In 1972, a ridiculous comedy called What’s Up, Doc?   burst into theaters like a pack of drunken puppies, leaving audiences across the country weak and wheezing from the film’s hilarity. I didn’t see What’s Up, Doc?  until the 1980s, after video rentals became a thing, but the movie’s raucously impetuous brand of humor was precisely calibrated to my adolescent sensibilities. I remember gasping for breath during the madcap shenanigans and feeling that my laughter could never catch up to the snowballing dialogue and action. That delightful sensation of helplessness, I now realize, was a gift of the Fool archetype. When the movie begins, four unrelated travelers are converging on San Francisco, each carrying an identical yet uniquely precious overnight case. One case holds secret government files, one bursts with gems, and one contains lumpen stones belonging to a musicologist named Howard Bannister. Absentminded and distracted but oh-so-handsome, Howard has arrived in town with his tyrannical fiancée, Eunice, to compete for grant money to research how prehistoric peoples played music on rocks. Into this powder keg for mayhem and misunderstanding bursts the radiant but impoverished Judy Maxwell, owner of the fourth overnight case.  Judy promptly sets her romantic sights on Howard, turning the story’s genre from a simple case of mistaken luggage into a true screwball comedy, or a romantic comedy that makes fun of romance. Spies, thieves, millionaires, musicologists—as our zany characters compete to get their hands on files or jewelry or grant money, Judy competes only to get her hands on Howard. With a complete willingness to leap headlong into adventure and perfect indifference to social norms, she offers an illustration of the archetypal Fool. Not just any fool At first glance, the Fool and the Trickster might seem like two names for the same archetype, and they do have many similarities. Judy herself has no shortage of Trickster traits: her hungers for food and for Howard drive her actions, she lives on the road, and her linguistic acrobatics leave anyone who blunders into her orbit dazed and reeling. But there’s also an important distinction between the Trickster and the Fool: where the Trickster’s emphasis is on tricking others, or fooling them, the Fool primarily does foolish things. The Fool acts foolishly. In the Rider-Waite-Smith tarot deck, the Fool card shows a figure about to take what appears to be an extremely foolish step into thin air with no possible means of support. This image captures Judy’s defining characteristic: where others fear to tread, Judy leaps. She leaps into traffic, into Howard’s personal space, into disguises of many kinds. At every opportunity—and for the Fool every moment is an opportunity—Judy runs full steam ahead, never pausing or tapping the brakes. An idling car is for speeding off, a hunk like Howard is to be wooed, a banquet invitation she finds is a clarion call to impersonate the person who was invited, namely the hapless, humorless Eunice. For a Fool like Judy to take foolish leaps, she cannot care about rules or regulations. She can be daring, audacious, funny, and charming, but cannot be well-behaved. She must possess immunity to anything resembling “nice girl” conditioning. At one point, wig quivering and voice quavering, an indignant Eunice shouts to Judy, “Don’t you know the meaning of propriety?” “Propriety?” Judy replies jauntily as she disappears down an escalator. “Noun. Conformity to established standards of behavior or manners. Suitability, rightness or justice. See ‘etiquette.’”  Judy knows enough about propriety to avoid it. Instead, she claims the freedom to be herself. Joseph Campbell calls this “the will and courage to credit one’s own senses and to honor one’s own decisions, to name one’s own virtues” ( Creative Mythology  30), which he sees as the wellspring of creativity. Judy certainly credits her own senses, honors her own decisions, and acts from her own virtues and her own desires. In fact, her willingness to cause trouble enables her to align her actions precisely with her desires. As a result, she can respond creatively to the many challenges she and Howard face. Judy flings propriety aside and lives authentically—fully awake, fully alive, fully herself. So Judy is a Fool, but three additional traits make her a particular kind of Fool. First, she is invulnerable; neither her feelings nor her person can be hurt. With a spring in her step, she survives every disaster. Second, she glows with conspicuous beauty. In the movie’s sea of horrific hairdos, Judy’s hair shimmers like silk, as does her singing voice. Finally, she knows everything about everything, from geology to music to literature. In other words, she’s omniscient. Invulnerability, sublime beauty, and omniscience all combine to indicate the presence of a deity who is a woman and therefore a goddess—what Campbell might call the “Goddess of Life,” or creative energy (671). Judy is a sacred ray of creative freedom and courage who illuminates how imprisoned everyone else is in custom and conformity.  The gifts of chaos For everyone in What’s Up, Doc? who isn’t Judy, disaster blooms in the wake of her footsteps. Hotel rooms burst into flame. Brawls break out. Giant plate glass windows smash to smithereens. But Judy’s chaos, being that of a Holy Fool, reveals the chaotic nature of the divine, which doesn’t necessarily mean the “good” or the “proper.” Divine powers such as the Fool’s can burst in unannounced and turn everything upside down. Judy operates at maximum Fool wattage to make the point that Fool energy can shake things up. Sometimes when that happens, what was brittle breaks, and what was resilient grows stronger. Where most of the characters in this movie see each other only in terms of the contents of their overnight cases, Judy sees what actually matters: she sees Howard. She sees a person and loves what she sees. Neither his literal nor his metaphorical baggage concerns her. What concerns her is coaxing him out of his overly heady approach to music, fixated on the far-distant past, in favor of playing real, embodied music in a very present now. Divine powers such as the Fool’s can burst in unannounced and turn everything upside down. Judy’s ability to leap joyfully at every opportunity is only possible because she inhabits the present moment so completely. This drags others into the present with her, if only to cope with the havoc she creates. She turns each moment into the wackiest possible version of itself, regardless of norms or consequences. And in so doing, she wins the day. She gets her guy. The Fool Goddess’s relentlessly foolish and divine spontaneity leads to love. The helplessness I felt watching What’s Up, Doc?  in the 80s is much like the helplessness Howard experiences in Judy’s force field. But helplessness can be a prelude to some sort of surrender. Maybe to laughter and silliness, maybe to music and beauty. Maybe to the divine. Maybe Judy’s invitation is to surrender to a little daring, zest, humor, and audacity, dancing adroitly around convention and leaping into the occasional adventure. MythBlast authored by: Joanna Gardner, PhD , is a writer, mythologist, and magical realist focusing on creativity, goddesses, and wonder tales. She is the author of The Practice of Enchantment: MythBlast Essays, 2020-2024 and the lead author of Goddesses: A Skeleton Key Study Guide . Joanna serves as director of marketing and communications for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and as adjunct professor in Pacifica Graduate Institute’s Mythological Studies program. She also co-founded and co-leads the Fates and Graces , hosting webinars and workshops for mythic readers and writers. For Joanna's updates and additional publications, you are most cordially invited to visit her website at joannagardner.com . This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Fool . Latest Podcast Today, we’re excited to bring you a conversation with Dr. Robert Maldonado, a pioneering voice in the intersection of psychology, spirituality, and mythology. With advanced degrees in Clinical and Counseling Psychology, Dr. Rob has dedicated his career to helping others overcome limitations and embrace spiritual transformation. As the President, Co-Founder, and Educational Director of CreativeMind, he offers a unique program that blends cutting-edge science with deep spiritual insight—bridging worlds that are often seen as separate. Dr. Rob’s work is deeply influenced by the teachings of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, two legendary thinkers who explored the mysteries of the human psyche and the power of myth. Through his practice and teachings, he invites us to uncover the transformative potential of both science and spirituality in our lives. In this episode, JCF’s Scott Neumeister sits down with Dr. Rob to explore his journey, his approach to the human mind, and the ways in which mythology has shaped his work. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Not only in the sciences but in every department of life the will and courage to credit one’s own senses and to honor one’s own decisions, to name one’s own virtues and to claim one’s own vision of truth, have been the generative forces of the new age, the enzymes of the fermentation of the wine of this great modern harvest — which is a wine, however, that can be safely drunk only by those with a courage of their own." -- Joseph Campbell The Masks of God, Vol. IV: Creative Mythology , 30 Slaying The Dragon (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Still from Disney's Agatha All Along “The great and amorous sky curved over the earth, And lay upon her as a pure lover. The rain, the humid flux descending from heaven For both man and animal, for both thick and strong, germinated the wheat, swelled the furrows with fecund mud and brought forth the buds in the orchards. And it is I who empowered these moist espousals, I, the great Aphrodite. Aeschylus, The Danaïdes Fragments (translator unknown) Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and desire, presides over the union of earth and sky, according to Aeschylus. She is the procreative force animating these primordial beings. No wonder love is considered divine. This powerful and sometimes destructive energy pulsates throughout the universe. The Lover archetype seeks connectedness at its deepest and most profound. It seduces us towards that which makes us feel most alive, daring us to see more within ourselves, giving us the courage to defy boundaries we could not see beyond, and thus expanding us into the possibilities of who we might become. At its fullest, the Lover archetype allows us to feel utterly alive and at one with the very fabric of being. Epic cinematic love stories like Titanic, The Notebook , or A Star is Born capture glimpses of the force of the Lover archetype, showing how lovers change each other’s lives. Their desire for one another moves them toward different aspects of themselves, expanding the possibilities they had before and, at times, challenging class, society, and circumstance in its attempts to contain this sacred force. Even amidst the tragic aspects of these movies, we can witness how powerful love can be for those who are captured by its thrall. But can the story of a Marvel villain contain aspects of the Lover archetype? While it is an unlikely place to find love, I believe it is here as well. *The following content contains spoilers. The love-death Marvel’s series Agatha All Along further develops the villainous character Agatha Harkness. In the lineage of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and its expansion of the Scarlet Witch character, viewers are introduced to the formidable witch, Agatha, in Wanda Vision when she portrays a friendly neighbor while harboring her true intentions of attaining the Scarlet Witch's astonishing power. Agatha’s lover, Rio, is the personification of Death. To fall in love with Death seems like a problematic relationship from the start. Yet, for Agatha, love and death intertwine. At a young age, her coven, led by her mother, attempts to kill her. At this moment Agatha realizes she absorbs the powers of those who attack her; she drains their life force. With a trail of bodies in her wake, at some point, Agatha falls in love with Death herself. Fear and desire are driving emotions that often defy reason. Thus, it seems natural to intertwine the two in a love affair; as with Aphrodite’s entanglement with Ares, the Greek god of war. Joseph Campbell tells how love and death are closely related in mythology. From early Bronze Age fertility rituals to the “interior kingdom of the soul” of Hellenistic mystery cults, fertilization occurs “through death … a submission of the solar principle of rational self-reliant consciousness to the song, the sleep-song, of the interior abyss where the two [lovers] become one” ( Creative Mythology, 195). Love, death, and rebirth are at the core of these ancient fertility cycles. As with the ecosystem of a forest, the trees that die nourish the new growth of the forest floor. Love and death regenerate life, together creating something enlivening and new for the community and the soul. But for Agatha, her affair with Death is consumptive, feeding an endless need for power. “Follow me, my friend”[1] Agatha All Along depicts the journey of a coven of witches on the Witches’ Road, a path of trials that promises to deliver what one wants most, if the traveler has the fortitude to make it to the end. The road itself pulsates with the Lover archetype, luring adventurers with their deepest desire, even at the risk of death. The love of their life beckons them onward. Billy, a teenager yearning for belonging, instigates the journey, asking Agatha for help finding the Witches’ Road. Though she is ever deceiving, Agatha seems to have a maternal pull towards Billy, or at the very least a soft spot for his plight. Agatha seeks power from the Witches’ Road, as she always has, but we catch glimpses through each of the trials of a deeper desire. In the final trial, when she is forced to face the thing she wants most of all, she opens her locket revealing a lock of hair. Agatha is driven by the love for her son. “Darkest hour, wake thy power”[1] Death comes for Agatha’s son as she writhes