The Hidden Power of Sad Songs and Rainy Days | Susan Cain and Min Kym | TED

When I was in my early 30s,

I was an associate at a Wall Street law firm.

And I had been working 16-hour days for seven years straight.

And even though, ever since I was four years old,

I'd had this beautiful and impossible dream

of becoming a writer,

I was also pretty ambitious and on the verge of making partner.

Or so I thought.

Because, one day, a senior partner named Steve Shalen

knocked on my office door.

Steve was tall and distinguished and very decent.

And he sat down and he reached for the squishy stress ball on my desk,

and he said that I wasn't going to be making partner after all.

And I remember very badly wishing that I had a stress ball too,

but Steve Shalen was using mine.

And I remember feeling sorry that it had fallen to Steve

to be the one to tell me this news,

because he really was a good guy.

And I remember bursting into tears right in front of him,

such a nonpartnerish thing to do.

But that very afternoon I up and left my law firm for good.

And a few weeks after that ended a seven-year relationship

that had always felt wrong.

And so, now I was in my early 30s,

and suddenly I had no career,

no love, no place to live.

And immediately, I fell into a relationship

with a handsome musician

who liked to compose lyrics by day

and stand around a piano with friends, singing, at night.

And he was the wrong guy for various reasons,

but my feelings for him

developed into this crazy obsession,

the likes of which I have never experienced before or since, thankfully.

No matter what I did, I couldn't escape it.

Until one day, a friend said to me,

“You are this hooked

because he represents something you're longing for.

What are you longing for?"

And the answer came to me with a sudden clarity.

It was like, of course,

he was the writing life

that I had longed for since I was four years old.

He was an emissary from the beautiful world.

And just like that, the obsession fell away,

and I started writing for real.

Today, I want to talk with you about a state of mind

that's ancient and universal

and enormously powerful

and, strangely, these days overlooked.

The author C.S. Lewis called this state of mind

"the inconsolable longing for we know not what."

And he was mesmerized by it all his life.

As am I.

When I was 22 years old and I was still in law school,

some friends came by my dorm room

to pick me up on the way to class.

And I had been sitting and listening to bittersweet music,

which is something I've been doing all my life.

(Music: "Adagio in G Minor" by Albinoni)

(Music ends)

OK, so the music is a little bit gloomy.

It's full of longing, right?

Maybe for a lost love that never existed in the first place,

but the curious thing is,

when I hear music like this,

I don't really feel sad or not very sad.

What I actually feel is something that's much closer to joy.

And I could never understand why this was.

But meanwhile, I noticed that my law school classmates

were feeling very little joy.

One of them asked me why I was listening to funeral music.

(Laughter)

And I laughed, and we went off to class.

End of story.

Except that I thought about that comment of his

for literally the next 25 years.

Why do I find sad music so uplifting?

And what is it in our culture

that makes it feel a fitting subject for a joke?

And why, even right this minute,

do I feel an intense desire to assure you that I love dance music too?

I really do.

At first, these were just interesting questions,

but as I looked for the answers over the years,

I started to realize that, really, they were the questions.

They were the big ones,

I just hadn't known it yet.

So here's what I found out.

Lots of people feel the way I do about sad music,

especially sensitive types.

People play the happy songs on their playlists

about 175 times on average,

but they play the sad songs 800 times.

And they tell researchers that they associate sad music

with beauty and wonder and transcendence,

the so-called sublime emotions.

And you know, just think of how many musical genres

tap into sorrow, right.

There’s Spanish flamenco and Portuguese fado

and the Irish lament

and American country music and the blues.

And then even lullabies,

which all over the world we often use our most heartbreaking melodies

to sing our newborns to sleep.

Why on Earth do we do that?

(Laughter)

And then it's not just music, right?

We like rainy days and tragic drama

and cherry blossoms,

which we celebrate over equally lovely flowers

partly because they die young.

Philosophers call that the paradox of tragedy.

Why do we sometimes welcome sorrow

when the rest of the time we will quite naturally

do anything we can to avoid it?

There's actually a scholarly debate raging over this question,

but I have come to believe

that really, what we are craving,

at bottom,

is that state of longing,

that joy that's laced with sorrow.

Which is often triggered

when we experience something so exquisite

that it seems to come to us from some other world.

And this is why we give painters and rock stars

such exalted status.

Because they're the ones who bring us the breath of magic

from that other place.

Except it only lasts a moment,

and we really want to live there for good.

Because we know that we live in a deeply flawed world.

And we have this stubborn conviction

that we come from a perfect and beautiful one

that remains forever out of reach.

And maybe that sounds depressing to you,

but this state of mind,

this longing,

is actually the deep source

of all our moonshots and our loves.

It's because of longing

that we play "Moonlight Sonatas"

and build rockets to Mars.

And it's because we're all in this same strange state of exile

that we have the capacity to empathize with each other in the first place.

Our broken hearts,

taught an 18-century rabbi named Nahman of Bratslav,

they connect us to each other

and to that other world where the music comes form.

But modern culture is telling us a really different story.

It's telling us to smile and get over it and move on.

And of course it's true,

positivity is very powerful as well.

