Odling II - Wood and Water
There is a proverb that I encountered a few years back - I couldn't tell you where it came from: "Before great deeds: chop wood, draw water. After great deeds: chop wood, draw water." It was explained to me at the time that it meant that every person, no matter how illustrious, is also very humble: the necessities of life cannot be ignored.
I have another interpretation. We'll get back to that.
Recently I finished an ode! Two of them! A set! I'm still wondering if they are a) too obvious, b) too obscure, c) far too tumpty tumpty or d) ugly, but never mind that. My point is that the act of poetic creation is for me one that is very similar to other creative activities, like writing a story or sewing. It goes through several stages. As I sit here of an evening, in singlet and pajama pants, with a soft red blanket and hair around my shoulders, let's see if I can quantify them:
1. Walking around letting Ideas flit past in a fog until one settles on my shoulder (or sometimes I catch 'em with a net to show the little blighters who's boss). There's often a bit of negotiation between me and the Idea at this point, as we decide if we can work together or whether we will have to come to an amicable agreement and see someones else.
2. Obssessive creation. Often there is a serious puzzle, a problem of bits that don't want to work together. I'd consider this frustrating but I've realised that I'm not actually happy unless I have something over which I can pull my hair out (figuratively) and stay up all night (literally). The really fun part is when the insoluble problem transforms into some bright and shining solution that I never expected, that is new. Sometimes my solutions fall apart, though, and I have to exercise patience - a great deal of it.
3. The thing considers itself whole. This is not a good time for me, because I'm tired and jangly and bouncing between euphoria (Isn't it wonderful? Come see!) and depression (Please, tell me it isn't as bad as I know it is ...). All in all, it ain't pleasant. It's the price I pay for the fun bits, though, so never mind.
4. The afterglow. I've had enough time to step back and look at it with a stranger's eyes. This is a bit like 2., but a lot less intense. I'll spend a couple of weeks tinkering with it - making very small changes to see if it hangs better that way. I'm in that stage with the Colours odes right now. I mean, I think I've got them sorted, but I thought that three days ago, too, and they haven't even been through the Workshop yet ...
And where do chopping wood and drawing water come into all this?
Well, in all of my neatly labelled stages, I find simple repetitive activities very comforting: things that keep hands and body occupied while my mind drifts or runs wailing. Walking is good, and so is washing dishes (which has the added advantage of a clean kitchen!). I wonder sometimes if that is what the proverb-maker had in mind: that after the storms of the great the motions that stitch small things back together are what we need.
No matter. As the teacher of my poetry class recently said, "It isn't what they put there, it's what you get out of it." That is a rather terrifying comment, actually, but I find it useful in this instance so we'll let it pass.
But pay it no mind. It is late, so late. My flatmates are snoring in their beds and so should I (er, in my bed, that is, not theirs (um, their separate beds, I mean, o never mind) ).
Sleep.
*
*
*
And mea culpa, lads and lasses: I've been lying to you. Some of the comments above would indicate that I wrote them late at night. Depending on when you read them, you could well have the illusion of listening to a story at the same time I tell it. Well ... most of it was written last night. The notion of chopping wood and drawing water, though, has been sitting on my shoulder for a while, and this blog was initially going to be purely about the things that I do of that nature, and which ones work better than others. I got bored writing that, though, and put it aside (1.) until last night when I had another go - another approach, I guess (2.). I managed to by-pass 3. (phew), but I prefer to let things sit for a bit and am now, this afternoon (and as I edit this, another evening), in 4. circling back to 2. On re-reading I realised that the first ending, while pretty, was something that I did not really believe. It was a lie. In releasing that lie, I have involved you, Dear Readers, in another. I'm not sorry.
And I think of the many texts I have loved for their 'spontaneity' and ease of reading, and wonder how much they were pruned, how many impurities filtered out. Where, then, is the uninterrupted growth of thought that I thought I had? This is better work: it is more deeply crafted. It recalls an earlier image, and re-uses it in an interesting way. Truly, you are better off with my deceit - do you forgive me?
Ah, even if you don't, I know what I'll be doing now - going back to chopping wood and pouring water.* No matter what I do with them, they are always themselves.
* Actually, I was cooking dinner and, as of this latest edit, planning on going to sleep - sneaky, sneaky Cat!
I have another interpretation. We'll get back to that.
Recently I finished an ode! Two of them! A set! I'm still wondering if they are a) too obvious, b) too obscure, c) far too tumpty tumpty or d) ugly, but never mind that. My point is that the act of poetic creation is for me one that is very similar to other creative activities, like writing a story or sewing. It goes through several stages. As I sit here of an evening, in singlet and pajama pants, with a soft red blanket and hair around my shoulders, let's see if I can quantify them:
1. Walking around letting Ideas flit past in a fog until one settles on my shoulder (or sometimes I catch 'em with a net to show the little blighters who's boss). There's often a bit of negotiation between me and the Idea at this point, as we decide if we can work together or whether we will have to come to an amicable agreement and see someones else.
