Cultural Mythology: Myth, culture, and consciousness

Picking Blueberries, Austerlitz, New York, 1957

Once, in summer, in the blueberries,

I fell asleep, and woke when a deer stumbled against me.

I guess she was so busy with her own happiness

she had grown careless and was just wandering along

listening to the winds as she leaned down

to lip up the sweetness.

So there we were,

with nothing between us but a few leaves, and the wind's glossy voice shouting instructions.

The deer backed away finally and flung up her white tail and went floating off toward the trees---

but the moment before she did that was so wide and so deep

it has lasted to this day;

I have only to think of her---

the flower of her amazement and the stalled breath of her curiosity,

and even the damp touch of her solicitude before she took flight---

to be absent again from this world and alive, again, in another,

for thirty years sleepy and amazed,

rising out of the rough weeds, listening and looking.

Beautiful girl, where are you?

---Mary Oliver, from New and Selected Poems

Actaeon and Artemis

Actaeon was the grandson of Cadmus, the founder and once-king of Thebes. Actaeon was cousin to Pentheus, who as you might recall, had a tragic run in with Dionysus in Euripide's play The Bacchae. The telling of the tale which follows is paraphrased from Ovid and various Greek sources.

********************************************

Sing to me Muse, of Actaeon, the grandson of Cadmus, founder and once-king of Thebes. Born of a royal family, and raised by the wise Centaur Chiron, mentor to all noble heros and talented young men.

One morning, a morning that began with the sun rising above the hills like it does to this day, Actaeon went with his friends to Mt. Citharion, to hunt. The young Actaeon was a very good hunter, accurate and brave. The group had very good luck and caught various forms of game. The sun was now high over their heads and the day was hot. “My friends, “Actaeon said, “we have shed enough blood for one day, our bounty is great. Let us stop, find cool shade, and rest.” All were agreement about the wisdom and this plan and the party dispersed as each of the young men went in search of shade, cool grass, and a breeze. Actaeon also wanders the mountainside and ultimately finds himself alone.

Actaeon and his friends are not the only ones out hunting this morning. The goddess Artemis has also been out on Mt Citharion with bow in hand. She is the virgin goddess of the hunt and of wild things, the patron of all young beings, animal and human alike, and of the young girls that we now call tomboys. She is the bear, the stag, the dog, and the crescent moon. Artemis lives in the wilderness and wants nothing to do with men, although she is close to her twin brother Apollo.

The lovely and fierce Artemis also stops to rest and cool off. She has a secret grotto on the mountain, with a graceful stone arch that opens onto a small meadow with a clear stream and a pool, perfect for bathing. No mortals know of this place. It is her refuge. Artemis is at the pool with her nymphs, the young women who attend her. They take her bow from her shoulder, help her undress, bind up her hair, and fill the urns with water to pour over her white body.

Alone, Actaeon comes upon the clear stream and follows it’s babbling course to the meadow. He spies the stone arch and steps inside the cool grotto to stand at the edge of the pool. There he finds Artemis and the nymphs. The young man is struck with amazement. He stands and stares. When the nymphs see him, they cry out and rush to surround the goddess, to shield her from his view. But she is taller than the rest and looks over their heads at the hunter, who is still looking at her.

Her cheeks turn red. Furious, Artemis says, “I bet you can’t wait to get back to your friends, to tell them that you have seen the goddess unveiled.” She glances around, searching for her bow and arrows, but they are lying on the banks out of reach. Just then, Actaeon hears his companions in the distance, calling his name. Without thinking, he opens his mouth to call out in reply but Artemis, wielding the only tool at hand, splashes the young man with water. "Now go and tell the others all that you've seen,” she says, “if you can." 

The drops of water from her wet hands turn Actaeon into a stag. A pair of antlers emerge from his head. His arms and legs lengthen, his hands and feet become hooves and his skin turns to rough hide. The transformation of Actaeon is not only physical. He becomes a deer in mind and spirit too. Artemis completes the physical transformation with a flourish, and makes the young man timid. Afraid.

Actaeon, the hero turned stag, turns with a start and runs away across the meadow. As he runs, he marvels at his speed. "Amazing," he thinks to himself, "I am faster than the wind and just as tireless." Actaeon stops to drink at a small stream. He lowers his head, sees his reflection---oh my god!--realizes what has happened. A strangled cry, neither human nor animal, emerges from his throat.

While Actaeon stands gazing into the stream, his hunting dogs catch his scent. He has a large pack of 50 dogs of various breeds from different lands, and they are well trained. The young hunter runs and the dogs make chase, leaping and snapping. He cannot get away from them. A dog jumps onto his back. Another grips his hind leg in its mouth. Another bites his throat. Actaeon tries to moan and cry out but can only make small, strangled sounds. He pleads for mercy with his eyes, tries to make contact, as master to the dogs. But they bring him down.

His friends, hearing the commotion, gather to watch the show. They call out to Actaeon and imagine that he is fast asleep in the shade somewhere, or too lazy to answer their call. Put poor Actaeon is all too present.

