The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
Most of the day I’ve been in a melancholy mood, except for the hour or so I was outside helping Alejandro pull the remaining leaves off the plum trees. We did this in preparation for applying the first dormant spray of the season, and I do love being in the garden, just soaking up the fresh smells and dampness. In the middle of the day, that is, when the chill doesn’t go straight to the bones.
I spent hours and hours out there this week, planting bulbs and annuals too late, and getting a little weary of the cold sogginess. But every time I would look up from the ground, there was the sky, and the varied colors of leaves drifting down from my crape myrtle, or the neighbor’s liquidamber. The whole thing overwhelms me with the beauty and sadness of the earth.
And today, it was the wisteria in my own garden that lifted my head and heart — it is a richer, deeper, brighter yellow-gold than I’ve ever noticed before. Truly, if cameras had never been invented, I would have had to learn to paint long ago.
On this day we remember St. Tikhon of Zadonsk, a man born into a poor Russian family in 1724. He excelled in school, and after attending seminary became a teacher, and then a monk. After being elevated to the bishopric, at one time he had over 800 churches under his care; the story of his life is well told: here.
It was a huge job, and he accomplished a great deal, but his health began to suffer to the point that he wasn’t able to carry out his duties. He was transferred to a monastery in Zadonsk, and in solitude and relative rest continued to write. Bodily afflictions didn’t cease, but changed, and he became plagued with insomnia and depression, as this article “Victor over Melancholy” explains:
“It was a time of desperate and total battle with his thoughts, of overcoming the spirit of melancholy, despair, and despondency, and of a reassessment of his life circumstances; in the end, his soul acquired the priceless experience of overcoming, and with that the boldness to comfort the despairing….”
Being in seclusion was in some ways harder than overseeing hundreds of parishes, and the saint considered a petition to go back to his former overly-busy life. But eventually he gave up trying to change his situation, and gave himself to ministering to the many needs of the people in the community:
“In the small house where he lived, he organized a type of hospital for those who contracted any kind of illness on the way to work or on pilgrimage. He also offered spiritual alms, tearfully praying for the needs and illnesses of those closely and not so closely known by him.”
His writings were widely read by this time; in one of his compilations of “spiritual treasures” he exhorts us:
“We see in the world that people are weeping… They are born with weeping, live with weeping, and die with weeping. People weep because they live in the world—a place of weeping, the vale of tears… And you weep, Christian!… Weep, while time yet remains, while tears are yet beneficial. Weep, and you will not weep eternally. Weep, and be comforted.” Source
The first Orthodox monastery established in the United States is dedicated to St. Tikhon of Zadonsk: St. Tikhon’s Monastery in Pennsylvania was founded in 1905 concurrently with an orphans’ home, and the current campus is shared with St. Tikhon’s Seminary and Bookstore as well.
Annual Memorial Day Pilgrimage to St. Tikhon’s Monastery, May 2024
Before falling asleep in death, at the age of 59, St. Tikhon was delivered of his melancholy. But in the years previous, during which his writings were proving beneficial to so many, it’s clear from them that his spiritual struggles were already bearing fruit. His example is inspiring, and his words confirm it:
“A manifest sign of love for God is a heartfelt gladness in God, for we rejoice in what we love. Likewise love of God cannot exist without joy, and whenever a man feels the sweetness of the love of God within his heart, he rejoices in God. For so sweet a virtue as love cannot be felt without joy. As honey sweetens our throat when we taste of it, so the love of God makes our heart glad when we taste and see that the Lord is good (LXX-Ps. 33:9 [KJV-Ps. 34:8]). –“On Love for God”
Saint Tikhon was glorified on Sunday August 13, 1861.
The Wise Men will unlearn your name. Above your head no star will flame. One weary sound will be the same— the hoarse roar of the gale. The shadows fall from your tired eyes as your lone bedside candle dies, for here the calendar breeds nights till stores of candles fail.
What prompts this melancholy key? A long familiar melody. It sounds again. So let it be. Let it sound from this night. Let it sound in my hour of death— as gratefulness of eyes and lips for that which sometimes makes us lift our gaze to the far sky.
You glare in silence at the wall. Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all. It’s clear that you are now too old to trust in good Saint Nick; that it’s too late for miracles. —But suddenly, lifting your eyes to heaven’s light, you realize: your life is a sheer gift.
From Nativity Poems by Joseph Brodsky, translated by George L. Kline
soaking up the fresh smells and dampness. In the middle of the day, that is, when the chill doesn’t go straight to the bones.
On this day we remember St. Tikhon of Zadonsk, a man born into a poor Russian family in 1724. He excelled in school, and after attending seminary became a teacher, and then a monk. After being elevated to the bishopric, at one time he had over 800 churches under his care; the story of his life is well told: 
Gladsome Lights 