in the throes of labor pains, and she begs Death, “Please, let him live, please, my love” (“Maiden Mother Crone” 3:53). With empathy in her eyes, Death states, “I can offer only time” (“Maiden Mother Crone” 5:00), a “special treatment” that no one in history has received but Agatha (“Follow Me My Friend / To Glory at the End” 5:47), a testament of Death’s feelings for her. After delivery, Agatha tells her son: “I spoke no spell. I made no incantation. You, I made from scratch” (“Maiden Mother Crone” 5:04). No magical powers were employed in this creation, just the procreative magic that belongs to all beings on earth. A lover’s union that gave birth to life not death. The love Agatha expresses for her son is pure, singular for this coven-less witch whose mother attempted to kill her. And she protects her child with vicious resolve. But time runs out, as it does, and when Death comes once again for her son, Agatha’s heartbreak leaves her untethered. It amplifies her lust for power as she attempts to fill the void of grief. Love animates the universe Throughout the hundreds of years of her life, Agatha is only known for her cruelty. She takes lives, steals powers, and is said to have sacrificed her son for forbidden knowledge. When Death asks, “Why do you let them believe those things about you?” her response is, “Because the truth is too awful” (“Follow Me My Friend / To Glory at the End” 6:28). It is better to evoke fear than show the vulnerability of someone who has loved deeply and lost. Yet love pulls Agatha onward, even in its perceived absence. As the character Vision states in an earlier episode, “What is grief, if not love persevering?” (“Previously On” 24:48). The prize Agatha truly yearns for at the end of the Witches’ Road is a return to the life-giving love she shared with her son. Though hidden deep within Agatha’s treacherous actions, this connection remains within her, calling to her heart. As cultural historian Charlene Spretnak explains, “Everywhere, Aphrodite drew forth the hidden promise of life” as “she alone understands the love that begets life” ( Lost Goddesses of Early Greece, 71-2). The Lover archetype calls us to that which gives life. The Lover archetype calls us to that which gives life. At the end of the Witches’ Road, Agatha returns to the heartbreak of her loss, but now within her locket, beside the lock of her son’s hair, she finds a seed. To complete the final trial, Agatha plants the magical seed within the earthen floor, waters it with her tears, and witnesses it grow. “Out of death, life” (“Follow Me My Friend / To Glory at the End” 24:59), she proclaims, acknowledging the generative cycle of fertility, both in nature as well as symbolically. For death is the regeneration of life—destruction evokes creation. Something seems to shift in Agatha through this experience. The Lover archetype stirs within her. When Death comes once again to now take Billy’s life, she is reminded of her son and sacrifices herself for Billy’s life with a passionate kiss of Death. Giving the ultimate commitment to Death in the end, Agatha exchanges her life for the life of another. As her body returns to the earth, a multitude of vegetation emerges from where she lies–a testament to the life-giving nature of her sacrifice. Agatha All Along i s not a love story per se. It is a superheroine fantasy with aspects of horror, comedy, and adventure. But, love is here too . The Lover archetype beckons these characters forward even as she is distorted, misunderstood, or hidden. Love is ever-present, even in unlikely places–a testament to the idea that it surrounds us, pulsating throughout the universe, if we have the courage to listen to her call. [1] “Ballad of the Witches’ Road.” Disney Fandom Wiki. https://disney.fandom.com/wiki/Ballad_of_the_Witches%27_Road MythBlast authored by: Stephanie Zajchowski, PhD is a mythologist and writer based in Texas. She serves as the Director of Operations for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and is a contributing author of Goddesses: A Skeleton Key Study Guide. Stephanie is also a co-founder of the Fates and Graces, hosting webinars and workshops for mythic readers and writers. Her work focuses on the intersection of mythology, religion, and women’s studies. For more information, visit stephaniezajchowski.com This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Lover . Latest Podcast This episode of Pathways, the final episode of Season 4, features a lecture recorded in 1985 in Southwest Germany. In it, Joseph Campbell explores the significance of mythological images and reflects on some of the major themes that shaped his life and work. He also shares personal stories about how and why he became so passionate about mythology. Dr. Bradley Olson introduces the episode and provides insightful commentary on some of its important themes at the conclusion. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "The conquest of the fear of death is the recovery of life's joy. One can experience an unconditional affirmation of life only when one has accepted death, not as contrary to life, but as an aspect of life. Life in its becoming is always shedding death, and on the point of death. The conquest of fear yields the courage of life." -- Joseph Campbell The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers , 188 All the Gods are Within Us (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Still from Univeral Pictures' Mulholland Drive David Lynch, among filmmakers in recent memory, most embodied the Trickster archetype. His works comprise a singular mythology that is daffy, hallucinatory, hopeful, and filled with dread. A mythmaker as infatuated with donuts and coffee as with depicting interdimensional demonic forces, Lynch died on January 15, 2025, from complications with emphysema. It was difficult for me not to think that the Los Angeles wildfires beginning on January 7th killed him, in some way. I have called Los Angeles home for six years, and his death feels inextricably connected to the nodes of our city’s cultural memory that were incinerated from Pacific Palisades to Altadena. Joseph Campbell, whom I’ve spent the greater part of these six years thinking and writing about, reminds us that, from Polynesia’s Maui to the Germanic Loki, the Trickster is a fire-bringer ( Primitive Mythology , 251). It is sad but maybe fitting that Los Angeles’ great Trickster filmmaker should depart us under these infernal skies. After all, the generative energy for his Twin Peaks  mythos lurks in the couplet:                “Through the darkness of future past             The magician longs to see.             One chants out between two worlds              Fire walk with me .”   The Fire-Bringer Synthesizing the Trickster archetype across cultures, Campbell considered it “a lecherous fool as well as an extremely clever and cruel deceiver; but he is also the creator of mankind and shaper of the world…” ( Flight of the Wild Gander , 128). As fire-bringer, the Trickster is an archetype of duality, separating void from light. But the Trickster’s torch does not fully extinguish darkness; the Promethean act, on some level, paradoxically intensifies the dark. David Lynch operates on this register, as some of his characters and narrative situations contain the cruelest and most unpleasant images in cinematic history. Despite this, his work, especially Mulholland Drive   (2001), lingers on the salvific magic found in beauty and “little” things and the heroic act of believing that humanity is yet capable of goodness. Joseph Campbell told Bill Moyers “the influence of a vital person can vitalize the world” (183) in The Power of Myth , and I can easily imagine Lynch repeating the same sentence during one of his morning weather reports for KCRW in Los Angeles, queuing a song by The Ronettes.  The Trickster is not quite The Fool nor entirely The Devil. This tension between creation and deception lends itself to approaching Lynch’s Mulholland Drive  as a Trickster myth in cinematic form. Loosely tracing aspiring actress Betty Elms (Naomi Watts) as she chases the Hollywood Dream, the film is often read as a Matryoshka doll of dreams within dreams, crisscrossing subconscious fantasies of stardom and nightmarish erotic jealousy. Personally, I enjoy reading Mulholland Drive  as a representation of Hollywood’s collective Trickster unconscious, charting the interactions of numerous dreamers across a dark night of the Los Angeles soul.  Duality through trickery Mulholland Drive  explores duality through trickery, as many characters have doubles. Naomi Watts plays two actresses, Betty Elms and Diane Selwyn, the first iteration something of an overnight starlet while the latter is reclusive and embittered. Laura Harring is the amnesiac Rita and  successful actress Camilla Rhodes, while Ann Miller is first the flamboyant building manager Coco, then reappearing as the mother of hotshot director Adam Kesher. But in a film riddled with Tricksters, none are so striking as The Cowboy (Monty Montgomery).  Kesher (Justin Theroux) is blackmailed by stealthy financiers into casting their lead actress of choice for his upcoming picture, and he refuses. Tricksters are devious archetypes, and Kesher channels this ludic defiance by smashing a mobster’s limousine with a golf club and pouring pink paint into his unfaithful wife’s jewelry box. But when the shadowy cabal demonstrates that they can freeze his bank accounts and fire his entire film staff, Kesher’s Trickster outbursts must end. He is directed to a horse corral atop Beachwood Canyon to meet with “The Cowboy.”   Sometimes there’s a buggy… At the corral, a buzzing, flickering light bulb dangles on a wooden beam below a cow-skull. Tricksters frequently inhabit animal forms like foxes, coyotes, ravens, or rabbits as part of their shapeshifting play that doubles as a shamanic aid for crisscrossing the realms of our reality and the otherworlds of myth. Lynch’s mythic image of the cow-skull signals that we are entering a threshold zone with a not-quite-human Trickster who is mysteriously tethered to the realm of the dead. The Cowboy greets Kesher with a “Howdy” and begins speaking in the vernacular of the Western radio serials that Lynch listened to as a child. Kesher is impatient with his prairie pleasantries, instigating this exchange:   Cowboy: A man's attitude... a man's attitude goes some ways. The way his life will be. Is that somethin' you agree with? Kesher: Sure. Cowboy: Now...did you answer ‘cause you thought that's what I wanted to hear, or did you think about what I said and answer ‘cause you truly believe that to be right? Kesher: I agree with what you said, truly. Cowboy: What’d I say? Kesher: Uh...that a man's attitude determines, to a large extent, how his life will be. Cowboy: So since you agree, you must be someone who does not care about the good life.   Kesher’s meeting with The Cowboy reminds me of Campbell’s summation of the Yoruba trickster Edshu (Eshu/Èșù): “spreading strife was his greatest joy” ( The Hero with a Thousand Faces , 74). The Cowboy relishes teasing the anxious director by nestling wisdom in wily parables:   There's sometimes a buggy. How many drivers does a buggy have? So, let's just say I'm driving this buggy. And, if you fix your attitude, you can ride along with me.    Whether Lynch intended it, having this trickster Cowboy be the lone buggy “driver” to whom Kesher must entrust himself recalls Campbell’s definition of “the trickster Hermes, guide of souls to the underworld, the patron, also, of rebirth and lord of the knowledges beyond death ( Occidental Mythology , 138)” in The Odyssey  and Homeric myths. Informing Kesher of the steps he must follow to regain some autonomy on his film, The Cowboy concludes “you will see me one more time, if you do good. You will see me... two more times, if you do bad.” As trickster, The Cowboy is a Lynchian admixture of Edshu’s joyous chaos, Hermes the underworld navigator, Br’er Rabbit’s mischievous riddles and the fire-bringer who restores order to Kesher’s creative act that has become shadowed by pandemonium. Later in Mulholland Drive , The Cowboy will beckon Diane Selwyn “wake up, pretty girl” from sojourning in the underworlds of her subconscious.    Into the silencio How do we respond to the Tricksters in our own lives, those figures at the crossroads of chaos and life’s creative potential? The shamanic compact, as it were, is one of trust. We are sometimes forced to entrust ourselves to the care of mildly unnerving guides in moments of profound bewilderment. It is heroic to reckon that the fire-bringers will illuminate, perhaps even enchant, those lost highways and twin peaks that are necessary thresholds within our “soul’s high adventure.” When the Trickster chants “fire, walk with me” into our world of donuts and damned good coffee, do we trust them to drive this buggy called life along the Mulholland Drives of our psyche? Lynch’s Trickster film ends with a whisper of “silencio.” Campbell might as well have been rebuking those countless explanations of Lynch’s work when he wrote that “anyone trying to express in words the sense or feeling of this mystic communion would soon learn that words are not enough: the best is silence… ( Primitive , 128).”   It is heroic to reckon that the fire-bringers will illuminate, perhaps even enchant, those lost highways and twin peaks that are necessary thresholds within our “soul’s high adventure.”  Thank you for guiding us into the silencio , David. MythBlast authored by: Teddy Hamstra is a writer and seeker in Los Angeles. He is a PhD candidate at the University of Southern California, in the final stages of completing a dissertation entitled 'Enchantment as a Form of Care: Joseph Campbell and the Power of Mysticism.' Recently, Teddy has been working for the Joseph Campbell Foundation, spearheading their Research & Development efforts. As an educator and research consultant for creatives, Teddy is driven to communicate the wonder of mythological wisdom in ways that are both accessible to, and which enliven, our contemporary world. This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Trickster . Latest Podcast Crispin Freeman is a renowned voice actor, director, and storyteller whose career has left a mark on the worlds of anime, video games, and animation. Beginning his journey as a theater actor in New York City, Freeman transitioned to voice acting in 1997 and quickly became a prominent figure in English-language dubs of Japanese anime. His performances have brought to life a wide range of complex and memorable characters, captivating audiences around the globe. In the conversation, JCF’s John Bucher joins Crispin to explore Crispin’s life and work, the history of animated storytelling in both the East and West, its connection to mythology, and the ways Joseph Campbell’s influence is woven into it all. