At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
These are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a certain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he regards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not through high rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when the western emigrants' horses only show their erected ears, while their hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.
The long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these there steals the hush, the hum; you almost swear that play-wearied children lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad May-time, when the flowers of the woods are plucked. And all this mixes with your most mystic mood; so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate, and form one seamless whole.
Nor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as temporary an effect on Ahab. But if these secret golden keys did seem to open in him his own secret golden treasuries, yet did his breath upon them prove but tarnishing.
Oh, grassy glades! oh ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye,- though long parched by the dead drought of the earthly life,- in ye, men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them. Would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:- through infancy's unconscious spell, boyhood's thoughtless faith, adolescence' doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood's pondering repose of If. But once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally. Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling's father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it. And that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat's side into that same golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured:-
"Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride's eyes!- Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe."
And Stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scale, leaped up in that same golden light:-
"I am Stubb, and Stubb has his history; but here Stubb takes oaths that he has always been jolly!"
Here, Melville writes of golden times--rest between labor. Stretches in which the sailors of the Pequod are able to regard the sea in all its dangerous beauty. As Starbuck says, "Loveliness unfathomable . . ." The White Whale is far from anybody's mind in these reflective interludes. This chapter is not about danger or revenge or obsession or control. I think it's simply about being a part of something larger than yourself.
It has been a long week. I've been saying that since Monday. Finally, I have reached Thursday evening, and I can sort of sit back and relax a little bit. Appreciate the world without having to make any kind of mark on it. Picture me sitting in the middle of a beach. There aren't any footsteps in the sand around me. It looks as if God has simply reached down a placed me there. And I'm just sitting, listening to the wind and water and insects.
That's what I'm feeling right now. Tonight, I'm going to an event called Out Loud. It's like an open mic, except people sometimes tell stories or sing songs or make confessions. Sometimes people talk about their grandchildren or read elegies about wolves. Sometimes, it's a series of failed poems that inspire gales of laughter. Essays. Artwork. Short stories and excerpts from novels in progress. It's never boring. Always nourishing.
Another thing that happens every time is that some sort of theme always develops. Everyone shows up with something to read or say. I, myself, randomly go through poems and essays I've written, and I start choosing by instinct. I select pieces that resonate with me for some unconscious reason. This afternoon, as I was going through this process, I was aware of a visceral response when I came upon a poem. Like an inner pull. At one point, I even felt my face flush.
I know I sound a little crazy, but I really believe there's something more than random selection at work. I say this because I've witnessed this phenomenon over and over. The day after my father died this past February, I attended Out Loud. That night, someone got up and told a story about her relationship with her father. A total stranger sang a song about coming together and parting. It happened over and over that evening.
I'm not a believer in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. I have no idea who's going to show up tonight for Out Loud. No idea what's going to be read or said. But I do know this: I will feel like I'm a part of something bigger than myself. Connected.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for creativity ad friendship.
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