Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. 

― Alejandra Pizarnik

Given the season with its widening days and lengthening dusk, ever gradual but insistent thawing, you would think there be little reason for melancholy.  But as the poet above hints, it is a disjointedness, an out of rhythm that quite easily occurs when the earth itself changes rhythm.  Especially when, like now, it seems hardly to have made up its mind which way it is going.  

That is only an illusion, of course, because we know which way it is going.  Like death and taxes, the turning of the seasons is inevitable.  We can count on it.  A firm foundation of trust exists between us and this phenomenon.

So we must make our hearts as well.  Allow for their seasons, and the disjointed moments when we are out of sync with our surroundings. To trust that we will return.  Because we can.  And we do.