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "The archetype of the hero in the belly of the whale is widely known. The principal deed of the adventurer is usually to make fire with his fire sticks in the interior of the monster, thus bringing about the whale’s death and his own release. Fire making in this manner is symbolic of the sex act. The two sticks — socket-stick and spindle — are known respectively as the female and the male; the flame is the newly generated life. The hero making fire in the whale is a variant of the sacred marriage." -- Joseph Campbell The Hero with a Thousand Faces , 212 Living in Accord With Nature (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Still from Rango (2011) If you can see your path laid out in front of you step by step, you know it's not your path. Your own path you make with every step you take. Joseph Campbell, Reflections on the Art of Living: A Joseph Campbell Companion The MythBlast series has so far focused on the Fool, the Lover, and the Trickster in film. Now for the month of April, we turn and engage the Seeker archetype, the last in the Archetypes of Innocence. I have chosen a movie that has elements of all three preceding archetypes yet squarely emphasizes the Seeker–Gore Verbinski’s Rango , released in 2011. This animated pastiche of the Western genre humorously illustrates the core issue for the Seeker: pursuing something external that will ultimately bring inner meaning and enlightenment. I would like to more carefully unfold how the film’s protagonist-Seeker actually portrays how this progression of the last few months’ archetypes works in each of our lives. “Who am I? I could be anyone” Our unnamed protagonist (voiced by Johnny Depp) reveals himself in the film setup as an actor asking himself this very question. He is actually a chameleon, riding alone inside an aquarium-as-stage in the back of a station wagon and playing a scene by himself with various props. After asking the above question about his identity, he imagines that he can be any role he wants: a voyaging sea captain, a rogue anthropologist, or a Don Juan-like lover. But the solo performer realizes he needs both real “costars” and some kind of inciting event to shake things up. Suddenly, his glass “proscenium” flies out the back window of the car onto the desert highway. As he immediately gets thirsty in the desert heat, finding water for survival becomes his overt quest. But underlying this are the deeper, archetypal goals of a solidified social role, connection with others, and somehow making a difference in the world. The chameleon’s entry into the desert town of Dirt fulfills both of the most basic story beginnings that John Gardner famously recommended to budding authors: “a trip or the arrival of a stranger” (203). Of course, everyone in town asks the stranger, “Who are you?” In a place where toughness and courage are the societal norm, the chameleon transforms the name Durango into Rango and constructs a rugged gunslinger personality, bolstered by fabricated stories and Western cliches. Through his grand performance and sheer accident, “Rango” rises to become a hero and figurehead for the town. Rango then is on the “trip” to self-discovery and himself is the stranger in town as well as a stranger to who he really is. What are the chameleon’s real colors? Rango’s immediate need for both physical and social survival represents the needs each of us has coming into this world. We, like him, must rely on the tribe we’re surrounded with–most often the family situation, but also extending to the community. To have our survival needs met, we must blend in, chameleon-like, so that we are accepted and cared for. With the addition of the Seeker, the trajectory of the previous month’s archetypes form a progression, a sequence. We all start out as newborn Fools, only gaining wisdom by living. We need the nurture of Lovers around us to provide what we require and to be the objects of our love. And we play the Trickster in two modes: by “acting” in ways that are calculated to bring us the love we need (the Jungian persona), and by masking the qualities that our tribe deems unacceptable (the shadow). Like Rango, we have many potential “roles” before us, our encounters with others and with life shape the character of our “performance.” “Who am I? I could be anyone” Of course, the problem with the Fool desperately seeking Love and leaning into their Trickster is that both naivete and an oversized ego tend to build houses of cards. Rango’s tall tales of who he is fosters his acceptance and ultimately his being named sheriff, but soon a reckoning must come. When the lie is exposed, he shamefully walks away from the friends he so desperately wants to save. And once again, that question arises that started the movie: “Who am I?” This crisis now stems from having a persona wholly influenced by the collective, conditioned to follow what’s expected, versus the expression of what’s unique to the individual. In The Power of Myth , Campbell speaks of the ideal “that each of us is a completely unique creature and that, if we are ever to give any gift to the world, it will have to come out of our own experience and fulfillment of our own potentialities, not someone else’s” (186). Moving from innocence to experience The remainder of the movie explores how Rango can tap into his “ordinariness” (versus his Western gunslinger persona) to face the town’s foes and not be THE hero but to galvanize its residents into what JCF director John Bucher has called “ A Call to Collective Adventure.” He is inspired to step away from the typical hero role that’s expected of him (what Campbell has called “the primary mask”) and become a leader operating through influence versus raw force and intimidation. The deep joy of the film unfolds as Rango, as Campbell notes in Transformations of Myth Through Time , “begins to find his own path, and the drag, you might say, of the primary mask is gradually thrown off” (26). Each of us may have varying degrees of the Fool, the Lover, the Trickster, or the Seeker active within. They both accompany and drive us along the path we are on. We at the JCF have grouped the nature of these four into the “archetypes of innocence,” and perhaps an even better term for them might be “archetypes of development.” Through their interplay and the working out of them in relation to the world, we are constantly answering the question “Who am I?” When that question pushes us to explore the safety beyond our own glass enclosures, the Seeker can powerfully activate to reach further externally to experience deeper meaning within. And as you will see for the remainder of this month, the Seeker’s path will develop from innocence into experience. MythBlast authored by: Scott Neumeister, Phd  is a literary scholar, author, TEDx speaker, mythic pathfinder and Editor of the MythBlast series from Tampa, Florida, where he earned his Ph.D. in English from the University of South Florida in 2018. His specialization in multiethnic American literature and mythology comes after careers as an information technology systems engineer and a teacher of English and mythology at the middle school and college levels. Scott coauthored Let Love Lead: On a Course to Freedom   with Gary L. Lemons and Susie Hoeller, and he has served as a facilitator for the Joseph Campbell Foundation’s Myth and Meaning book club at Literati. This MythBlast was inspired by Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine and the archetype of The Seeker. Latest Podcast Francis Weller has spent his life restoring the sacred work of grief and deepening our connection to the soul. A psychotherapist, writer, and soul activist, Francis weaves together psychology, mythology, alchemy, and indigenous wisdom to show us how grief is not just personal but profoundly communal. His bestselling book, The Wild Edge of Sorrow, has guided thousands in embracing loss as a path to renewal. Through his organization, WisdomBridge, and his work with the Commonweal Cancer Help Program, Francis helps others navigate sorrow with ritual, story, and deep remembrance. In this conversation, we explore how grief can serve as an initiation into a richer, more connected life—and why reclaiming lost rituals of mourning is essential to healing both ourselves and the world. For more information about Francis visit: https://www.francisweller.net/ Listen Here This Week's Highlights "You are that mystery which you are seeking to know. But it’s not the you that you fancy. It’s not the aspect that your friends are enjoying, that thing in the phenomenal world that is moving around. It is that ground of being that was there, will be there, is what you are to refer to." -- Joseph Campbell The Hero’s Journey, 197 Kundalini Yoga: Solar & Lunar Energy Pathways Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Photo of Glow-in-the-Dark Workshop Mask by author, 2010 I once attended a workshop that included a day spent reliving one’s teenage years. Participants were divided into high schools and assigned a variety of tasks: adopting a school mascot and motto, painting papier-mâché masks to reflect a school identity, writing a class song, and competing against other schools in a variety of silly, playful contests. A lot of triggers there, but also lots of laughter and fun for all involved . . . except for one couple in their seventies, who seemed at a loss. Yuki and Miko had traveled from Japan for this workshop. Their formal education followed a far different trajectory than those of us born in the United States, which made it difficult for them to relate to the assigned activities. With no shared cultural experience to draw on, they were quiet, reserved, almost painfully shy, in contrast to the casual and convivial informality of their schoolmates. Nevertheless, Yuki and Miko gamely volunteered to represent their school in the dance competition, to the song “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie.” Rehearsal, however, proved awkward and stiff, despite helpful tips and demonstrations from others––no rhythm, no flow, no sense of joy to their movements. That evening, when the elderly couple stepped up and the lights dimmed, they surprised everyone by donning the full face masks they had painted earlier––and then, as the first notes sounded, Yuki and Miko vanished, replaced by two young, lithe masked dancers who twirled, dipped, bounced, and boogie-woogied through the high energy portions of the piece, then segued into a supple, sinuous, sensual embrace as the music slowed, bodies swaying as one, like two high school sweethearts at the prom. The music stopped. Yuki and Miko removed their masks, bowed, and all forty participants burst into cheers and applause. There was momentary speculation they were professional dancers who had fooled us all; how else could they have spontaneously performed such an intricate, elaborate, well-choreographed dance? Miko, who had a somewhat better command of English than her husband, smiled at the idea. “That not us. Too embarrassing to do alone, and never around people.” Then just who were we watching? “The masks. The masks danced for us!" Acting “as if” The masks of God invite us in the direction of the experience of God; they are composed, you might say, to fit the mentality and spiritual condition of the people to whom these masks are directed. In the naive relationship of popular religion, people actually think that what I’m calling a mask of God is God—but they are intermediates between divorce from God and movement toward the mystery. ( Myth and Meaning: Conversations on Mythology and Life 74) How does Joseph Campbell arrive at this metaphor of the mask? Is it simply a clever literary device, no more than instructive analogy? Or does the mask worn in rituals present an embodied experience, serving as the vehicle for archetypal energies that actually transform the wearer? Masks have long provided a gateway to other dimensions, other realms, beyond the senses. According to Campbell, “The mask motif indicates that the person you see is two people. He’s the one wearing the mask and he is the mask that’s worn—that is, the mask of the role” ( Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine 37). This is very much the way an actor dissolves into a role. The mark of a good actor is to become the character they portray. The audience meets the actor more than halfway; when we watch a movie or attend a play, we expect to suspend our disbelief. We know that Harrison Ford isn’t really a dashing and daring archaeologist, and Nicole Kidman no southern belle, but we go along with the pretense. If the actors are skillful and the drama well written, then we are able to enter into this “play world,” experiencing the adventure and its accompanying emotion as if they are real. It’s not surprising to learn that the earliest theatrical productions in ancient Greece evolved from sacred rituals –– which brings us back to masks, for the actors in these plays wore masks. (That is not unique to Greece: the same can be said for the development of theater in many parts of Asia; even today, in Japan, masks are worn in Noh plays). Initiation The masks that in our demythologized time are lightly assumed for the entertainment of a costume ball or Mardi Gras—and may actually, on such occasions, release us to activities and experiences which might otherwise have been tabooed—are vestiges of an earlier magic, in which the powers to be invoked were not simply psychological, but cosmic. For the appearances of the natural order, which are separate from each other in time and space, are in fact the manifestation of energies that inform all things. (Campbell, The Historical Atlas of World Mythology: The Way of the Animal Powers , Part I, 93) According to