Today’s prompt: This is an amorphous prompt – where do you find yourself in this piece? What comes up? Can you write your own version of what’s here, in a similar style or tone? Or, start with “melancholy suits me” and go from there.
An excerpt from today’s sample: My friend told me that melancholy and I were too close. That my sense for sadness and loss was too sharp. But for me, melancholy is part of the beauty of life: we cannot hold that which is in front of us. We cannot leave that which breaks our hearts. Paying attention means knowing these things – love and beauty and sadness and loss – are present in everything, every day.
If seeing below the surface makes me too closely entwined with melancholy, so be it. Melancholy suits me.
The trick, if there is one, is to maintain both: wonder and sadness, curiosity and grief. Joy and the absence of joy. Overcome by neither, open to both.
My Entry:
In photography and in stage lighting, two of my favorite things, I have to acknowledge and respect both the dark and the light, the positive and the negative. For a shaft of light to be visible, it has to have something to hit–fog, dust, air particles–something. In a photograph, the relationship between light and dark, the balancing of positive and negative, make the photo.
I’ve long thought that the light is more powerful in darkness, but that’s not really true, I guess. It only seems more powerful in darkness. A light source puts out a certain amount of light, unaware if it’s shining into a dark space or bright sunlight. We notice the light when it shines into darkness; when it shines into lightness, we don’t need it. It’s there, but insignificant. The impact comes when the other lights go out and only one shines. And if that one shines after a long stretch of darkness, our reaction is stronger. We are more grateful for that light. Without the darkness, we don’t appreciate the light, but that’s not why darkness exists, is it?
I’m bogged down in darkness right now. I didn’t know this level of sadness existed, and I was happier not knowing. Nevertheless, I am precisely this sad. I am acutely aware of the impenetrable dark cloud around me because I’ve lived without that cloud most of my life. I’ve been happy. I’ve had light. Now, when this cloud lifts even a little, I squint at the reintroduction of light. Oh, I know the light is out there, because I’ve known the light. People tell me I’ll see more of it with the passage of time. Will I remember to appreciate the light more when I see it? Can this darkness make me better?
I’ve read so many versions of “leaning in” when it comes to grieving, but I have a hard time explaining that concept when people ask how I’m handling things, how I’m coping. I’ve taken to saying that I’m just trying to roll with it. When the grief comes, don’t deny it or try to escape it. Instead, let it wash over me and through me. It’s real and unavoidable. It will happen. Eventually, I’ll be able to recompose the scene, bring in more light, and change the look. For now, I’m a study in dramatic lighting.
Woods Writes 