November 10: Whiteness, Snowstorm, Spiritual Writing

. . . Thus, then, the muffled rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of the festooned frosts of mountains; the desolate shiftings of the windrowed snows of prairies; all these, to Ishmael, are as the shaking of that buffalo robe to the frightened colt!

Though neither knows where lie the nameless things of which the mystic sign gives forth such hints; yet with me, as with the colt, somewhere those things must exist. Though in many of its aspects this visible world seems formed in love, the invisible spheres were formed in fright.

But not yet have we solved the incantation of this whiteness, and learned why it appeals with such power to the soul; and more strange and far more portentous- why, as we have seen, it is at once the most meaning symbol of spiritual things, nay, the very veil of the Christian's Deity; and yet should be as it is, the intensifying agent in things the most appalling to mankind.

Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows- a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues- every stately or lovely emblazoning- the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge- pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?

A little section from Chapter 42 ("The Whiteness of the Whale") of Moby-Dick.  For those of you who were hoping not to hear anymore from Melville's book, I'm obligated to remind you that this is the year of Moby-Dick.  Ahab and company aren't going away until January 1, 2019.  So, for the next month-and-a-half, I will be cherry picking from sections of the novel to suit my needs.  Hence, the focus on white today.

The first big snow storm of the season hit the Upper Peninsula of Michigan last night.  When I went to bed, there was simply a dusting of snow on the ground.  This morning, when I went outside to start my car, there was a two-foot wall of white surrounding our cars.  It took about two hours to dig them out.  Winter is upon us.

Of course, as a Yooper (that's a term for a lifelong resident of the Upper Peninsula), I am allowed to complain about snow.  Thus, if you had been anywhere near my house this morning, you would have heard me saying colorful things like "Why do we live here?!: and "It's too goddamn early for this shit!"  My back is sore.  My socks are wet and cold.  And my life for the next six of seven months is going to be a series of snow storms punctuated with brief respites of subzero temperatures.  Over half-a-year of white.

Today, I have a writing project on which to work.  A little essay about water.  It's something that I was sort of commissioned to write by a friend of mine.  It's part of a series of spiritual essays about water published in a local monthly paper.  I've always sort of struggled with the concept of spiritual writing.  It's a very slippery term.  I can't really provide a clear definition of what a piece of spiritual writing is.  However, when I read something that is spiritual, I know it immediately.
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Those are my dilemmas today.  Whiteness.  Water.  Spiritual writing.  Somehow, they're all swimming together in my head, coalescing.  Perhaps they'll all related in some way.  I guess I'll find out.

Saint Marty is thankful this morning for muscles that work, whiteness that purifies, and writing that reaches toward something bigger.