Campbell, the mask serves as a conduit for the community to powers which transcend the individual. But the mask is also used in many cultures as an agent of individual transformation. Masks have the power to transform even when they are not worn. A classic scene appears on a wall fresco preserved beneath volcanic ash in the Villa of Mysteries in Pompeii. A youth bends over and peers into a silver bowl held up by a bearded figure, generally thought to be playing the role of Silenus, the satyr who served as teacher to Dionysus. The youth is told to look in the metal bowl to see his own true face––but the bowl acts as a concave mirror. Behind the lad an assistant holds up a mask; instead of his own face, the initiate is shocked to see the face of old age: ”the whole body of life from birth to death.” Campbell explains the significance of this reveal: Now suppose one of his friends, before he went in there, had said to him, “Now look, this guy in there is going to have a bowl and he is going to tell you that you’re going to see your own face. You’re not! He’s got another fellow there who’s holding this mask thing up behind you so that what you will see is nothing more than a reflection.” If this happened, there would be no initiation. There would be no shock. This is why mysteries are kept secret. An initiation is a shock. Birth is a shock; rebirth is a shock. All that is transformative must be experienced as if for the first time. ( Mythos I: The Shaping of Our Mythic Traditions, Episode 3: “On Being Human”) Masks within masks Raven/Sisutl transformation mask, closed, by Oscar Matilpi, Kwakwaka'wakw Nation, 1996. In the permanent In the permanent collection of The Children's Museum of Indianapolis (Photo by Randy Johnson). CC BY-SA 3.0) The indigenous tribes in the American Northwest, from the Kwakiutl to the Haida, are known for their Transformation Masks. This is a double mask, with the outer mask usually in the form of an animal. After fasting in the woods, then dancing into a frenzy in the lodge house, the masked dancer reaches a state of ecstasy and opens the hinged outer mask to reveal the interior: the image of an ancestral spirit. The dancer experiences a double transformation, identifying not just with the Animal whose mask he wears, but also with the Ancestor. Raven/Sisutl transformation mask, open, by Oscar Matilpi, Kwakwaka'wakw Nation, 1996. In the permanent collection of The Children's Museum of Indianapolis (Photo by Randy Johnson). CC BY-SA 3.0) The masked dancer enters a realm that once was and yet still is, a dimension where humans and animals are able to change form, hidden behind the world of waking reality. The wearer experiences the unity of all life: hunter and hunted; animal, human, and ancestral spirit––these are but masks for the one Life that animates All. Are such realizations possible today? After all, ceremonial masks seem somewhat archaic in this secular age––art objects to be collected, rather than tools for transformation. Surely, we have moved beyond the magic and the mystery today. And yet, my thoughts keep returning to Miko and Yuki. Their masks put them in touch with something greater than themselves, beyond their lived experience, that connected them with everyone in the room ... which may be why “mask” is such an apt metaphor for myth: Myths are the “masks of God” through which men everywhere have sought to relate themselves to the wonders of existence. (Campbell, The Hero’s Journey: Joseph Campbell on His Life and Work xx) MythBlast authored by: Stephen Gerringer has been a Working Associate at the Joseph Campbell Foundation (JCF) since 2004. His post-college career trajectory interrupted when a major health crisis prompted a deep inward turn, Stephen “dropped out” and spent most of the next decade on the road, thumbing his away across the country on his own hero quest. Stephen did eventually “drop back in,” accepting a position teaching English and Literature in junior high school. Stephen is the author of Myth and Modern Living: A Practical Campbell Compendium , as well as editor of Myth and Meaning: Conversations on Mythology and Life , a volume compiled from little-known print and audio interviews with Joseph Campbell. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 6, and The Hero's Journey Latest Podcast Joseph Campbell speaks at Cooper Union in New York in 1964 on the many functions of ritual and how it shapes the individual, the consequences of the degradation of ritual, and the role of creativity in ritual. Host, Brad Olson, offers an introduction and commentary after the talk in this episode of the Pathways podcast. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Myths are the “masks of God” through which men everywhere have sought to relate themselves to the wonders of existence." -- Joseph Campbell , The Hero's Journey, xx The Hidden Dimension (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Warner Independent Pictures' Before Sunset 2004 For my entire life, romantic Love was supposed to last forever. That was the goal: Find "the one." Fall in Love. Live happily ever after. Fade to Peabo Bryson and Regina Belle singing " A Whole New World . " Let me tell you, Disney movies really did a number on a young girl's psyche. However, my personal experience with Love didn't match the fairy tale. No, Love was fleeting and temporary; Love didn't stay. A scene in Richard Linklater's Before Sunset captures this perfectly. Céline, played by Julie Delpy, delivers a line that encapsulates my cynicism: It's funny ... every single one of my ex's ... they're now married! Men go out with me, we break up, and then they get married! You know, I want to KILL them!! Why didn't they ask ME to marry them? I would have said, “No,” but at least they could have asked!! I was just a stop along the way, a bridge to the next Love—part of someone's journey but never their final destination. Before Sunset itself exists as a bridge. The middle chapter in Linklater's Before Trilogy spans eighteen years and multiple countries. In the first film, Before Sunrise , Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Céline are strangers who share one magical night in Vienna, promising to meet again in six months. Nine years later, Before Sunset finds them reuniting in Paris, each having built separate lives—Jesse with a wife and child, Céline with her career and boyfriend. Their day-long, real-time conversation through the streets of Paris becomes a walking meditation on adulthood, our choices, and how life experience colors our connection to Love. Throughout the film, we see how even though their night in Vienna was fleeting, it set them on a path to find each other again, albeit nine years later. The Lover as guide "I feel I was never able to forget anyone I've been with. Because each person has...their own specific qualities. You can never replace anyone. What is lost is lost." Céline in Before Sunset Every person I've loved or thought I loved brought something unique and irreplaceable into my life: one carried a deep calmness that could weather any storm, even when that storm was me. Another possessed such devotion to their art that it inspired me to try an art of my own (Watercolors. I was awful and will never speak of this again.) A third moved through life with infectious mischief that changed how I saw the world. These qualities can never be replicated, nor should they be. What is lost is lost, but what is gained can change you. These are the boons of the adventure that is Love. When referring to relationship baggage, we typically refer to it negatively. We should refer to it as a boon. Yes, we've loved and lost. Yes, we have wounds, but we also know more about who we are. Let me be more of myself with you. Let me show up as cynical as Céline and cautiously hopeful as Jesse. What is lost is lost, but what is gained can change you. These are the boons of the adventure that is Love. Romantic Love isn't the end-all and be-all, but perhaps we're drawn to it because of the knowing that you will never be the same. You can't ignore the Call, even if you know pain could be on the other side. Like Joseph Campbell says in Pathways to Bliss: Each time, there is the same problem: do I dare? And then if you do dare, the dangers are there, and the help also, and the fulfillment or the fiasco. There's always the possibility of a fiasco. But there's also the possibility of bliss. (133) The lovers' walk "Walking Each Other Home" is a phrase often used to discuss how to guide the dying, but isn't love itself a series of deaths and rebirths? Each new connection offers the possibility of life-giving transformation, and every ending holds a necessary grief that reshapes us. From Jesse and Céline's first meeting to their walk through Paris nine years later, we witness this cycle of death and rebirth. Céline and Jesse lament how romantic they were when they first met but how time and life have made them more cynical. Yes, the naive lovers they were are no more, but now, as the more actualized adults they've become, they allow for another form of Love to be born. And the harsh truth is that meeting "the one" and living happily ever after will end in two ways: you break up or you don't. And if you don't, eventually, one of you will leave this earthly plane for another. There will still be a separation. Grief either way. No happy ending "The happy ending is justly scorned as a misrepresentation; for the world, as we know it, as we have seen it, yields but one ending: death, disintegration, dismemberment, and the crucifixion of our heart with the passing of the forms that we have loved." The Hero with a Thousand Faces , 19 Could the one ending Campbell speaks of be the “happy” ending? Every Love who has entered my life has initiated a disintegration, an undoing of who I thought I was. A death or separation from who I was before and a rebirth into someone new, with the wounds and boons to show for it. I can only hope I've done the same for them. Understanding that I was part of their journey and they were part of mine doesn't diminish our time together because it didn't last forever. If anything, the ephemerality of these connections makes them more precious. The Love expressed, the trials endured, the knowledge gained, and even the grief over the end were all essential steps in becoming. Before Sunset ends ambiguously—we don't know what choices Jesse and Céline will make, and that's the point. Love resists our attempts to contain, predict, and control its outcome. It's messy, terrifying, frustrating, and glorious, and still, we ask, do I dare ? Before Sunset shows us that Love and the Lover can't be stagnant or controlled but, the Lover will bring us exactly where we need to be, always guiding us home to ourselves. When, or if, I meet "the one," I hope I don't hold them too tightly. Let us meet again and again. Let us grieve who we were and celebrate who we are becoming. Let's take a walk together and see how we change. MythBlast authored by: Torri Yates-Orr is an Emmy-nominated public historian passionate about making history and mythology engaging, accessible, and informative. From exploring her genealogy to receiving a degree in Africana Studies from the University of Tennessee, the history was always her first love. Combining her skill set in production with her love of the past, she started creating history and mythology lessons for social media . Her "On This Day in History" series has over two million views. She's the content curator for the MythBlast newsletter for The JCF and co-host of the Skeleton Keys podcast . This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Lover . Latest Podcast This bonus episode, recorded at WNYC TV in 1963, was part of the “Myth, Mask, & Dream” lecture series. In this episode, Campbell explores the mythological significance of the “Mother Goddess” across the Neolithic, Bronze, and early Iron Ages. Please note that the audio quality improves approximately 10 seconds into the lecture. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Human beings are not perfect. What evokes our love – and I mean love, not lust – is the imperfection of the human being. So, when the imperfection of the real human peeks through, say, "This is a challenge to my compassion." Then make a try, and something might begin to get going." -- Joseph Campbell Pathways to Bliss , 76 Four Functions of Mythology (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