2. Obssessive creation. Often there is a serious puzzle, a problem of bits that don't want to work together. I'd consider this frustrating but I've realised that I'm not actually happy unless I have something over which I can pull my hair out (figuratively) and stay up all night (literally). The really fun part is when the insoluble problem transforms into some bright and shining solution that I never expected, that is new. Sometimes my solutions fall apart, though, and I have to exercise patience - a great deal of it.
3. The thing considers itself whole. This is not a good time for me, because I'm tired and jangly and bouncing between euphoria (Isn't it wonderful? Come see!) and depression (Please, tell me it isn't as bad as I know it is ...). All in all, it ain't pleasant. It's the price I pay for the fun bits, though, so never mind.
4. The afterglow. I've had enough time to step back and look at it with a stranger's eyes. This is a bit like 2., but a lot less intense. I'll spend a couple of weeks tinkering with it - making very small changes to see if it hangs better that way. I'm in that stage with the Colours odes right now. I mean, I think I've got them sorted, but I thought that three days ago, too, and they haven't even been through the Workshop yet ...
And where do chopping wood and drawing water come into all this?
Well, in all of my neatly labelled stages, I find simple repetitive activities very comforting: things that keep hands and body occupied while my mind drifts or runs wailing. Walking is good, and so is washing dishes (which has the added advantage of a clean kitchen!). I wonder sometimes if that is what the proverb-maker had in mind: that after the storms of the great the motions that stitch small things back together are what we need.
No matter. As the teacher of my poetry class recently said, "It isn't what they put there, it's what you get out of it." That is a rather terrifying comment, actually, but I find it useful in this instance so we'll let it pass.
But pay it no mind. It is late, so late. My flatmates are snoring in their beds and so should I (er, in my bed, that is, not theirs (um, their separate beds, I mean, o never mind) ).
Sleep.
*
*
*
And mea culpa, lads and lasses: I've been lying to you. Some of the comments above would indicate that I wrote them late at night. Depending on when you read them, you could well have the illusion of listening to a story at the same time I tell it. Well ... most of it was written last night. The notion of chopping wood and drawing water, though, has been sitting on my shoulder for a while, and this blog was initially going to be purely about the things that I do of that nature, and which ones work better than others. I got bored writing that, though, and put it aside (1.) until last night when I had another go - another approach, I guess (2.). I managed to by-pass 3. (phew), but I prefer to let things sit for a bit and am now, this afternoon (and as I edit this, another evening), in 4. circling back to 2. On re-reading I realised that the first ending, while pretty, was something that I did not really believe. It was a lie. In releasing that lie, I have involved you, Dear Readers, in another. I'm not sorry.
And I think of the many texts I have loved for their 'spontaneity' and ease of reading, and wonder how much they were pruned, how many impurities filtered out. Where, then, is the uninterrupted growth of thought that I thought I had? This is better work: it is more deeply crafted. It recalls an earlier image, and re-uses it in an interesting way. Truly, you are better off with my deceit - do you forgive me?
Ah, even if you don't, I know what I'll be doing now - going back to chopping wood and pouring water.* No matter what I do with them, they are always themselves.
* Actually, I was cooking dinner and, as of this latest edit, planning on going to sleep - sneaky, sneaky Cat!
posted by theamazingcatherine | 6:28 pm
3 Comments:
Hmmm... the chopping wood and carrying water I know as a buddhist story. I'm not sure if it was buddha himself, or one of the great masters who came after (for the purposes of this comment it probably doesn't matter). Whoever it was, one of his students asked what was the surest way to reach enlightenment. The great-sage-whoever-it-was replied 'Chop Wood, Carry Water'.
The student pondered these words deeply, and eventually came to terms with the fact that enlightenment could be gained by something so mundane. So he went back to the great-sage-whoever-it-was, and asked, "But what should we do after we reach enlightenment?' And the great-sage-whoever-it-was smiled enigmatically (as great sages are wont to do) and replied 'Chop wood, carry water'
Or something like that.
http://www.taowoods.org/woods/texts/views.php?item=6
Oh, was it you that left the anonymous comment on my LJ asking what I did for my job? If so, I wrote a big comment on there afterwards describing it, but it won't have been e-mailed to you, because there's no address logged on LJ for it to go to.
Hugs!
T
Chop Wood.
Carry Water.
And in that simple turn of philosophy, the complexities of prose and poetry can arise from those simple things.
Chop Wood.
Carry Water.
Just don't mix the two.
*warm fuzzies*
Alan
Of course, I could burn the chopped wood and use its heat to transform the water to steam, or I could pour the water on the fire which would stop the transformation of the wood into ash, and so end up with a largely indivisible mess of damp wood, soot/ash, water, and steam. Possibly my image wasn't so useful after all ...
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