Melancholy is a temperament. It means “mournful,” “soberly thoughtful,” “pensive.” If it were a crayon, melancholy would be Cornflower Blue rather than Midnight Blue or Pitch Black. Melancholy is the condition of being exquisitely sensitive. It is the experience of taking in all of life at once, without excluding the painful or uncomfortable.

When I was giving birth to my daughter, there came a point—about twelve hours into my unmedicated, at-home, every-90-seconds-a-contraction back-labor odyssey—where I was done. I looked up at my midwife, bleary and exhausted, and said, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” She smiled, beatifically, and said, “Okay. Let’s do something else.”

We’re almost there my friends. We’re at the finish line of 2020: the craziest, weirdest, most tumultuous, contentious, painful, scary, exhausting year that most of us have ever seen.

It seems everyone I talk to is dealing with something serious and vexing. Maybe it's life at middle age. Maybe it's living in a toxic and stressful world. Maybe it's just the roll of the dice. I don’t know. But I do know that such levels of suffering provoke some serious contemplation.

Life is curly. It takes unexpected twists and turns. It just does. It always does. And the thing is, you don’t know when the turn is coming, or what the turn will bring, or when it’s going to turn back, or how long the turn will last, or anything.

The night sea passage can be the space between an ill self and a healthy self, a nest gone empty, retirement, the loss of a loved one, or a failed business venture. Whatever the particulars, one is left feeling as though everything has crumbled and vanished. The night sea passage is not a booze cruise, my friends

One of my favorite quotes, torn and taped to my desk, is this one, attributed to Joseph Campbell: “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

First, I want to thank the many kind people who have inquired about my well-being since last month’s column. Here’s the update: I’ve tried everything from shaman to MRI and I’m still in pain, the cause of which remains a mystery; but I did discover that I have three disintegrating joints in my neck, so at least I got something for my trouble.

We recently journeyed to San Francisco, an amazing place for any number of reasons, one of the more obvious and unique ones being its habit of providing a haven for those who do not always fit neatly into proscribed boxes.

Melancholy is a temperament. It means mournful, soberly thoughtful, pensive. If it were a crayon, melancholy would be Cornflower Blue rather than Midnight or Pitch Black. Melancholy is the condition of being exquisitely sensitive.