The theme for the MythBlast Series this month is The Message of the Myth: Art and Artists, so I’d like to take a look at transforming emotion into art, particularly those emotions we are reluctant to express or even acknowledge to ourselves, let alone to others. So let me first say this as unambiguously as I can, if you’re struggling with depression, reach out to your doctor, to a therapist, to a loved one who can support you to find the right treatment for your depression. What I want to explore in this essay is what Sigmund Freud understood as common unhappiness; Fernando Pessoa called it disquiet; William Wordsworth heard the still, sad music of humanity. In his 1895 book, Studies on Hysteria, Freud wrote this: When I have promised my patients help or improvement by means of a cathartic treatment I have often been faced by this objection: “Why, you tell me yourself that my illness is probably connected with my circumstances and the events of my life. You cannot alter these in any way. How do you propose to help me, then?” And I have been able to make this reply: “No doubt fate would find it easier than I do to relieve you of your illness. But you will be able to convince yourself that much will be gained if we succeed in transforming your hysterical misery into common unhappiness. With a mental life that has been restored to health you will be better armed against that unhappiness.” ( Studies on Hysteria , Vol. 2, 270) Transforming hysterical misery into common unhappiness is no small thing. What Freud called hysterical misery is a defensive response to the awareness, conscious or not, that there is so much life one cannot even begin to live it all. For the hysteric, life has become cumbersome, incomprehensible, and in some curious way, unspeakable; it’s impossible to talk about. The unwillingness to accept life on its own terms creates the intense psychological suffering Freud describes. Transforming such abject misery, becoming “better armed against that unhappiness” may be hard to imagine, but such a transformation is where the art comes in. In King Lear , Shakespeare tells us that “When we are born, we cry that we have come to this great stage of fools” (Scene IV, Act 6). We cry because we have indeed come into this world of fools, and ourselves not least among them; we cry because we have won the role of a human being in the great play of life, and whether it is a tragedy or a farce is, it seems to me, entirely up to us. Art as epiphany In his late work “Art as Revelation,” a section in his unfinished magnum opus The Historical Atlas of World Mythology, Campbell discusses the effects of “proper art” upon the individual: “One is held, on the contrary, in aesthetic arrest, a moment of sensational (aesthetic) contemplation, as before a recognized revelation, or in Joyce’s language, an ‘epiphany’” (p. 19). The key then, as I see it, is to approach our lives, all of our experiences no matter how prosaic or chaotic, all our fears, our griefs, our pain, as well our joys, as we would approach a great work of art. The Raft of the Medusa. Painting by Théodore Géricault, circa 1819 (Louvre Museum, Paris) Théodore Gericault’s painting, The Raft of Medusa , hangs in the Louvre Museum, and I admit I lingered looking at this painting for the better part of a morning. The Mona Lisa hangs in a room not far away, and laying eyes upon her requires patience, as great crowds fill the accordion-like rope lines in the room, cameras at the ready, straining to get a glimpse of this legendary woman before the allotted fifteen seconds or so of viewing time are up and docents move you along. She is beautiful enough, certainly, but she’s not the best painting in the museum; I don’t think she’s even the best Davinci in the Louvre, and like certain reality TV stars, she’s famous mostly for being famous, and no particular epiphany occurred from my encounter with her. But that’s not the case with Gericault’s masterpiece, the epiphany accompanying it virtually reaches out and seizes one by the throat. First, it’s immense, at 16 feet by 23 feet, its figures are life-size, and the figures in the foreground are more than life-size. Because of its enormity, the detail the artist renders is astonishing; the fear, despair, starvation and suffering are viscerally recognizable, etched onto the life sized-faces of the literally overwhelmed, desperate, ship-wrecked survivors clinging to a makeshift raft, while the two men attending the dead reflect a dejected futility. Looking at this painting I immediately understood Joyce’s remarks about epiphany, gripped as I was by a profound, involuntary sense of pity. James Joyce's theory of art In Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , Joyce lays out his theory of art: “Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer” (Chapter 5). Pity is not an emotion of implicit superiority of the kind which Mr. T referenced when he uttered his catch phrase, “I pity the fool…” Rather, pity is a sympathetic sorrow evoked by the suffering of others. Pity is compassion, pity is empathy, pity is pathos—literally, what befalls one—that projects the observer into the world the art portrays. The Raft of Medusa certainly invites both pity and pathos—not just for the poor survivors on the raft who, by the way, apparently still hold out hope for rescue and try desperately to get the attention of some distant passing ship. One is moved to pity for the fact of human suffering itself, something each of us knows all too well in our own secret ways, precisely because we have come to this great stage of fools. Joyce further proposes that “Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause” ( Ibid ). The secret cause is one’s own fate, one’s own life exactly as one has lived it; the secret cause is ultimately one’s own death: cold, impassive, mortality. To experience the rapture of life we must consciously and intentionally move beyond the personalization of the epiphany, of which would be pity, to the universal human truth, the terror of the realization that we are mortal and we will die. That is the familiar psychic territory in which we encounter terror. If we are able to encounter the terror of our own mortality the same way we encounter “proper art” that terrifies, if we regard the circumstances of our lives as art (as though we ourselves were the pitiable crew of the Medusa), we elicit the sublime epiphany that reconciles us with our own mortality, as well as the circumstances of our own lives exactly as they are. We make the surprising discovery that this life we live, life with all its abundant sufferings and barely sufficient joys, is heart-breakingly beautiful. If we are able to encounter the terror of our own mortality the same way we encounter “proper art” that terrifies, we elicit the sublime epiphany that reconciles us with our own mortality. Epiphanies are not states of being; we can’t occupy the sublime for very long at all until we’re thrown back into the problems of living. We return to them, not with dread nor with hysterical misery, but with that recurring melody of the still, sad, music of life playing in the background, evoking the vaguely dissatisfied, bittersweet sense of common unhappiness. Acknowledging the common unhappiness of life has a salutary, restorative effect when we find ourselves in the grip of the pain of living. Pierrot knows as much by the end of the 1965 Jean-Luc Godard film, Pierrot Le Fou and reflects, rather wistfully, “Life is sometimes sad, but it’s always beautiful.” Beauty is the aesthetic epiphany Joyce refers to, and it functions as a homeopathic remedy for the pain of living; it’s the healing alchemy of like curing like. Beauty, because it is always too fleeting, because each encounter with it is thoroughly novel and personally reconfiguring, creates an aesthetic seizure that works on us consciously to a degree, but much more so unconsciously. What seizes us at first is a barely perceptible sensation of intimate strangeness, the paradoxical disclosure of terrible beauty adorning all life, the full realization of which depends more on mythos than logos . It is a potentially life changing validation of the perplexing nonpareil, the uncommon common life. To feel beauty we must be willing to feel pity and pain, even terror. No pity, no terror, no beauty. For those willing to welcome beauty and its occasionally troublesome collaborators, life holds no misery. In a world that so often exposes us to catastrophes and terrible suffering, common unhappiness is an uncommon achievement. If you have suicidal or other thoughts of self-harm, please reach out to professionals for help, or call 988, which is now the three-digit dialing code that routes callers to the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Thanks for reading. MythBlast authored by: Bradley Olson, Ph.D .  is an author, speaker, and a psychotherapist. He serves as the Publications Director for the Joseph Campbell Foundation, as well as the Editor of the MythBlast Series and the host of JCF's flagship podcast, Pathways With Joseph Campbell . Dr. Olsonholds a Ph.D. in Mythological Studies from Pacifica Graduate Institute. Dr. OIson is also a depth psychologist in private practice in Flagstaff, Arizona, where he has lived since 1995. Dr. Olson has graduate degrees in psychology from the University of Oklahoma. Dr. Olson offers mythic life coaching at What's Mything in Your Life ( bradleyolsonphd.com ). This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 2, and Pathways to Bliss Latest Podcast Dr. Reedy has a Ph.D. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Brad has broadcast over 1,300 webinars on parenting since 2007, and hosts the podcast “Finding You” He is also the author of two books on parenting and self-discovery: The Journey of the Heroic Parent and The Audacity to Be You. Brad has developed an accessible and liberating approach to adolescents, young adults, and their parents. His powerful ability to use his own story and stories from the thousands of families he has treated, offers hope to families suffering from mental health, addiction, and stage-of-life issues. Brad is a co-founder and the Executive Clinical Director of Evoke Therapy Programs, which provides therapeutic services for adolescents, young adults, parents, families, and individuals looking to gain greater intimacy in their relationships. In the conversation, he and John Bucher of the Joseph Campbell Foundation, talk about Brad’s life and work, storytelling and its role in a therapeutic setting, how myths can be used in parenting, and how Campbell’s work has been an important guide in Brad’s life. Listen Here This Week's Highlights I think of mythology as the homeland of the muses, the inspirers of art, the inspirers of poetry. To see life as a poem and yourself participating in a poem is what the myth does for you. -- Joseph Campbell Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth, with Bill Moyers, 6 Hell & Transcendence Q&A (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

During a recent wellbeing fair, I attended a mental health workshop on preventing burnout. Surprisingly, I learned that over half of US employees express feelings of burnout (websites below), a startling enough trend that companies are working to mitigate its effects. Some time later, while listening to Episode 24 of The Podcast with a Thousand Faces , I heard Dr. Ben Rogers, Assistant Professor of Management & Organization at Boston College, explain how his ongoing research on the psychological benefits of framing one’s life within the pattern of the Hero’s Journey could be used to help alleviate burnout (48:40-50:37). This insight stirred my curiosity. Perhaps in addition to reducing the impact of burnout on the current workforce, a mythological take on burnout could offer insight and meaning to the experience. This MythBlast is the beginnings of such an endeavor. The call to adventure The Hero’s Journey begins with the call to adventure, a moment that marks a change in the hero’s life. The hero can refuse the call to adventure or willingly enter into the ordeal, either way they sense that change is happening. Beyond this point everything will be different. Soon after the call to adventure, the hero comes to the first threshold–a space that marks the end of the known domain. Beyond this crossing lies an unknown world of both promise and peril. To enter into this unchartered territory, the hero faces a threshold guardian. Innumerable characters or elemental agents serve as threshold guardians in myth. Ogres, dragons, and monsters are some of the mythic images of threshold guardians, all of which are entities that halt the hero’s journey. Joseph Campbell states that these “custodians bound the world in the four directions–also up and down–standing for the limits of the hero’s present sphere, or life horizon” ( Hero with a Thousand Faces , 64). Beyond this point is the initiation that will broaden the hero’s experience and expand the hero’s consciousness. Thus begins the transformation of the hero. But first, they must overcome the threshold guardian to prove worthy of transformation. Burnout as a threshold guardian If one were to characterize burnout in the Hero’s Journey, it would be a threshold guardian. Like a sorcerer transfixing the hero with the illusion of boundless assignments, burnout stops the momentum forward, halting the journey with tasks and fruitless labor. Myths present images of what one might imagine burnout to feel like. Studies show that the stress of constant work leaves people feeling cynical, losing their sense of achievement and connection to the driving forces within ( World Health Organization ). People have too much to do, and thus the vitality of life has been dampened by exhaustion and overwhelm. One could see the Greek goddess Psyche feeling such overwhelm when tasked by Aphrodite to sort barrels of grain by nightfall. Cynicism and the loss of achievement could be imagined in the Greek myth of Sisyphus whose ordeal is to push a boulder up a hill until he almost reaches the top, only for the boulder to roll back down to the bottom of the hill so he can begin the endeavor all over again. The task saturation of constant work can feel like the emotional and physical weight described in these myths. Burnout as a threshold guardian is a seemingly benevolent custodian whose snare traps the hero. The hero completes each task only for another to be placed before them, stuck in an ongoing cycle and thus not progressing on the journey. Remedies for burnout often include stress management, diet and exercise, rest, or time away from work. While these are worthy endeavors, the root of burnout seems deeper. Even if we step away from the hamster wheel of task overload, the tasks await our return. Breaking the spell of burnout requires perspective to see the mechanisms at work in our lives in order to regain one’s center, the source of the call to life which began the adventure in the first place. Campbell expresses in Episode 1 of the Power of Myth , “ The Hero’s Adventure ,” that we are all “living in terms of a system, and this is the threat to our lives, we all face it, we all operate in our society in relation to a system. Now, is the system going to eat you up and relieve you of your humanity? Or, are you going to be able to use the system to human purposes” (27:00-27:25). In other words, can we maneuver within the system enough to maintain our sense of self? If not, then it’s time to step out of the system for a time in order to find our center and regain a bird’s-eye view of the greater journey. The system has limited our growth causing us to lose the vitality of feeling alive. Burnout is the system eating you up. Dispelling burnout’s hold The challenge then is to first identify the burnout and recognize its hold on us. Often in the hero’s journey, threshold guardians are clearly identified as an adversary that the hero battles directly. Burnout’s secret weapon is the quiet way it consumes us. Some of the most difficult threshold guardians to pass through are the quiet and insidious ones that bind us while we aren’t even conscious of their presence. The mundane tasks that slowly drain one's energy, quietly restricting