A Theory of Disease

After a triple bypass, two visits to Emergency with arterial fibrillation, I’ve developed a theory. Heart attacks (and other diseases) attack disorganized, messy people more often that organized, tidy ones.

Now that I’m one day away from four weeks after my operation, I’m sitting in my office a few hours a day. I noticed the piles of paper, one the floor, on the desk, the books, the binders, the chaos that goes with my creativity.

I’m positive that diseases lurk. I think they lurk under messy piles of paper, piled up books, dirty clothes in the closet in a corner, clean clothes on the drier waiting to be hung up. I can hear them snickering, rubbing their hands as it were, in glee.
A pile of dirty dishes on the cupboard probably has bubonic plague under it. A bunch of opened and unfilled letters is likely hiding something more benign, like the common cold.

I have a friend who is super organized, is a model house keeper. Nothing is ever messy. No piles of this and that here and there. She’s never sick. “Sick?” she asks, “what is that?”

I do my best. I remember, now and again, that the car needs vacuuming, that when I get gas, I should run it through the car wash. However, that sort of thing is always somewhere just on the edge of my peripheral vision. The need to clean the car, wash it, usually catches me by surprise. It’s the chocolate bar wrappers or the empty ice cream sundae in a drift under the seat that does it.
When I hear voices from the closet, I know that it is time to hang up everything, haul clothes to the washing machine. Either that or there are no more shirts on the hangers.

I get a lot of work done, writing that is, research, but daily life frequently comes as a surprise. When I notice the flowers on the deck have started to droop, I apologize. “Sorry, sorry,” I say, as I bring a pot of water out to drench the shrinking soil. I was going to put a micro watering system onto the deck so the begonia, the Astilbe, the geraniums could depend on being watered instead of suffering drought and floods. Didn’t make it before the operation. When I’m able to haul stuff around, puncture holes in pipes, I’ll do it.

I’m a good cook but hunger sneaks up on me. I’m deep into writing a piece of fiction and lunch time comes and goes and sometime in the early afternoon, if I smell the neighbour’s BBQ, I go onto high alert. Food. Hungry. Eat. Now. My hunger instinct isn’t into grammar. It’s pretty basic. The problem is that by that time of day, something quick is needed. This is no time to be cooking anything complicated. If the dishes in the dishwasher are clean, no problem. There’s always something to put into a pot and heat up or into the microwave. Well, nearly always.

If the dishes in the dishwasher aren’t washed and the dishes on the counter are hiding some terrible possible germ war aspirant, then it’s time to plunge into the reality of life. I fantasize servants who, at a call, appear with plates of exotic food but I probably settle for a toasted sandwich and soup.

I’m convinced all this lack of control, lack of being in charge, lack of a schedule that sees floors washed, carpets vacuumed, dishes washed and put away, meals planned a week in advance, clothes washed and hung up on schedule, is responsible for my triple bypass. No one who is properly organized, in charge of their life, keeping track of what they eat, getting exercise on a schedule that maximizes their physical health, would allow this to happen.

I vow to change. I’m going to file, sort, organize, leave no pile where Beri Beri or Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease can hide. I’m going to clean out my car before the floor in the back seat looks like the debris caught in a Saskatchewan barbed wire fence. Hopefully, like rats, the lurking vermin of disease will look and leave, knowing there’s no place for them here.

The Poet from Arnes: background notes

Poetry, like hymn singing, was okay in Iceland. Both came with the settlers. The poetry and hymn singing expanded to become secular but still was an important part of the daily life of the settlers. Even today, numerous books of poetry in Icelandic written by the first generation of immigrants still exist. Also, still existing, are anecdotes about the struggle between farming and writing. It has been said about more than one farmer that “he’d have been a better farmer if he hadn’t spent so much time writing poetry”. I’ve noticed that some people feel the need to defend Stephan G’s farming, as if his life work of poetry was, somehow, an abdication of his responsibilities as a farmer, father and husband. His accomplishments as a poet absolve him of any accusation of neglect for a muse is a demanding mistress and his books could only be written by him while others could grow crops on his land.  It is true, crops, cows and sheep are demanding. The weather waits for no man. But, so is the creative spirit, the demanding internal mistress who wants all of an artist’s time and attention.

