I love Gus’s ears too! They’re so expressive and convincing, and so simultaneously human and deer. I think you’re absolutely right that the show gives us the feeling of that “something more” at work / at play than we can see on the surface, or that any of the characters realizes. I love how you phrased it – a feeling of “becoming.” And fun, as you point out! If that’s not magical, then I don’t know what is. :))

Stephen, thank you so much for bringing in these images. I think you are absolutely right that these Paleolithic images of dancing animal figures represent residents of the imaginal realm. They also function as access points between the every-day and imaginal worlds: the images exist physically in here-and-now reality, and at the same time they grant us entry into the more-than-real by way of our imagination.

And thank you for pointing out their dancing! That kinetic energy also underscores their dual aspect. The figures are not literally dancing, and yet they give us the imaginal experience of animal rhythm and movement. And don’t they convey some of the true, actual vitality and energy of real animals? Imaginal images employ literal falsehoods to portray adjacent truths. (There’s a wonderful scene in Sweet Tooth Episode 2 when Gus hears music for the first time and can’t help but dance. Highly recommended!)

You also raise a fascinating question about magical realism and magical thinking. The distinction, for me, lies in the terms “realism” and “thinking.” Magical realism apprehends reality by means of awe, amazement, and wonder, while magical thinking involves errors of logic and fact. Magical realism is an experience of the sacred through artistic imagery. Magical thinking, on the other hand, is a defense against reality, often involving denial and delusion, as you quite rightly point out. Magical realism can be a very vulnerable position to take, in its openness to experience. Magical thinking is often brittle and embattled. While freely confess that I am not immune to magical thinking, my aspirations lie in the camp of magical realism.

Sweet Tooth is very interesting as an example of magical realism. I think the show’s primary genre is science fiction, positing a “what-if” scenario in a future where scientific work has resulted in an unexpected situation. But in moments like the buck’s arrival behind Gus, the fictive world opens out beyond itself, exactly the way magical realism can do. I also feel that the show renders its magical moments in particularly generous and open-hearted ways, which I appreciate very much.

At least that’s how I see it. Very curious to hear others’ views on Sweet Tooth and any of these topics!

Hi Jordan, you articulate the zoom lens of consciousness so eloquently! To extend the idea another step, we can also zoom out on “positive” sensations and emotions. I find that it doesn’t diminish their enjoyment, but rather it seems to create space to hold more of everything — lightly and with compassion for self and others. And of course it allows mythic themes and images to reveal themselves. I’m glad you connected with the zoom image!

Stephen, thank you so much for sharing your labyrinth walks. I’m glad you received the Lady’s sword of discernment! Reading your story let me vicariously experience the feeling of discernment as well, and the feeling of coming back from the brink. Sharing stories like this can be immensely healing for both the teller and the listener.

I love the Campbell quote from Parabola that you cited, and I agree with it wholeheartedly. Mythic images and day-to-day images do mirror each other. It’s only natural, really, because day-to-day images inspire myths at least as much as images from dreams, visions, and imagination do.

Regarding practical advice for living “with the myths in your mind,” as Campbell says, I think the first step is to get to know some myths. You don’t need an encylopedic knowledge of mythology — although if that sounds fun, go for it! But you do need some awareness of mythic images in order to be able to connect them with the day-to-day.

The second step is, in the course of daily life, to find occasions to zoom the camera of your consciousness back, so to speak. Survey your situation with a wider lens. This can provide a sense of psychological spaciousness that’s very helpful for matching mythic images with life images. It’s like the children’s game Memory (which reminds me of Mnemosyne, goddess of memory and mother of the muses! but that’s another story). In the game, there’s a deck of cards that contains 2 of each kind of card. You place all the cards face down on the table. When it’s your turn, you flip one card over to see its image, then another card hoping for a match. If you match, you keep the cards. If you don’t match, the cards get turned back over. As the game proceeds, you begin to start remembering where you saw each image, and you begin matching cards. In a similar way, life situations can remind you of images and metaphors you’ve seen in myth, then you just have to remember where to find the myth in your memory and turn its card over.