our soul in the tedium of what appears to be important, maintaining the illusion of grandeur with empty achievements–like food that doesn’t nourish or water that doesn’t alleviate thirst–the too-much-ness that life brings when we try to do it all. Once identified, the trance of burnout is dispelled and can either be aligned with the greater human cause or slayed altogether by wielding the immense power of the word “no.” As with the Hero’s Journey, to cross the threshold into the domain of transformation, the hero has to pass the threshold guardian by strategy, wit, or strength. One can trick the guardian, or beguile them to change their ways, or slay them–whatever the encounter, something must change in order to cross the threshold. Determining the best way to interact with this threshold guardian requires self-inquiry. Are the tasks at hand in line with the heroic endeavor, or detracting from it and allowing the system freedom to consume one’s life? For Psyche, sifting the grain is one venture of many on her journey to gain immortality. The monotonous and overwhelming task of sorting grain is a laborious task that is one step of a greater journey. For Sisyphus, however, the ordeal of pushing the boulder up the hill is never-ending. He is stuck forever in a cycle of finishing one task just to start another with no greater purpose to his labor. For Psyche, burnout is a trial; for Sisyphus it's a torment. In the day-to-day grind, it’s challenging to see the difference between tasks that are moving us forward on the journey and tasks that have us walking in place. Fear of the unknown, societal commitments, or misplaced desire yearning for something that is not necessarily tied to the greater cause of the adventure can keep us in stasis. We lose ourselves in the endeavors of the moment rather than holding the center within us that guides us forward on our path. Burnout then becomes a sign asking us to come back to our center to attain an outlook that encompasses the bigger story at play. Like a threshold guardian, burnout then is something to recognize and overcome. The dragon to slay, the ogre to trick, or the sleeping spell from which to awaken. Finding meaning in the mundane Infusing burnout with a sense of mythic meaning may not alleviate the issue at hand, but seeing our day-to-day lives mythically does have a way of pulling one out of the grind and offering perspective. The patterns at play in our lives can sometimes appear less daunting when we can place those experiences within a grand archetypal pattern understood by many. The patterns at play in our lives can sometimes appear less daunting when we can place those experiences within a grand archetypal pattern understood by many. Burnout, as the name suggests, snuffs out our fire, the vitality that enlivens us with the feeling of being alive. Beyond this threshold guardian is a domain in which to expand consciousness, a playground of exploration. On the other side of the threshold is a rekindling of the life-spark. Taking the first step into this unknown realm takes a tremendous amount of strength. Many never embark on the journey because the status-quo is just too comfortable. The system whispers in our ear that it is better to deal with burnout than failure. The call to adventure beyond the threshold is the call of the life-spark within each of us. The minute we step away from all the tasks demanding our time, someone comes in to replace us. The system will replace us. But our life is ours alone. No one can live it but us. MythBlast authored by: Stephanie Zajchowski, PhD is a mythologist and writer based in Texas. She serves as the Director of Operations for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and is a contributing author of Goddesses: A Skeleton Key Study Guide. Stephanie is also a co-founder of the Fates and Graces, hosting webinars and workshops for mythic readers and writers. Her work focuses on the intersection of mythology, religion, and women’s studies. For more information, visit stephaniezajchowski.com This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 6, and The Hero with a Thousand Faces Latest Podcast Dr. Reedy has a Ph.D. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Brad has broadcast over 1,300 webinars on parenting since 2007, and hosts the podcast “Finding You” He is also the author of two books on parenting and self-discovery: The Journey of the Heroic Parent and The Audacity to Be You. Brad has developed an accessible and liberating approach to adolescents, young adults, and their parents. His powerful ability to use his own story and stories from the thousands of families he has treated, offers hope to families suffering from mental health, addiction, and stage-of-life issues. Brad is a co-founder and the Executive Clinical Director of Evoke Therapy Programs, which provides therapeutic services for adolescents, young adults, parents, families, and individuals looking to gain greater intimacy in their relationships. In the conversation, he and John Bucher of the Joseph Campbell Foundation, talk about Brad’s life and work, storytelling and its role in a therapeutic setting, how myths can be used in parenting, and how Campbell’s work has been an important guide in Brad’s life. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "All life has drudgery to it ... In Zen, however, even while you're washing the dishes, that's a meditation, that's an act of life. Sometimes the drudgery itself can become part of the hero deed. The point is not to get stuck in the drudgery, but to use it to free you." -- Joseph Campbell Pathways to Bliss , 156 Slaying The Dragon (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Life among the luminous As the sixth of seven children, I grew up surrounded by people who towered over me and performed feats of astonishing creativity and capacity. My brother was a centaur riding his motorcycle. Dad designed a car wash machine, penciling mysterious schematics of circuitry onto flattened cardboard boxes, as Hephaestus might if he owned a gas station. Mom floated on air when she executed swan dives into the lake, and, in winter, on the frozen pond behind the house, she skated circles around me—forward and backward—like a water spirit of the north. My four older sisters drew, painted, baked, photographed, sewed, played basketball, softball, and piano, and regaled me with stories they invented on the spot. One sister would materialize as though out of nowhere to give me magical elixirs—a bottle heated to just the right temperature, a tiny cup of “jello juice” she scooped from the mixing bowl before the liquid gelatin went into the fridge. I can still taste that sweet, warm, red nectar. When my younger sister arrived, she glowed like the divine child with eyes of clear blue quartz and gleaming coppery hair. It all felt miraculous. Stunning. I had blundered into a pantheon of powers greater than myself, and I adored them all, exactly the way I would so many goddesses and gods. I had blundered into a pantheon of powers greater than myself, and I adored them all, exactly the way I would so many goddesses and gods. With no language to describe it, I was experiencing my family’s transparence to transcendence, as Joseph Campbell calls it ( The Hero’s Journey: Joseph Campbell on His Life and Work , 51). My child’s eyes let me see what Campbell calls “the radiance of the presence of the divine” ( The Power of Myth , 267). That radiance shone through my family as though through a cluster of suns. Unfortunately, I was hopelessly opaque.   When the light dims So there I was, handed from giant to dazzling giant, tossed in the air like a squealing beach ball, spun in circles then set down to fall over in the grass, laughing with giddy dizziness—much the way religious experience leaves me feeling. But I had no awareness of my own talents. I couldn’t sense Campbell’s radiance shining through me. This luminosity, for Campbell, occurs especially in the experience of art, poetry, myth, and religion ( The Power of Myth , 277, 283, 259, 285)—all of which are fields of human creativity. I knew it existed, because I’d seen it from the outside, but I had no experience of it myself. All I had was a desperate desire to participate in the fun everyone else was having. Before long my siblings started going off to college, marriages, jobs, journeys. I wept at the airport when we dropped them off. It was like I lost God, every single time. I self-medicated with books—another form of creative marvel which I had no idea how to make. I longed to write stories, the way the Brontë sisters did. But no one taught me how, not in high school, not in college. So, after graduating, I read about narrative structure. I attended writing classes and conferences. I joined writing groups, and I wrote terrible stories, one after another after another. Ten full years of this went by, and then one day I came across Ray Bradbury’s book Zen and the Art of Writing , in which he advises aspiring writers to write one story a week every week for a year. Well, why not? Nothing else had worked, so I rolled up my sleeves. The first week, I wrote a terrible story. The second week, a horrible story. Weeks three, four, five, and six: awful story after awful story. My settings lacked vitality. Plots petered out. Characters lay flat on the page, stubbornly refusing to stand up and do anything. Looking back, I must have been as stubborn as they were. My grim determination would not let me give up, no matter how much I despaired over each failure. Stubbornness, meet surrender In the seventh week of my Bradbury challenge, I had a vague idea for a character and setting. The first few pages filled up decently well, but the middle slowed down. Words dried to a trickle. Then they stopped. I had no idea what came next. The sun had gone down, and it was a Thursday—late in the week, late in the day, late in my soul. Why was I unable to write a story? None of my siblings would struggle like this, not with their array of talents. But it was time to make supper, so I gave up. This story would be another swing and a miss. I turned off my computer and trudged down the shadowy staircase from my office to the kitchen, letting gravity do most of the work. Downstairs, the windows were squares of the evening’s deepening blue, the furniture all but invisible in the dark. As I stepped off the last stair, I flipped the switch for the kitchen lights, as I always did. Unlike other times, though, this time when the kitchen lit up, so did the story’s ending. There it was, all at once, and it was perfect. Perfect! I loved it! Surprising yet inevitable, it fit the previous pages like a key in a lock, and I had not invented it. The story’s ending arrived in my mind all on its own, at the same moment as that burst of light. Electrical light and story light flooded me both at once, along with a feeling of indescribable joy and impossible delight, wordless, timeless, thrilling, alive. If a camera had recorded that moment, it might have captured Eureka photons beaming from my ears, somewhere on the light spectrum just this side of indigo. The radiance. The divine. Still breathless, I wrote up the ending. That was my first published story. But while I edited, I was looking over my shoulder. Who or what had come up with that ending? It certainly wasn’t me. A creativity credo  I was thirty-five when that story’s ending burst in and lit up my imagination. That’s thirty-five trips around the sun before I found a situation where the radiance could shine through. Afterwards, it became more accessible. That’s why I believe creativity can be cultivated. But chasing the mystery of how that insight happened became more urgent for me than writing more stories. The embodied sensation of light was so overwhelming, so benefic, that I found myself in graduate school learning about creativity and creation myth. I never solved the mystery, and I never will, but I learned that creation myths represent creativity metaphorically, masking the radiance in stories about forces that pour into the world, stop us in our tracks, break through sometimes in the experience of art, myth, and religion. I believe Campbell is right that mythic images represent our spiritual potential, and encountering them, thinking about them, actually activates them in our lives ( The Power of Myth , 273). If goddesses and gods embody and evoke cosmic powers, creator deities embody and evoke creativity. And because creator deities are sacred, so is creativity. My siblings remain bathed in wonder to me. I’ll never stop trying to earn my place among them. I have come to believe their exploits were, in fact, so many acts of God, and I believe our birthright—yours, mine, and everyone’s—is to radiate and create. MythBlast authored by: Joanna Gardner, PhD , is a writer, mythologist, and magical realist whose research and teaching focus on creativity, goddesses, and wonder tales. Joanna serves as director of marketing and communications for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and is the lead author of the Foundation's book Goddesses: A Skeleton Key Study Guide .  She is also an adjunct professor in Pacifica Graduate Institute’s Mythological Studies program, and a co-founder of the Fates and Graces , hosting webinars and workshops for mythic readers and writers. To read Joanna's blog and additional publications, you are most cordially invited to visit her website at joannagardner.com . This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 6, and The Hero's Journey Latest Podcast Pathways Bonus: The Psychological Basis of Freedom Q&A In this bonus Q&A episode, Campbell answers questions about the nature of freedom, the origins of religion, following one's bliss, living out of one's center, and aesthetic arrest. It is taken from the Q&A session after his lecture, "The Psychological Basis of Freedom", recorded at Bennett College in North Carolina in 1970. