Huzun of Being

For the bulk of my life I have experienced a persistent sadness... and I've never known what to attribute it to, or what to call it. Abuse? Death of innocence? Depression? Failure? Lonliness? No matter what I've sought to call it, none of the titles ever fit because this sadness is not negative. That is to say, it's never detracted from my life, only enhanced it. I've drawn from my sadness, harnessing it as a source of compassion, creativity, inspiration and love. This sadness that lives within my soul is the bittersweet essence of a tragically flawed, and yet wondrously beautiful existence.

Now having read Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul, I believe I finally understand the nature of this feeling. Pamuk refers to it as huzun, a Turkish word meaning "melancholy." He explains that within Islamic tradition, there is a philosophy that has evolved over the centuries to explain the huzun that we experience in this life. Dating all the way back to Aristotle's idea of the melaina kole--"black bile." Pamuk suggests that the huzun in Turkish poetry is far different than the Westernized view of melancholy. He explains that it expresses a 'grief that no one can or would wish to escape, an ache that finally saves our souls and also gives them depth. For the poet, huzun is the smoky window between him and the world. The screen he projects over life is painful because life itself is painful' (Pamuk 104).

I find this strangely reassuring as I sit here wrapped in such a pervasive melancholic funk, enjoying it, drawing strength of purpose from it. Poking and wiggling it like a sore tooth.