The strokes of January felt heavy and the more I sought to fight it, a persistent irritation bubbled to the surface. There is no doubt (especially from those who know me the most) I tend to sink into periods of heavy introspection and reflection. There is a consequence to this kind of paying attention; I cannot easily shuffle my feelings to the side and instead, constantly thumb through the deck in my hands. This thin-skinned self is a part of my marrow and even though I momentarily tried to tame and learned to bury it in law school, my natural inclination is to meditate on emotions that keep repeating themselves, whether it’s sadness, joy, anger or ambivalence.
I suspect some of my angst this month is tied to the passage of time and the realization of how its swift ebb sometimes appears sudden even though I’ve had fair warning of its pacing. The days of this month felt so raw because of the external etchings of time. The first week of January ushered in double-digits for our only daughter and the realization that, as a mother, I’d only experience this milestone with her once. I kept staring at the picture of me holding her when she was two weeks old. The lightness of her body rested in my arms, my limbs creating a comforting nest. A Mona Lisa smile sits on my face while I bowed my head, staring at our little girl.
My daughter is fond of rollerblading and will often strap on her blades and will glide near this particular photograph. It is then the passage of time becomes palpable when she slides about the house, pausing to ask questions I sometimes struggle to answer. There is so much I don’t know, I’ve come to realize, even to my own questions or inquiries. I am convinced the more I live, the less I know. The frustration of this theme spilled into other areas of life as well.
Hurt feelings over discovering how expendable you can become as well understanding the true transience of the world occurred in unexpected ways. It didn’t help that childhood icons like David Bowie, Glen Frey and Alan Rickman passed away this past month. It’s hard to digest sometimes, living and acknowledging dying at once. The words of Paul Kalanithi in When Breath Becomes Air, also rang in my ears, especially this quote in particular, “Everyone succumbs to finitude. I suspect I am not the only one who reaches this pluperfect state. Most ambitions are either achieved or abandoned; either way, they belong to the past. The future, instead of the ladder toward the goals of life, flattens out into a perpetual present. Money, status, all the vanities the preacher of Ecclesiastes described, hold so little interest: a chasing after wind, indeed.”
I ended January by watching Everest and an Indian movie called Piku, where a daughter cares for her quirky, but elderly father, who dies at the end. I drifted in and out of the movie, only to wake up when the daughter mourns for her lost father. I gave into my tears, the grief so removed, but so close, and again, a reminder of what simmered to the top. In 2016, I realized, I will mark seven years since I have talked to my father – if I think about this fact too much, it might swallow me whole.
The ramblings of the month (as well as this post, I suspect) intersected on Sunday, when my daughter captured the sun setting, a farewell to the beginning of the year, the brilliance of the yellow and the edges darkening around it. It seemed an appropriate way to commemorate January, a way of acknowledging the melancholy, but leaving hope for some happiness.
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
Every word of this resonates, Rudri. Oh, yes. I don’t know what to say to ease the melancholy, but I can thank you for expressing so beautifully emotions that are near to me too. xo
Your words mean so much, Lindsey. Thank you. xo
I can relate to this so much. January was a hard month for me for several reasons but I feel like I’ve turned a corner, albeit a small one. Like you, I am thin-skinned –for better or worse — in all its translucent glory. Be well, my friend. Melancholy and hope…onward.
Thank you, Christine. I am comforted knowing I am not alone. And yes, let’s hope February means light and love. xo
I can so relate to the melancholy. My husband and I decided this month that we will not expand our family. IT’s the right decision for us to have two children but at the same time there’s this sadness that I am ending a chapter. You’ve captured my feelings so perfectly. Thank you for that.
Oh, Amy. Yes, I understand the ambivalence. It maybe the right decision for you and your family, but letting the gravity of those emotions sink in will take time to process. xo
Those melancholy days do open us to our own humanity. It is in experiencing sadness we are most able to appreciate joy. I used to try to push the sadness away when it arrived. Now, I allow my body to ride it like a wave, and it doesn’t seem to last as long. You seem to be learning much from melancholy. I know you only need glance at your daughter to feel the joy rise.
I love what you said about melancholy teaching us something. I wholeheartedly agree. Thank you for adding a shift in my perspective. xo
You are truly my kindred spirit, that I’ve only now found. Melancholy is one of my favorite words and a state in which I often find myself. It troubles me that I’ve come across your beautiful words — perhaps there is something larger looming for which I am to be prepared. I shudder at the thought.
Tejal,
I am grateful my words offered you some comfort. Yes, the terrain is slippery and uncertain, but pause, breathe and learn to embrace the melancholy. I am convinced eventually this gives way to moments of unbridled joy. xo
I feel this exact thing. Thank you for stopping the “what’s wrong with me?” rant in my head. Maybe it’s a winter thing? Or a life thing?
My husband always reminds me, “Just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.”
xoxo
Pamela,
Thank you. Oh, your husband’s reminder, pierced me deep. In a good way. So grateful for your sentiments, Pamela. It makes me feel less alone. xo
January was a challenging month for me as well. It brought depression, illness, and stress. I appreciate you writing honestly about it. This was a beautiful post. May February and the coming season rebirth us into the light.
I am sorry its been such a hard month, Lucy. Perhaps acknowledging this angst might help us breathe better. Your comment reminded me of one of my favorite quotes of all time by Leonard Cohen, “Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” xo
I was just writing about January and how it seems to bring melancholy- I wasn’t using that word exactly, but you nailed it. Might sound strange, but sometimes I welcome this melancholy- it seems to me to center me again, give me a clean head space. Even though it’s not comfortable or happy, it is also part of us. Sometimes I just need to feel sad and slow and tuck into the quiet parts of my life.
Alisa,
Welcoming the melancholy breeds greater awareness. Sometimes this kind of paying attention is painful, but powerful. You said it perfectly, “Sometimes I just need to feel sad and slow and tuck into the quiet parts of my life.” xo
Oddly this is probably the one January I didn’t feel this, but I know this feeling so well, too well. I’ve always found the passage of time to be difficult. Januaries are hard, with a new year coming on (and in my case, my birthday falls in January and the intensity of my work suddenly levels off as well, typically leaving me in a quiet agitation of burn-out and lack of structure) and the weather usually being at its greyest (depending on where you live). At one point this January I found myself holding my breath every time I read the name of an artist in the headlines, worried if we have lost another one.
It was this year, though, that I made a decision to make some important changes, to choose how I want to launch this next half of my life. I think I had been quietly ‘destructive’ for a few years now, and I really had to make a conscious choice to live differently.
I’m reminded of what you wrote about the movie Inside Out, that sadness is also a necessary and natural part of us and a partner to joy. I hope the self-reflection will strengthen you and that the melancholy will lift in its own time.
Happy Belated B-D, C! I am glad to hear your January opened differently this year and that you are making conscious changes in your life to tilt your perspective. Sometimes it takes years of being in the same place to realize you need a drastic change. Here’s to continued choices that dwell in joy and contentment. Always, always a pleasure to see you in my space. xo
Your words and sentiments resonate with me. You expressed it beautifully. xox