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Just as anyone who listens to the muse will hear, you can write out of your own intention or out of inspiration. There is such a thing. It comes up and talks. And those who have heard deeply the rhythms and hymns of the gods, the words of the gods, can recite those hymns in such a way the gods will be attracted." -- Joseph Campbell The Hero’s Journey, 147 Kundalini Yoga - The God Syllable "AUM" (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Let me begin by saying what I always say when asked to condense the entirety of my studies in mythology and depth psychology into a small package: “If you want a healthy soul, do your art.” Although I’ve never heard the concept plainly spoken like that, for decades its theme has been lurking in the background, pervading the rooms of all the seminars and classes, the pages of the articles and books. And regardless of the breadth or disparity of topics, the association of art and psychological well-being arise with remarkable frequency. You may have noticed above that I reworded what was originally “healthy soul” to “psychological well-being.” This is not an arbitrary conflation but rather a necessary maneuver to accommodate the more practically-minded—and for whom I often rephrase my original rendering to: “If you want a healthy psyche, do your art.” Really, I do this simply to give the concept a more realistic “from the neck, up” kind of gloss. After all, what’s a soul, anyway? Ironically, the Greek word psyche  translates literally into “soul,” but that aspect is all but forgotten in common Western usage. There are, however, two exceptions to this that I can think of: mythology and depth psychology. On that note, whenever the word psyche  occurs in this piece, feel free to associate it with “neck-up content,” but know that I intend to mean, equally, soul —which I will address in more detail below. Sadly, many who hear my little “healthy soul/do art” formula will shrug their shoulders and say things like, “So you’re saying it’s good to be creative? Well, that’s nothing new.” Or, “Yeah, didn’t Columbia do a study on that? painting lowers blood-pressure or something?”  Fair enough. In a world like this, it is clearly a necessity to honor the practical. After all, time is ticking, we’ve got lives to manage. Agreed! But bear in mind that one-sidedness in practical matters confines psyche to the shallow water when it is in the deeps that she thrives.  Art for art’s sake And I speak here of the process alone, without any concern for the product or quality thereof. It is the “doing” that is so crucial—something about the conscious giving-of-oneself to the task that makes it personal, that adds depth. Perhaps this partially explains why Jung was so adamant (if not downright aggressively insistent) that his paintings were NOT art.   I can only guess that, for him, his “rendered imagery” was more of what could be called a journey into the soul. Or, if you prefer, a journey through the contents of the psyche—through both the conscious and (especially) unconscious strata—and all to the purpose of, in his own words, “kindle a light in the darkness of being” which we can also call, simply, individuation ( Memories, Dreams, Reflections , 326). I ask myself, however, am I reducing the making of art to therapy? As in “art therapy?” In part, yes. But I think that by making therapy the focus, one paradoxically flattens the depth of its affect. I’m really attempting to touch something deeper, less prone to the compartmentalization of thought or the reach of words—but again, I’ll get to this, or rather try to, when I get to soul , below.  Nonetheless, for now, I think it’s advantageous that the notion of “therapy” be moved out of the center (in an effort to invite more  of its affect!), and that the resulting void be filled with notions of soul. While, as a fringe benefit, let’s just remember and appreciate that healing is an inescapable consequence  of making art—call it “therapy-blind-to-itself,” or “inadvertent therapy” because as all artists know, when you do your art you cannot run fast enough to escape the sense of well-being that accompanies it. Some words towards soul So, there is something richer at stake, beyond even the healing—or wellness-virtue—but not so far beyond as to be a matter of pure being which just conveniently slides the whole question into the transcendent or ontological. Besides, that would be a conceptual and philosophical move, and not an artistic one. Rather, as artists (which by the way is everyone, whether it’s gardening or how you fold the laundry), we want to stay within the confines of matter, the realm of “stuff,” right here in this so-called mundane miracle called life on Earth, with all the complexities and problems and enigmas that accompany it.  The soulful artist is less concerned with conceptual explanations or solutions to problems than with heeding the drive to explore the unknown. The soulful artist is less concerned with conceptual explanations or solutions to problems than with heeding the drive to explore the unknown .  I’d even venture that when the artist has made the unknown familiar, they do not make residence there, but pull stakes and venture on to new uncharted territory. As mentioned above, psyche/soul thrives in deep water. It is her myth—and her means of making myth. In his   Pathways to Bliss , Joseph Campbell addresses this soulful drive in artists as “mythic-seizure,” which he contrasts against the rational:   The beginning of a mythic world or a mythic tradition is a seizure—something that pulls you out of yourself, beyond yourself, beyond all rational patterns. It is out of such seizures that civilizations are built … [and] the work of any artist who has given his life to producing these things … come[s] from mythic seizure. (153) But let’s not dismiss the practical—so, time for a definition-attempt at soul. In response to this impossible question I offer a direction that has much helped me, inspired by the work of depth psychology’s three chief heavyweights (in my opinion): Jung, von Franz, Hillman. In lieu of abstract denotations, which essentially tell us nothing about anything (as far as the soul’s concerned), these three frequently go at it by juxtaposing soul  with spirit . Please mind that these are merely general “directions,” replete with exceptions, and quite far from any kind of precise finality. That said: spirit is up; soul is down, just as our notion of heaven is up in the sky, while mortal life is down here on earth. Spirit connotes height, ethereality, transcendence and light, whereas soul connotes depth, gravitas, matter and darkness. Spirit connotes ontological “being” removed from matter (more or less), whereas soul’s concern leans into matter. To employ the four elements (as metaphors): Spirit rises like air and burns like fire; whereas soul deepens into earth and pours down like water. To conclude this egregiously brief gloss of “what soul is,” and to provide a concrete sample from the perspective of art, consider the depth and magnitude of soul in African-American poet Langston Hughes’s extraordinary 1921 poem “The Negro Speaks of Rivers”: I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.  My soul has grown deep like the rivers. The myth in soul   As the soul leans into matter and the field of life (perhaps in the business of carrying spirit into creation), likewise myth leans into soul—and pours back out of it. Let us say the soul exudes myth, like residual mist from a waterfall or warmth from the sun, giving us—the blind—a means of tracking it. And for some reason we come closest to seeing or touching it (so to speak) when it’s expressed in the graver terms I provide above.  In short, it seems the soul needs (to some degree) “troubled” water—or in the words of Hughes, “muddy” or “dusky.” This is what I like to call “the messiness of myth”—the complexity, heaviness, and even oddness that affirms its accuracy to life . Perhaps it renders a familiarity that psyche can readily embrace and integrate. Perhaps, also, it renders a familiarity she can hone upon in her imaginative power. In like fashion, we can embrace the messes of life that come and  we can hone our souls upon them. Yes, there’s something about the mess that stirs the soul and offers the artist in all of us the opportunity to engage and do our art .  MythBlast authored by: Craig Deininger has been a regularly featured writer for the JCF since 2018. He has taught at many institutions including Naropa University, Studio Film School in Los Angeles, and the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, where he earned an MFA in Poetry. He also earned an MA and PhD in Mythology and Jungian Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute in California. He has balanced his scholarship with a long history of (what he calls) "fieldwork," ranging from commercial fishing in Alaska, building trail for the Forest Service in the Rockies, commercial farming in the midwest, years of construction and landscaping across the country and, of course, countless outdoor misadventures in backpacking, rockclimbing, mountain biking, and the like. He ranks himself in the top 99% of the world population in the art of digging a hole with a shovel and acknowledges his inflation for thinking this. His poetry has appeared in several literary magazines including The Iowa Review, and his first book of poetry Leaves from the World Tree, was co-authored with mythologist Dennis Slattery and published by Mandorla Books. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 2, and Pathways to Bliss Latest Podcast In this episode of The Podcast with a Thousand Faces, we welcome the incredible Shelly Tygielski . Shelly is a mindfulness teacher, community organizer, producer, philanthropist, author, activist, public speaker, and former corporate executive. At the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, Shelly founded Pandemic of Love, a grassroots mutual aid movement that has connected millions of people worldwide and facilitated $200 million in direct donations. She is the author of two books, “Sit Down To Rise Up: How Radical Self-Care Can Change the World” and “How We Ended Racism: Realizing a New Possibility in One Generation,” co-authored by Justin Michael Williams which debuted as a #1 Amazon bestseller in October 2023. In 2022, Shelly co-founded Partners in Kind, a production company that aims to highlight important issues through powerful storytelling to inspire social change. Shelly combines her corporate skills with mindfulness principles to drive social justice and support communities affected by trauma. Her dedication to radical self-care and community building has made her a leading figure in the mindfulness movement. In the conversation, Shelly and JCF's Tyler Lapkin explore Shelly’s inspiring journey, her transformative work, and the power of storytelling for a more compassionate world. Listen Here This Week's Highlights “Art is a message to you of your own being. ” -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning An Experience of Being Alive (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

“In the West, you have the liberty and the obligation of finding out what your destiny is. You can discover it for yourself. But do you? … A very common experience is a student who has all kinds of possibilities and talents and essentially limitless money and becomes nothing more than a dilettante. ” [my italics] (Joseph Campbell, Pathways to Bliss ) “Lord Ronald said nothing; he flung himself from the room, flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions.” (Stephen Leacock, Nonsense Novels) We can avoid landing on the path to our authentic selves in any number of obvious ways (e.g. denial, laziness, fear), but Campbell raises a more insidious and subtle trap–becoming dilettantes in our own lives. We have to be careful about definitions here. Being a dilettante isn’t the same thing as wandering aimlessly. Wandering aimlessly is one of the best ways to find your path, like Parsifal letting go the reins of his horse. That kind of wandering is central to Daoist thought and appears in western symbolism, for example, as The Fool from the Tarot. That’s not what we’re talking about. Campbell is directing our attention to a cunning kind of threshold guardian that keeps one from wandering–and from an authentic life–by rewarding the urge to ride “madly off in all directions.” History offers a buffet of scholarship regarding the search for an authentic life–the life you author as your own–especially in the work of Søren Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism. Campbell’s description of “the dilettante” is a perfect gloss on what Kierkegaard called a “knight of infinite resignation,” from what is probably one of the most dangerous books ever written, Fear and Trembling .* In ways familiar to any reader of Campbell, Kierkegaard imagines a taxonomy of stages through which any human must pass on the journey from merely accepting a moral compass provided by family and society, to questioning it and then, finally, seeking out and embracing the truth about our lives. He describes these stages as “resignation,” “infinite resignation,” and “faith.” Monomythically speaking, these might be translated as “ignoring the call,” “dithering endlessly about the call,” and finally “accepting the call and everything it implies.” * This is a book that has turned hardened atheists into Christians and evangelical Christians into atheists. Resignation You’ve probably noticed that, everywhere you look, people are ready to resign themselves to lives determined by others: by parental pressure (“You’re going to be a doctor!”), economic realities (“I needed this job just to survive”), or by the temptations of money and power (“Wow, you can make a lot of money in corporate law and military contracts!”). With sufficient financial reward, resigning yourself to a fate assigned by others can be sweet. You might need spiritual insulin later, but it can be delicious and satisfying in the short run. But it’s still not your life. You’d still be living inauthentically. Let’s say you see through this circumstance and recognize the hollowness of the life you’ve accepted. What do you do then? You go looking for alternatives, which begins to sketch the predicament (and trap) faced by the Dilettante. Here’s Kierkegaard’s analysis. Infinite Resignation Infinite resignation is that moment when we realize we have more options about who or what we can be, beyond what society has planned for us. The moment can be exhilarating: a seemingly infinite number of alternatives, each more beautiful than the last, ablaze before us in a whirlwind of sparkling possibilities. Wow. But now there’s a problem: how do you choose? When you have a million options, choosing one can feel impossible. Overwhelmed, we can either retreat, fall back to our preexisting, hollow and unsatisfying lives or–and here comes the Dilettante–we can resign ourselves to this infinity of choices by searching, not for our authentic lives, but for even more options, endlessly collecting pretty shells from along the water margins of our fate. In the language of the Hero’s Journey, this is not only a failure to answer the call, but a clever way of avoiding it altogether. In the language of the Hero’s Journey, this is not only a failure to answer the call, but a clever way of avoiding it altogether. Kierkegaard says that those who live their lives floating in the shimmering dust devil of infinite alternatives, what he calls “knights of infinite resignation,” look like beautiful dancers, suspended in mid-air. Look at ‘em up there. They’re cool. They can do “whatever they want” because all their options are ever present. But –and now the other shoe falls– because they can do anything at all, they never do anything at all. They never land. Never landing spares them the initiations–and the anxiety!