Finally, it helps to allow the dividing line between the literal world and the imaginal world to soften. Let images be real, let reality be images, and let both of them be metaphor and poetry. This, I think is the “poetic understanding” that Campbell refers to in Goddesses quote. Poetry, myth, and mytho-poetry occur just outside and all around the every-day — again, zooming the camera of consciousness back to take in a bigger picture. It also reminds me of what Alan Watts calls “floodlight consciousness,” versus the more typical “spotlight consciousness” of focus and concentration. A floodlight view of reality and myth can illuminate the many connections between the two realms.

Thanks again for sharing your story, Stephen. I’m looking forward to reading more reflections about labyrinths and walking them!

Marianne,

Your response offers such depth and richness! You pose the key question, “What if any difference might there be between transcendence and transition?” And then you explore that question so beautifully. One observation I’d like to add is that we often find a difference in attention between the two. Transitions happen when we don’t attend, and transcendence happens when the moment arrests our attention (like Shaheda’s observation about aesthetic arrest).  It’s not a binary either-or, but more of a sliding scale. In that sense, the moments that really grab us by the collar and won’t let go until we pay attention could serve as training ground for the moments that might slip by while we’re preoccupied with our thoughts. Thank you for giving us a chance to attend to your thoughts, thereby practicing transcendence!

Warmly,

Joanna

Shaheda, thank you so much for sharing your experience! “In that moment of stillness, my image of myself changed. Previous images of self dissolved, and the information gathered through that one gaze, permeated my neural pathways.” I think this does indeed relate to Joyce’s aesthetic arrest, as you suggest in your response to Marianne.

And your words speak so beautifully to the plasticity of self. I think we often go around assuming that our selves and the selves of others have a fixedness and rigidity that simply doesn’t exist. Our capacity for change — to change, to be changed, and to change others — is one of our greatest, most awe-inspiring gifts. And doesn’t it call for our utmost creativity and consciousness? I believe it does!

Warmly,

Joanna

Stephen, thank you so much for your kinds words and your insightful questions. Your observations about the experiential and intellectual dimensions of mythological studies are spot on. Myth doesn’t happen when we discuss theory and definitions. Myth happens when we enter the image, and I believe magical realism is one avenue into that experience.

All my life, I’ve been drawn to passages in literature where the strange or impossible irrupts into the known world. Those moments feel the most real, the most alive, the most true. Each one rings like a bell for me and gives new life to all the pages of realism that precede or follow. So when I began to write fiction and poetry, I reached for that same feeling in my own work. Magical realism, in which elements of the unreal appear unapologetically in otherwise realistic settings, offered a perfect genre to play with those techniques.

As I wrote, I had to imagine into my characters and settings, quite by necessity. I learned what it feels like when a poem quickens, when the ending of a story reveals itself, when a character looks back at me. It always feels magical. I also kept bumping up against myth and depth psychology, which drew me in like magnets. Both fields offered so much insight and imagery that before long I found myself focusing more on them than on creative writing. To my delight, I realized that imagining into a mythic image is the same as imagining into a fictional character — the same dreamlike feeling, the same letting go, the same willingness to see and be seen.

The practice also has much to do with Martin Buber’s I and Thou, except the sacred, beloved Other becomes a fictional or mythological being encountered in the imagination. But the work is the same as for other beloveds. Hold the space, let the beloved breathe, let the beloved act, let the beloved speak. Be silent. Listen deeply. Love the listening. And when the beloved image looks at you, hold that gaze as long as you can.

Magical realism and mythic imagery both dissolve the hypnosis of reductive realism. They tug at the veil between our senses and the not-yet-known — that which we access through our imagination. As a magical realist, I rejoice in the reality of that magic and, by corollary, the magical nature of reality.

Thanks again for the wonderful questions, Stephen. And to the COHO community: hello! I am beyond pleased to meet you, and am very much looking forward to hearing your ideas and experiences.