Later, the story of Actaeon's fate is told and retold until it reaches the ears of mortals. Some people think that goddess was too harsh. Others say that Artemis simply acted according to her nature, and that the young hunter had bad luck.

What do you think? Should we expect life or the gods to be fair? Is there perhaps, a larger pattern that we simply can't see? Or do some people just get a raw deal? Many people across the ages have believed in fate, but today, we like to think that we're in control... if Actaeon's death is a reflection of the content of his consciousness or "negativity," then what? There is no hint of pessimism or bad character in the myth.

Wolfgang Giengerich, a post-Jungian psychologist and theorist, developed an interesting interpretation of this myth. He imagines that Actaeon the hunter is the individual in search of the truth (that is, the Other), that Artemis is the Other (who is also the Self), and the ego is the dogs. In the paper Imagining the Unimaginable, I lay out Giegerich's version of the story and compare it to Buddhist enlightenment and the use of iconic images in Tibetan Buddhism.

Ovid's version of Niobe's myth

Some people are critical of mythology and myth studies of the sort that I pursue because they equate mythology with ideology. Mythology, in this instance, is the favored narrative of the powerful, the dogma of the dominant paradigm. Marxists, for example, often fall into this camp, as do some critics of Christianity and organized religion more generally. It’s not hard to see why, given the common confusion about metaphors and metaphorical truth. If one reads a myth literally and assumes that there is only one accurate version, one correct interpretation, and one appropriate use for the story, then you do end up with a fixed meaning in service to some power structure. This has happened and is still happening. A lot. I get it. I am interested in myths as metaphorical narratives about the unknown because, paradoxically (?), myth as metaphor appears to be a solution to the myth as literal, dogma problem, and our literal dogmas are (literally) killing us.

(If the relationship between myth and dogma and dominant paradigms interests you, also check out my paper "Moral of the Story." ) (right sidebar).

We need to claim our myths, but our institutions (read: holders of power) are not going to facilitate this grand awakening and expansion of consciousness. We are, by understanding that we make myths and think metaphorically, and by looking for our myths, waking up to our assumptions.This includes considering the sources of our information, even the ancient or well established, and being alert to moral judgments. The myth of Niobe is one illustration.

The Greek myth of Niobe is a simple albeit puzzling story that is repeated by various Greek chroniclers: Apollodorus, Pausanias, Herodotus, Homer, and Hesiod. They don’t all provide the exact same details. The names of the children and their number, for example, varies from source to source. Apollodorus said there were fourteen kids. Homer, who included his version of the story in the Iliad, refers to twelve children, six boys and six girls. Hesiod reported twenty, ten of each sex, and Herodotus counted only four. The identity of the survivors is also unclear. Apollodorus refers to the surviving son as Amphion, Pausanias mentions Amyclas who, quick to pray to Leto for forgiveness and mercy, was spared. Apollodorus names the eldest daughter, Chloris, who also made successful, last minute prayers to Leto, as a survivor. Pausanias says that the surviving daughter's given name was Meliboia, but she was later known as Chloris because she stayed pale with fear and grief over the murder of her siblings. In Homer’s version of the myth, there are no survivors.

Why the inconsistencies? They’re probably the result of the oral story moving to different regions at different times, but it’s reasonable to say, don’t you think, that the exact number of Niobe’s children doesn’t matter all that much?

Something more significant accurs when Ovid rewrites Niobe’s story for his collection of tales, The Metamorphoses (Roman, 8 CE). Ovid's version of the story is the longest and most colorful, and the one that is most often told. In the Sixth Book, Ovid tells the tale of a foolishly proud Niobe, who recklessly invites the destruction of her family and even persists in taunting the goddess after her sons are massacred. In the ancient Greek versions, identifying the good guys and the bad guys is tough, but Ovid squarely places Niobe in the tradition of inflated, arrogant mortals who are brought low by the gods.

The earlier Greek sources provide no details regarding how and when Niobe issued her fateful challenge. The queen's words could have been a casual slip, a private comment made to her husband or even herself. Ovid however, describes Niobe’s appearance at Laton’s (Leto’s) annual festival, and the manner in which she disrupts the proceedings with claims that she, with her many children, is more worthy of veneration. Niobe gets on Leto’s home turf so to speak, and outlines her own noble parentage, her physical beauty and grace, and the riches of the kingdom under the command of her husband, concluding her list of goddess-like qualifications with mention of her seven sons and seven daughters, and the many children that they, in their turn, will produce…

This is arrogant if not downright stupid, but Ovid’s Niobe then goes one step further and challenges the goddess. She believes so firmly that her abundant children are her creation, her accomplishment, her deserved reward, that she dares Latona (Leto) to try to reduce her position be taking them all. “I could lode a couple of them," she says, "and still have plenty." Niobe’s disrespect shocks and frightens her community. The gentle goddess Leto cannot tolerate this affront or allow Niobe’s challenge to go unanswered. She calls on Apollo and Artemis and they are quick to jump to her defense. Ovid says that Apollo doesn’t even wait to hear all of the details of the story, “long complaint is nothing but delay”(6. 273) and he vividly describes the bloody hunt on Mount Citharion and the death of each son; the chase, the cries they utter, and where Apollo’s arrows struck.

