That's Wyrd

I did a little research on the Old English, Anglo-Saxon concept of the wyrd. Simply put, it is most easily defined as a notion of "personal destiny" or fate. The word wyrd derives specifically from an old Germanic word and has cognates in ancient languages spanning from regions all across Europe, Central Asia, and all the way to northern India that date back to the Copper Age in the 5th and 4th millennia BC (5000-4000 BC). So this notion of a personal destiny runs deep in the blood and spirit of humanity.

What fascinates me the most, in the context of this course, is the collision between Christianity and personal fate on the British Isles during the Roman Empire. In the literature that you are reading right now, you can see how the monks embraced the notion of fate. After all, they would already have had both unconscious/subconscious and intellectual/academic exposure to the notion. But from what I can tell in my own reading, they saw it as the best avenue into the spiritual concerns of the "natives" of the lands that they conquered. As I said in class, in a world where it was highly likely on any given day that a child could die of sudden illness or a warrior could die in hand to hand combat, this notion of fate was just a matter of fact. Weather very directly affected survivability on a month to month basis. There were constant local battles for resources and security. Nothing was a given. Everything was hard. So if it was your time, it was your time. I don't mean to suggest that people only associate fate with death. It's just one of the most prominent associations that people make.

It seems that when the Roman Empire monks, who came from a much more "civilized" and secure place, picked up on the Anglo-Saxon locals' aforementioned spiritual, practical (and understandable) reliance on the concept of wyrd"ness" they ran with it, and the rest is history. Since then, as far as I can tell from both historical research and personal observation, the concepts of "personal destiny" and the God of Christianity have melted together more and more--to the point that we can observe it in popular American culture ranging from soap operas to politics (and yes that was a clever joke and yes it is sad). As I mentioned in class, I have a hard time accepting that some things are just meant to be--especially when they come from "religious" angles. Was 9/11 unavoidable? Was it predestined by God? That's not for me to answer for you, but I don't mind admitting that I have a hard time accepting it. Did God "kill" my mom with breast cancer when she was in her 40's? Was that divine fate? Maybe so. But I'd rather think of the fate end of it in more modern, scientific terms. She had genes that were more prone to cancer than other, healthier women. Yeah, God may have created those genes. Once again, it's not for me to say in this setting. But I don't mind saying that I don't think God gave her those genes In The Beginning. It just happened. My mom fought a valiant battle against a deadly disease, she contributed to research that has helped many women since survive breast cancer, but in the end, she "ran into a sword." If she'd have lived 5 years longer, they probably would have saved her. It was just wyrd, man. Those firefighters that heroically ran into those buildings trying to save lives and died--that was their personal destiny, and we will always venerate them for it. That's all I know to say.

I hope you will think about these types of things all year long on a deeper level than you have in the past. It's never my intention to "change" your belief system. But I do want you to question it so that it will grow stronger and more sound. This is why we read literature.

See you in class.

The Rest

George Herbert's poetry isn't as much fun for me as Donne's, but it's still good stuff. When you're reading "The Pulley" pay attention to the word "rest."

LOVE (III)
by George Herbert


Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

Natural Burial

I started 17th Century Metaphysical Poetry this week with my classes, and yesterday one of the poems we discussed was "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne. It goes like this:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

The poem is one of Donne's Holy Sonnets. He had unenthusiastically entered the ministry at the insistence of King James, and his quick wit, his flair for the dramatic, and his rolling intellect had established him as the mega-rock star preacher of his era. In the poem, the speaker condescendingly confronts Death and personifies him as a tool, a cocksure pawn of Fate, Chance, and desperate men. For the believer, death is really a peaceful little nap at the start of eternal life. Yet he runs around like a bluffing bully. The cacophonous couplet at the end reveals that the joke is on Death. While we wake eternally, death dies.

I'm not sure about all that, but what I do know is that I dig the gist.

So naturally, I had a dream last night about my death. It wasn't a morbid or a disturbing dream. It was one of those dreams where I was thinking, sort of awake. I was contemplating my own little nap and how I hope it goes down. Here's what I dreamt:

When I die, dig a hole in the woods about two meters deep in Newton County, Arkansas or in the Blue Ridge somewhere, 20 or 30 yards away from a waterfall or a bluff or a big, old tree where woodpeckers hang out. Wrap my body in a linen shroud and place it in the hole. No embalming fluids, no incineration, no concrete vault. Cover me up with some soil and relocate a dogwood, a wild blueberry bush, blackberries and raspberries for the bears, some dwarf lilies, mayapples, and ferns. I love ferns. Or just spread some rich duff and fallen leaves; it doesn't matter. One short sleep past, I'll wake eternally and death shall be no more. Visit the waterfall, the bluff, the tree and see what I become.

I'll send you off with a tune in your head if you know the Dave Matthews Band:

Gravedigger,

When you dig my grave,

Could you make it shallow

So that I can feel the rain?

--David John Matthews