–required for a fully authentic life. Following your true path is not always sweetness and light. Campbell notes, quite rightly, that “being a shaman is no fun,” for instance, but avoiding that call is worse. Campbell writes: “... those who choose to refuse the call don’t have a life. Either they die, or, in trying to lead more mundane lives, they exist as nonentities, what T. S. Eliot called ‘hollow men’” ( Pathways , 113). And that’s the downside: the inevitable crash landing. They have to come down eventually and the ground, metaphorically speaking, is unfamiliar territory. They’ve spent a lifetime avoiding the consequences of landing on a specific career, or life-partner or, well, a life–and landing makes clear what they’ve lost. What’s most interesting (or alarming) here is that this life of never landing seems preferable to a fully-lived and authentic existence. If you’ll pardon a terrible but wonderful pun, Peter Pan remained in Never Land because growing up posed the threat of a responsible, adult, authentic relationship with Wendy. The temptation to cling to life as a candy store of choices, of Neverland -ing, is the most devious kind of threshold guardian yet. So, what is to be done? How do we navigate beyond this kind of charming threshold guardian? Kierkegaard’s answer is a subtle take on the notion of faith. Faith For Kierkegaard, the solution to infinite resignation is not to fall back into the roles assigned to us by social convention, but to go forward into what he calls “faith”–something that requires a leap rather than a deliberative choice. We’d need a few hours and a glass of wine to unpack everything Kierkegaard has to say about faith, but consider the difference between people who 1) make deliberate and careful choices about the life they want, and 2) those who “find their calling.” Navigating life guided solely by reasonable choices seems always to be missing something–something deeper. This is especially true when those choices are conditioned by money or fame or status, rather than by the calling of those chthonic, subterranean tides tugging at the tectonic undercurrents of our lives. Failure to listen to them eventually produces earthquakes in our expectations, and we land with a thump. Faith, by contrast, requires embracing the paradox of moving beyond the Dilettante’s wasteland of infinite choices into a zone of exhilarating (and sometimes terrifying) anxiety–what Campbell would characterize as being Master of The Two Worlds: a recognition that finding our path means going where there is no path. Never landing lands us in Neverland . But if we accept the paradox of landing on our Path and engaging the burdens of the quest, the reward is a life we ourselves author–and the Grail of authentic existence. Thanks for musing along. MythBlast authored by: Mark C.E. Peterson, Ph.D. is Emeritus Professor of Philosophy and Religious Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Washington County and past president of the International Society for the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture ( ISSRNC.org ). Philosopher, gadfly, poet, cook, writing along the watermargins of nature, myth, and culture. A practitioner of taijiquan and kundalini yoga for over 40 years, Dr. Peterson is also a happy member of the Ukulele World Congress. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 2, and Pathways to Bliss Latest Podcast In this bonus episode, Campbell discusses his "favorite definition of mythology". He also speaks to the four functions of myth, how a moral order relates to mythology, and finally retells the myth of the tiger and the goat. There is no information as to where or when it was recorded. Listen Here This Week's Highlights “What if you want to gain some idea of what your myth is while you are living it? Well, another way to try to discern your destiny—your myth—would be to follow Jung’s example: observe your dreams, observe your conscious choices, keep a journal, and see which images and stories surface and resurface. Look at stories and symbols and see which ones resonate.” -- Joseph Campbell Pathways to Bliss , 112 The Four Functions of Mythology (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

I'm a dilettante. My governing word is “curiosity.” - Ian Hacking Let me begin by saying that I enthusiastically embrace my status as a dilettante; my doctoral dissertation was on the virtues of frivolity as a way into imagination, pulling from Kant’s work on the “purposefulness of purposelessness.” Often, when I am seeking inspiration for an article or a talk, I’ll go on a meandering quest to find an unexpected spark of wonder or rebellion, from etymological gleanings or a fortuitous quote. A Philosophical Paradox This quote from philosopher Ian Hacking did the trick. Hacking was a prodigious and vastly curious thinker, in the arguably most dilettante field in the world: philosophy), whose thinking spanned science, math, phenomena, probability, metaphysics, and human nature, and more. He has inspired and goaded scholars in a wide range of fields to shake out un-regarded assumptions about their thought constructs. He was also a nominalist, which might simply be defined as the notion that the world is made exclusively from particulars and any universals are of our own making. As a mythologist, I find the idea of a curious dilettante philosopher who dives into the world of metaphysics and challenges ideas about what does and doesn’t actually exist really tempting. For me, the most enduring definition of myth comes from Sallustius, in his treatise on fourth-century Hellenic paganism, On the Gods and the Cosmos : "Myth is what never was but always is" and “Now these things never happened, but always are.” In this definition, myth becomes that which is simultaneously least and most true, sitting in the duality of what is real and what is not, and combined with the energy of metaphor–to transfer–finding insights and meaning in the abstract connections between ideas. For me, this is the heart of the logos that sits within mythos and is its greatest strength. On A Razor and an Ass However, building on the work of medieval philosopher and theologian William of Ockham (1288-1348) and philosopher Jean Buridan (1300-1358), various forms of nominalism challenge the ideas of universals and abstract objects. Ockham, of course, remains in modern awareness through his Razor, which pop culture has translated as “the simplest explanation is usually the best one.” A more nuanced version of the idea that is bandied about in philosophical circles, though also not in precisely Ockham’s words, is Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem , which translates as "Entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity." Much of the work in mythology, particularly when perceived through lenses such as those shaped by C.G. Jung and his work on the collective unconscious, as well as Joseph Campbell’s instinct as a literature scholar to look for larger patterns, multiply entities with ruthless enthusiasm. However, I believe that the cold light of questioning those multiplicities that the nominalists encourage is a viable discipline. In a field that can get rather repulsively precious about its broad embrace of the meta, a dash of the empiric can be precise and demanding. As I think about this, I feel the tug of the concrete. It holds its own allures. I find myself frozen between the binaries, wondering which might bring clearer understanding. I find myself frozen between the binaries, wondering which might bring clearer understanding. Like Ockham, Buridan has also stayed with us, not in a razor’s edge, but in the conundrum of an ass, faced by two equally delectable piles of hay. This image emerged long before Buridan’s work, but it was re-energized in a satirical reduction of his work on empiricism, determinism and free will. From a particularly irreverent portion of my dissertation; a dictionary of words both frivolous and frivolously defined: Buridan’s Ass Starve with reason Flourish without Sometimes to act Is better than doubt Melander, The Pointless Revolution: Frivolity and The Serious Business Of Subversive Creativity. 2005. Unpublished. Towards Curiosity and Wonder I think that Ian Hacking would challenge the idea that these must be binary. He characterized himself as a transcendental nominalist, which in itself is a delicious bit on non-binary ontology. Philosopher Peter Kügler illuminates how this actually connects into the logic of the non-empirical, in an article on ontological relativism and transcendental nominalism, stating: Transcendental nominalism construes the pre-conceptual as an experience of individuals. Following a suggestion by Dominik Perler, we may understand this experience, which medieval nominalists called “sensory intuitive cognition”, as encoding information about individuals in analog form … Conceptual schemes classify individuals, particularly objects of experience. They do not structure an unstructured something, nor do they “carve nature at the joints.” (269-278) And from Ian Hacking himself, in his obituary in the New York Times: Even in retirement, Professor Hacking maintained his trademark sense of wonder. In a 2009 interview with the Canadian newspaper The Globe and Mail, conducted in the garden of his Toronto home, he pointed to a wasp buzzing near a rose, which he said reminded him of the physics principle of nonlocality—the direct influence of one object on another distant object—which was the subject of a talk he had recently heard by the physicist Nicolas Gisin. Professor Hacking wondered aloud, the interviewer noted, if the whole universe was governed by nonlocality—if “everything in the universe is aware of everything else.” “That’s what you should be writing about,” he said. “Not me. I’m a dilettante. My governing word is ‘curiosity.’” In the spirit of the dilettante (and the ass, of course), I wonder if the answer is to toss all of the hay up into the air and eat with relish. Perhaps the methodology is less important than the question itself. Be curious. And eat. MythBlast authored by: Leigh Melander, Ph.D . has an eclectic background in the arts and organizational development, working with inviduals and organizations in the US and internationally for over 20 years. She has a doctorate in cultural mythology and psychology and wrote her dissertation on frivolity as an entry into the world of imagination. Her writings on mythology and imagination can be seen in a variety of publications, and she has appeared on the History Channel, as a mythology expert. She also hosts a radio who on an NPR community affiliate: Myth America, an exploration into how myth shapes our sense of identity. Leigh and her husband opened Spillian, an historic lodge and retreat center celebrating imagination in the Catskills, and works with clients on creative projects. She is honored to have previously served as the Vice President of the Joseph Campbell Foundation Board of Directors. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 2, and Pathways to Bliss Latest Podcast In this episode of The Podcast with a Thousand Faces , we welcome the incredible Shelly Tygielski . Shelly is a mindfulness teacher, community organizer, producer, philanthropist, author, activist, public speaker, and former corporate executive. At the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, Shelly founded Pandemic of Love, a grassroots mutual aid movement that has connected millions of people worldwide and facilitated $200 million in direct donations. She is the author of two books, “Sit Down To Rise Up: How Radical Self-Care Can Change the World” and “How We Ended Racism: Realizing a New Possibility in One Generation,” co-authored by Justin Michael Williams which debuted as a #1 Amazon bestseller in October 2023. In 2022, Shelly co-founded Partners in Kind, a production company that aims to highlight important issues through powerful storytelling to inspire social change. Shelly combines her corporate skills with mindfulness principles to drive social justice and support communities affected by trauma. Her dedication to radical self-care and community building has made her a leading figure in the mindfulness movement. In the conversation, Shelly and JCF's Tyler Lapkin explore Shelly’s inspiring journey, her transformative work, and the power of storytelling for a more compassionate world. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Then there is the problem of what’s known as the generalist against the specialist. Just as in medicine, sometimes it’s better to go to a generalist than to a specialist—depends on what your problem is. A specialist can come up and say, in all seriousness, “The people in the Congo have five fingers on their right hand.” If I say, “Well, the people in Alaska have five fingers on their right hand,” I’m called a generalist. And if I say that the people in the caves in 30,000 B.C. had five fingers on their right hand, I’m a mystic!" -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning 237-238 Jung, the Self and Myth (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter