Melancholy

mel·an·chol·y

noun /ˈmelənˌkälē/  A deep, pensive, and long-lasting sadness

Sometimes I think melancholy can be an addiction. A certain wistfulness can permeate every hour. I wonder if it is, in fact, a form of happiness, as the person who has this sadness clings to it against all evidence, while all around there is abundance, stacks of grace, like paddocks in summer. I spent years like that. Here my work is to learn to live with vulnerability, nose to nose with the world, unprotected by melancholy, not letting the weeds give me anything but the pleasure of the dignity of work. And to sit, from time to time, in the garden with nothing in my hand or head but pleasures.
Playing with Water, A story of a garden
Kate Llewellyn
p. 309



No, I don't actually think that I suffer from melancholy as defined on Dictionary.com. But as I read this section of Kate Llewellyn's Playing with Water, A story of a garden, I paused to consider her words.

I believe that I often (and others have affirmed my thoughts on this) mis-identify my feelings and emotions--believing that I'm possibly sinking into depression or at least too much rumination.

What is it about life experience or our busy-busy world that makes me feel guilty if I spend too many days in a row almost alone or quietly at home?

Often, I find myself saying, "I love being at home." Shouldn't that be a virtue, rather than a character deficit?

Still, too much alone time makes me want more, and then it is easier to sink into a tiny bit of melancholy.