And it's possible to get stuck in your longing

and to never come out.

So I do want to be really clear,

this is not an argument for depression.

And --

(Laughter)

If that's what you think you're experiencing,

please, please do go seek help.

I'm talking about a different state of mind that we all live in,

where the light and the dark move together.

And I am saying that right now,

our culture is afraid of the dark.

And that all this normative sunshine

can distract you from your rightful heritage.

In Homer's "Odyssey,"

it was homesickness,

it was the longing for home

that caused Odysseus to take that epic journey in the first place.

The poem starts with him weeping on a beach.

And in most every children's book you've ever loved,

the hero is an orphan first.

Think of Harry Potter --

broken before the story even starts.

Longing is also the beating heart, of course,

of most of the world's religions.

We long for Eden and Zion,

and we long for the Beloved,

which is the beautiful word the Sufis have for God.

So sometime after I left my law firm and the musician,

I met Ken, who would become my husband.

Ken is a writer, too,

and he had spent the past decade

doing UN peacekeeping negotiations

in Rwanda and Liberia and Somalia.

And he had done that work

because underneath his very exuberant personality,

he was filled with his own longing for another world.

He'd grown up haunted by the Holocaust.

He used to lie awake at night when he was 10 years old

wondering would he have had the guts to hide Anne Frank in his attic.

And it turned out that he did have the courage,

even if his dreams of peace never did come true.

To this day, he keeps on his desk

a photo of a pile of bones from the Rwandan genocide.

When we met,

Ken was getting ready to publish a book on his experiences,

and it was getting optioned for TV.

And in contrast, I had this failed legal career

and some poems that I had written.

At the time, I was working on a memoir in sonnet form,

because why not.

But I brought the sonnets to our second date,

and I showed them to Ken.

And later that night,

this is the email that he sent me.

[Holy Sh*t. My favorite line:

I'm Penelope's descendant/ Heiress to a life transcendent

Keep writing. Drop Everything. Write. Write woman, write.]

(Laughter and applause)

So Ken's exuberant faith

helped to make my longing a reality.

But those dreams of peace he had had,

you know, we're all still waiting for those, right?

Which is the way it often goes,

the beautiful world just out of reach.

But while we're waiting,

our broken hearts can also help to connect us.

(Music: "Adagio in G Minor" by Albinoni)

(Music ends)

In 1992,

the city of Sarajevo was under siege.

For centuries, Muslims, Catholics and Eastern Orthodox

had lived together in this very vibrant city.

And now, the streets were dead quiet.

Except for the crackling sounds of the snipers' gunshots.

Until one day,

when a bombed-out bakery

filled with the strains of Albinoni's "Adagio in G Minor,"

which is what you've just been listening to,

thanks to the otherworldly talents of my dear friend, Min Kym.

(Applause)

The Albinoni that day was played by Vedran Smailović,

the lead cellist of the Sarajevo Opera,

in honor of 22 people who had been killed the morning before,

as they lined up for bread.

Dressed in a formal white shirt and black tails,

as if for a night at the opera,

he sat down on a white plastic chair

on a mound of rubble,

and he played his cello.

And he did that every day for 22 days

under sniper fire that never stopped him.

"You ask me am I crazy to play my cello in the middle of a war zone,"

he said,

"Why don't you ask them if they're crazy for shelling Sarajevo?"

A few months after that,

the BBC foreign correspondent, Allan Little, writes

that he watched as a procession of 40,000 people

emerged from a nearby forest.

They had been walking for 48 hours to flee a military attack.

And among them was an old man.

He was dazed and exhausted.

And he asked Allan Little,

"Have you seen my wife,

we got separated in the forest,

I don't know whether she's made it."

And Little said to him,

"Do you mind if I ask you, are you a Muslim or a Croat?"

And the old man's answer, he says,

shames him even now, as he recalls it across the decades.

"I am," said the old man,

"a musician."

(Music: "Adagio in G Minor")

(Music ends)

In Hebrew, the word for longing, leh-heesh-toh-kek,

it comes from the same word,

from the same root,

as the word for passion.

The place you suffer is the same exact place

where you care desperately.

It's the same place that inspires you to ease someone's pain however you can.

And it's the place that you vibrate

with the insane beauty of this world.

So, remember, there's light and there's dark.

And when the dark times come,

and they will come,

don't be surprised,

but ask yourself: What are you longing for?

And follow your longing where it's telling you to go.

It's pointing you in the direction of the sacred.

If you don't like that word sacred, I get it,

call it the wondrous instead.

You don't, you absolutely don't have to believe

in the deities of the ancient books

to know that spiritual longing is real,

and that humanity is steeped in the sublime.

Once you look, you will see it everywhere around you.

It's in the arch of your best friend's eyebrow

when she makes a joke.

It's in the smallpox vaccines and the Golden Gate bridges

that humans somehow managed to invent

against all odds.

It's in the surge of love you feel for a cellist

who did a brave and miraculous thing

during a misbegotten war in 1992.

And it's right here in this room.

Follow your longing where it’s telling you to go,

and may it carry you straight to the beating heart

of the perfect and beautiful world.

Thank you so much.

(Applause)