too much bad liquor, and shut out everyone who is important to us, even our own voices. Our melancholy has a bit of imp to it, an angsty charm, a cute way of winking at us, a way of drawing us into the indention. Funny how one can be flying through the sky, feeling the wind, and some twist of synapses, some bitter pill, some disappointment, and next we find we are falling. Melancholy catches us, then wraps around you its familiar soft blanket.

But wait. Just as we think we will stay huddled forever, melancholy takes its blanket from our shoulders, pulls us up by the hand, gives us that wink, and says, "I've got to go now. Ta ta!" And there we are, rising up from our hollowed space. Up up up and up. There we go, the sun on our face, blinking in the light, brushing the dirt from our clothes, trying out a grin, flexing our fingers, pointing our toes, saying "Hey, I'm hungry for life now, give me a big ole plate of it! With a side of hope and a glass of thank you very much." A stretch upward, the glimpse of blue sky. A bird twitters and we laugh at it. And just like that, the earth turns turns turns and we dance around on the head of a pin.

(repost from YOG)