There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seems to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters' Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.
To any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld, must ever after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of the world, the Indian ocean and Atlantic being but its arms. The same waves wash the moles of the new-built California towns, but yesterday planted by the recentest race of men and lave the faded but still gorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham; while all between float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown Archipelagoes, and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious, divine Pacific zones the world's whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth. Lifted by those eternal swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan.
But few thoughts of Pan stirred Ahab's brain, as standing, like an iron statue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging, with one nostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the Bashee isles (in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking), and with the other consciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea; that sea in which the hated White Whale must even then be swimming. Launched at length upon these almost final waters, and gliding towards the Japanese cruising-ground, the old man's purpose intensified itself. His firm lips met like the lips of a vice; the Delta of his forehead's veins swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran through the vaulted hull, "Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick blood!"
Friday at last. These school semester weeks seem wide and long, like the Pacific in Melville's above chapter. Of course, my jobs eat up most of my time, Monday through Friday. By the time I hit Thursday night, I am exhausted, like I've been battling Ahab's white whale for four days. When I walked into my house this evening, my wife looked at me and said, "Wow! You look relaxed."
Yes, I am relaxed. Relieved that I've made it to this day. This evening, I'll be going out for dinner with my family to a restaurant where I don't even have to tell my server what I want to drink. She brings me pineapple juice and Peachtree Schnapps. I don't have to look at the menu--I always order poutine, which is just a really fancy name for French fries and cheese curds smothered in gravy. A guilty indulgence.
Yesterday, I had a follow-up appointment with the physician's assistant who's been helping me with my anxiety and depression. I talked about my week, blood pressure log, and moods. It's kind of a terrifying thing to bare yourself to another person, even if that person is simply there to help you feel better. I felt like I was admitting some kind of weakness, and I've always thought of myself as a pretty strong person.
After some minutes of conversation, she looked at me and said, "I think what you need is an antidepressant." I think she could tell by my face that she had said something that bothered me, because she quickly followed it up with, "Something that's going to help you control that anxiety."
I nodded a little.
She smiled, "Just for like nine months or so. I think what you're experiencing is situational. I don't like keeping people on antidepressants long term." Then her face got serious. "Unless you need it," she said.
So, that is where I am. I feel like I owe this information to all of my friends who read this post and are concerned about me. I am doing better. I've even written a couple things that might become new poems. It's a day-by-day thing. Sometimes it's like floating in the Pacific, no land in sight, trying not to imagine what's swimming underneath you. Other times, it's like Friday night, planning for a good dinner with your wife and kids.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for healthcaregivers who really seem to care.
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