January 25: Goodwin Sands, Predictability, William Carlos Williams

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say- here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands! how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems- aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling- a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

Goodwin Sands.  Had to look that one up.  It's a sandbank off the coast of Kent, England.  There have been more than 2,000 shipwrecks on Goodwin Sands because it is so close to shipping lanes.  Tides and currents are constantly shifting the shoals, making the area incredibly unpredictable to navigate.  Hence the loss of so many vessels.

For the most part, I live a pretty predictable life.  I have to.  Every morning during the week, I get up at the same time--4:45 a.m.  I'm at work by 6 a.m., and my day is filled with the same tasks.  Patients and medical charts.  Students and classwork.  In the evenings. I am the dance dad chauffeur.  For example, tonight, I'm driving my daughter to her dance studio at 7 p.m.  Her classes get over at 8:45 p.m.  Then, it's home and preparing for the next day.

Some people might find this kind of schedule tedious.  No room for spontaneity.  I sort of like that element of non-surprise.  It allows me to navigate my weeks without ending up a shipwrecked, underwater, on the Goodwin Sands, if you get my analogy.  While I can't completely avoid the unexpected (brake jobs, collapsing ceilings, and the like), I have learned that routine also gives me freedom.

Because of my crazy life, I sometimes struggle to carve out time to write or read or create.  William Carlos Williams is famous for writing tiny poems.  The reason he was so economical in language and image is that he was a busy physician.  Some of his poems were written on the backs of prescription pads between visiting patients.  Williams found the time in his busy life to be a poet.  So do I.

And it's the predictability that helps me to do this.  I know that I will have at least three or four hours every Thursday afternoon/evening where I can fully concentrate on whatever creative project I currently have on my plate.  I also have couple hours on Tuesday and Wednesday night, as well.

Yesterday, I didn't write any blog posts.  I had another writing project that needed my attention.  I knew that I had the time to do that.  In fact, I had blocked it out on my schedule to complete the project.  I got it done and submitted last night at about 11:30.

I think most writers, if they are honest, thrive on predictability.  One of my writer friends religiously sits at his desk from about 7 a.m. to 10 or 11 a.m. every day.  Sometimes, he says, he accomplishes a great deal.  Other times, he gets three or four sentences written.  That is his creative life.  No unpredictable sandbars for him.

So, don't scoff at routine.  Don't laugh at daily lists.  Spontaneity, while exciting every once in a while, can get in the way of serious creative endeavor.

Saint Marty is thankful for the one hour and forty-five minutes he will have to work on his new poem tonight.