Melancholy

I had a piano teacher who composed music based on the poetry of Walt Whitman. Even though I am perfectly capable of playing it myself, I wish he were here tonight so that I could just sit back and listen.

Feeling somewhat sad and melancholy tonight, I'm thinking of the harmonies and dissonance of Leaves of Grass and A Noiseless, Patient Spider, of Drum Taps and The Mystic Trumpeter. I wish I could play them for you here on my blog. Help you to understand.

But I can't. Not any more than I can explain the pain in my heart.

Some things we just know. We feel. We experience.

But we can't explain.

I've learned to become comfortable with sadness. To sit with it. To let it fill me and empty itself out. To let it flow through my being, my essence, and to let it tutor me, teach me what it knows, before it moves on to its next pupil.

When you make peace with the sadness, it moves on. Finds a new home. At least for a time.

And the fact that my heart hurts tonight means that I still care. Which is a good thing.

So tonight, for the silence, the sadness, the loss, for the grief and the pain, I am playing and listening to O You Whom I Often and Silently Come. Even if it is only in my head.

"O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."

Caring is never a bad thing. Even when it makes you sad.