When word of the massacre reaches Niobe, she is full of indignation as well as grief, and defiantly calls out to Leto again; “As wretched as my case doth seeme, yet have I left me mo Than thou for all thy happiness canst of thine owne account. Even after all these corses yet I still doe thee surmount” (6. 358-360). In other words, I still have six daughters and you’re still the mother of only two.Then Artemis strikes, shooting dead six of the daughters, who had come with Niobe to view their dead brothers. Now Niobe, stunned and frightened, prays for the life of the last, her youngest, but to no avail. All of her children are killed. Her husband Amphion commits suicide. Overcome by grief, Niobe sits by the dead bodies to weep and slowly turns to stone. A tremendous wind carries the rocky Niobe away to her native land of Phyrgia, were she remains to this day. Ovid does not mention Zeus in connection with Niobe’s transformation.

Is this the same story? Which version do you prefer...?

           

Greek myth of Niobe

According to Greek mythology, there once was a woman named Niobe. She was the daughter of Tantalos, and as wife of Amphion, the queen of Thebes. Niobe was beautiful, rich, and fertile. The couple had seven boys and seven girls.

Niobe seems to have had all that mortal life could offer. One day she claimed to be “better blessed” than the goddess Leto, because she had many more children. Leto only had two children, the twins Artemis and Apollo. Angered by Niobe’s claims, Leto appealed to Artemis and Apollo to protect her honor. The twins were both well known for their skill with the bow and arrow. Apollo shot and killed all but one of the sons while they were out hunting on Mt. Citharion. That same day Artemis killed six of Niobe’s daughters.

Amphion, the luckless husband and father, killed himself. Niobe, stricken with grief, fled to her father’s house at Mount Sipylus. There she prayed to Zeus for relief, and he turned her into a stone that shed tears day and night. Later, the Greek historian Pausanias visited Mount Sipylus and claimed to have seen the transformed Niobe in the shape of a rocky peak. According to his account, “When you are near it is a beetling crag, with not the slightest resemblance to a woman, mourning or otherwise; but if you go further away you will think you see a woman in tears, with head bowed down” (1.21.3).

The Greek poet Sappho, provides an interesting twist on Niobe’s story:                        

Before they were mothers                        

Leto and Niobe                        

had been the most

devoted of friends (Poem 85).

Belief, truth, and transformation

In my experience, religious people tend to get upset when you call their belief system a myth. I think the myth designation is kind of a promotion (in addition to being more accurate); a "myth" deals with fundamental questions of meaning, origin, and relationship, and human beings can't live without them. But people usually get insulted because they think myth means untrue means bullshit. (Religious people aren't alone in this regard, they just tend to be the ones most often talking about "belief." But we can all get touchy when someone challenges the veracity of something we "know" is "true").

The relationship between "myth" and "truth" is nuanced and murky and boy oh boy, the impulse to know THE (absolute, singular) truth is strong. But there are actually a lot of different kinds of "truth." The ancient Greek philosophers tried to figure out how one arrived at various forms of truth, which kind was most reliable, etc. and in many ways we are carrying on the same debates around those same questions. The problem I think (and this is one reason I am a mythologist) is that most of us don't even know that there is a debate! The relationships between faith and belief and fact and "Truth" are hyper-contentious because we (our culture generally) have such a hard time understanding our reliance on metaphor to bridge the many gaps between what we know, and what we don't know. What we don't know makes us nervous, and we like to pretend that the unknown is a very small category. (In The Black Swan , Taleb talks about "epistemological hubris." I love the phrase even though his book bugged me).

Certainty makes us feel secure. But if you are looking for truth in addition to comfort, and/or if fundamentalism frightens you, beware of anyone who has too much certainty, especially about metaphysical mysteries. An excess of metaphysical certainty is one of the big problems with the super popular, metaphysical self-help about laws of attraction and powers of intention, the type that says being positive can bring you everything that you want because obviously (is it obvious?) the universe naturally (by whose definition?) works that way and wants us to have abundance (hmm, really?) I put these claims firmly in the "who knows" category. But I will be posting more about this (what I call the myth of unlimited potential) in the future.

Right now, take this as an introduction to the next couple of Greek myths about people who are tragically (so it seems) transformed by the gods. What kind of god does these things? Do the people "deserve" it? Does that question matter? Does your concept of the cosmos embrace divine actions like these or not? What can your reaction to these myths tell you about your beliefs? I find this material interesting and challenging myself, and even if you do not officially "believe" in god per se, you can see other beliefs (in justice, for example) and your emotional machinations (problem with ambiguity maybe, or other questions you ask of the myth) in play.

Coming up, the myth of Niobe and the myth of Actaeon.