Deirdre of the Sorrows #6

As some of you probably know, and some probably don’t, I spent the last weekend in the green country of Ireland.

Ireland is very much out of the Metropolitan Biodiversity Primer’s scope, as – and again most of you should be aware of this fact – it is short of anything even close to ‘metropolitan’. But on the other hand, the biodiversity of the human population is definitely there. And the adundance of behavioural patterns along with it.

This short (4-day long) stay in Ireland reminded me of a peculiar state of mind, which - in turn - is described by a rather kinky word:

spleen ( P ) Pronunciation Key (splēn) n. A large, highly vascular lymphoid organ, lying in the human body to the left of the stomach below the diaphragm, serving to store blood, disintegrate old blood cells, filter foreign substances from the blood, and produce lymphocytes. A homologous organ or tissue in other vertebrates. Obsolete. This organ conceived as the seat of emotions or passions. Ill temper: vent one's spleen. Archaic. Melancholy. Obsolete. A whim; a caprice. [Middle English splen, from Old French esplen, from Latin splēn, from Greek.]

Have you ever wondered what 'spleen' is? Not in the medical sense, though, because we all know what this spleen is and what it does (those of you don't know, or have doubts, please take a look at the modern medical definition or the Traditional Chinese Medicine view).

The word apparently comes from the Greek splēn and for instance in French, it refers to a state of pensive sadness or melancholy. It has been popularized by the poet Charles-Pierre Baudelaire (1821-1867) but was already used before, in particular in the Romantic literature (18th century). The connection between spleen (the organ) and melancholy (the temperament) comes from the humoral medicine of the ancient Greeks. One of the humours (body fluid) was the black bile, secreted by the spleen organ and associated with melancholy. In 19th century England women in bad humour were said to be afflicted by spleen, or the vapours of spleen and there also is an expression 'to vent one's spleen' which more or less means 'to behave in an ill-tempered' manner.

At least that's what you can - more or less - look up in the dictionaries. But I've just recently learned what it meant for me.

For me spleen is the oblivion that I had been experiencing for the last... - God only knows how long. Three years, perhaps.

It's this troubling awareness of things in existence, compared to which the unbearable lightness of being is the least of your worries.

Spleen is what you see in the mirror every single forsaken morning if you were brave or dumb enough never to ponder on the meaning of today or the significance of tomorrow...

Spleen is the state of mind in which you are sometimes lost for words and you quitely wonder how amazing it is that telephone silence can convey emotions...

(...)

Ireland.

The gentle breeze filled my nostrils and brought the scent of the ubiquitous meadows scattered along the banks of the River Shannon. I sat on top of one of the turrets of the King John's Castle, watching a girl beside me, a girl whom I had only seen for the fifth time in my life, yet I felt as if I had known her for ages. Her face shone vividly, brightly as that of a morning star. Her curious, demanding eyes pierced me through, frantically trying to fathom the elusive.

Ahh, and her lips were crimson.

Our eyes crossed every now and then, smiles cheered the gloomy sky and the by-standers could hear short, muffled outburst of our innocent laughter. We were on top of things, and the whole world seemed so far away, left down there, at our feet. For the taking...

I took a deep breath and I finally felt the spleen letting me go; slowly at first, but steadily. Until it was all gone.

We got up and I let the ancient tears be washed away... by this compassionate, and understanding, Irish summer rain.

Take it, grieving Deirdre of the Sorrows, take it all. You're on your own. I'm not running away anymore. I'm not chasing you.