There is a struggle within some of us, if not all of us, between the practical and the romantic. To follow either to the extreme leads often to disaster. Following one with no attention to the other deprives us of joy or the material things we need. I have seen the creativity of individuals crushed by rigid, narrow minded views of reality. A middle aged woman once came to me in my role as creative writing teacher and said she wanted to write, there was a need, a burning desire to write. She had wanted to write for years but had belonged to a small religious group led by a man who considered creative activities evil. If you believe in reincarnation, he was probably an Icelandic bishop reincarnated. No slander on current bishops but even a cursory look at Icelandic history makes many of the religious leaders the foes of creativity.

There were many like this cult leader. In Iceland, two bishops went to the king of Denmark and got a law passed that said Icelanders were not to spend their time in frivolous pursuits. The bishops, of course, got to define frivolous. In their view of life, you cut hay, spun wool, lived a life of drudgery and when you weren’t working, you prayed. On the other hand, I’ve known poets who, for some strange reason, believe, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, that they are going to make a living from writing poetry and expect to live off the excitement of their creativity.

These parts are filled by Oscar and his wife, Snolag. Both of them are good people but each takes a position that diminishes their lives. There are no bad people in this story.

The difference between them can be seen in the attitude of the cows toward them. The cows respond to Oscar’s thoughtfulness and singing. Snolag is more businesslike. The cows still produce milk but it is now a duty instead of a pleasure. One can extrapolate that to all sorts of situations in society. Teachers, doctors, lawyers, officers, bosses, police. The outcome might be much the same but the feeling is different. How we feel matters.

Oscar disappears in a storm. There’s the assumption that he’s drowned. Snolag takes over the farm, makes decisions for the present and the future, does a good job.

Oscar has tried to bring romance into their lives with no success. The garden he planted for Snolag died.

He disappears, nearly is drowned in icy water, nearly freezes to death. Make what you will of that. He is rescued by a woman who keeps  him safe all through the winter. She’s a mythic figure, native, passionate, if you want, his creative soul. Somehow, magically, at a terrible price, she provides him with what he most wants in life, a son. The price is that he may sing for no one else. Folk tales are full of instances of bargains made, rewards given, bargains broken, betrayals, and the price paid.

Snolag, at Oscar’s reappearance, behaves in character, completely and totally practical, she starts breakfast. Her behaviour, although surprising, even shocking to some, has its roots in reality. Men were ever wanderers, often traveling far from home in search of game or a job. They could leave their family for long periods of time, then simply turn up. Odysseus took ten years to come back home.

However, even though she has earlier resented the time Oscar has spent on his singing, now that she has found love with the arrival of a child, she is aware that something is missing with Oscar no longer singing. The love she has experienced and is able to extend to her relationship with Oscar means she recognizes and feels the loss. However, she makes the mistake of shaming Oscar into breaking his vow and the cost is everything that has made her happy.

This story is filled with magic. The mundane and the practical struggle against the creative. The magic transforms people’s lives, allows Oscar to survive, to return, for him and Snolag to have a child, gives them happiness, takes it away. This struggle goes on every day in every place. Within a person and between and among people.

A simple promise broken in the Garden of Eden. The opening of Pandora’s Box. There was a time when a man’s word was his bond. Even in recent times, pioneers on the prairies would, according to Broadfoot, write a note saying, “I owe you ten dollars. I’m good for it.” Not keeping one’s word was an unforgiveable sin. You paid your debts. You kept your word.

Folk tales are not politically correct, nor are they Disney’s prettified stories that no longer reflect the human condition. Grimm’s tales reflect the human condition, human desires, they coddle no one. They are not for children. They are stories for adults about adult subjects. Taking away what folk tales have to say about our lives, separating the narratives from how people really feel so that a romanticized view of life is left, demeans and diminishes them, demeans and diminishes us. Saturday Evening Post covers by Norman Rockwell were wonderful but presented such an idealized, romanticized view of American life that it reflected hardly any segment of daily life for American society.  That doesn’t mean that every piece of art has to force reality on the viewer. Some art is solely for entertainment. Thinking isn’t required.

However, the lives of Oscar and Snolag, the conflict between them, the outcome, require, I believe, some thought about our own lives.