Action figure of Anakin Skywalker. Photo by Eric Mesa, 2014. CC. After a lengthy journey full of hardship and struggle, the final threshold has at last been crossed. The dragon’s been slain, the maiden rescued, the treasure recovered, and the kingdom restored. As our Hero takes a victory lap, credits roll and the Happily-Ever-Aftering begins. CAVEAT: Individual user experience may vary . There’s a natural tendency to assume the hero’s journey story arc, as it plays out in myth, fairy tale, film—and even in our own lives—always arrives at a happy ending. Though we rarely see what happens to heroes after their story ends, the default setting imagines they remain ennobled and heroic, dispensing good deeds all the rest of their days. Alas, “once a hero, always the hero” is, at best, wishful thinking. The Star Wars saga comes to mind, especially given George Lucas’ acknowledgment of Joseph Campbell’s influence. In the original film trilogy (released between 1977 and 1983), the experience of young Luke Skywalker closely mirrors the trajectory of the hero’s journey. The concluding trilogy in the series (released from 2015 to 2019) returns to the same universe decades later, where we are introduced to new characters, catch up with old friends, and learn of yet another threat from “the Dark Side.” Luke has long since disappeared, off to parts unknown, and much of the urgency of the first film of the final trilogy ( The Force Awakens) is focused on the need to find Skywalker so he can lead the battle against this new evil. In December, 2017, The Last Jedi —the second film in this end trilogy—arrived in theaters. In its opening moments Rey, a young girl with a natural ability in the Force who served as the central figure of the previous film, has tracked Luke to a remote planet. As she approaches, Rey holds out Luke’s old lightsaber as an invitation back to the fray. The Jedi Master casually tosses the lightsaber over his shoulder in what seems a classic “Refusal of the Call,” and the audience settles in for a rollicking adventure following the old formula, ready for Luke to relive his glory days. Turns out, that’s not where the movie goes. Rather than simply rehash what’s been done before, the story breaks open, introducing new themes, exploring the tension between polarities (not just good/evil, but also attraction/repulsion, uniformity/diversity, and more), and passing the torch (or lightsaber?) from one generation to the next.   Star Wars fandom erupted. Even though this episode received critical acclaim as the first film in the franchise since The Empire Strikes Back (1980) with something new to say, many fans were disappointed.  The gripe that seemed to generate the most heat centered around the realization that Luke Skywalker is not the hero of this trilogy, but rather a curmudgeonly mentor to the young female protagonist. Despite the fact that several decades have elapsed in that galaxy “far far away” and a new generation has stepped up to the plate, many had trouble letting go the idea of the aging Jedi Master as the once and future hero. At least Luke goes out on a high note. Heroes do not always end well after their story is told. Joseph Campbell tells of a darker turn that can occur. Campbell represents the primary task of the archetypal hero as that of facing a monster: The figure of the tyrant-monster is known to the mythologies, folk traditions, legends, and even nightmares of the world; and his characteristics are everywhere essentially the same. He is the hoarder of the general benefit. He is the monster avid for the greedy rights of “my and mine.” The havoc wrought by him is described in mythology and fairy tale as being universal throughout his domain. This may be no more than his household, his own tortured psyche, or the lives that he blights with the touch of his friendship and assistance; or it may amount to the extent of his civilization. The inflated ego of the tyrant is a curse to himself and his world — no matter how his affairs may seem to prosper. Self-terrorized, fear-haunted, alert at every hand to meet and battle back the anticipated aggressions of his environment, which are primarily the reflections of the uncontrollable impulses to acquisition within himself, the giant of self-achieved independence is the world’s messenger of disaster, even though, in his mind, he may entertain himself with humane intentions. The Hero with a Thousand Faces (11) Throughout his opus, Campbell often refers to this figure as “the tyrant Holdfast”: For the mythological hero is the champion not of things become but of things becoming; the dragon to be slain by him is precisely the monster of the status quo: Holdfast, the keeper of the past. From obscurity the hero emerges, but the enemy is great and conspicuous in the seat of power; he is enemy, dragon, tyrant, because he turns to his own advantage the authority of his position. He is Holdfast not because he keeps the past but because he keeps. (289)  Often, in myth and fairy tale, the hero who overthrows the tyrant Holdfast succeeds to the throne and restores the land—hence the Happily-Ever-Aftering— but Campbell warns of a danger that can follow, where the hero “becomes the tyrant ogre (Herod-Nimrod), the usurper from whom the world is now to be saved” (299). We can find echoes of this theme throughout mythic lore. As one example, in Le Morte d’Arthur , Merlin warns King Arthur of the birth of a child destined to be his downfall (Mordred, nephew of Arthur, in some tales conceived of incest between Arthur and his half-sister). To avert this catastrophe, Arthur orders children born on May Day to be sent out to sea where all perish save Mordred, who miraculously survives. Arthur’s selfish deed spawns dire and dramatic consequences decades later. Similarly David, the hero-king of ancient Israel (who slew the giant Goliath when just a shepherd lad), seduces and impregnates the beautiful Bathsheba, then uses his royal office to arrange the death of his lover’s husband to conceal his own adultery. The hero of yesterday becomes the tyrant of tomorrow, unless he crucifies himself today. (303) (Campbell offers valuable clues as to how to do exactly that—crucify oneself—which often involves letting go and yielding to the creative moment, in Creative Mythology , one of JCF’s featured works this month). The metaphor of the Hero’s Journey can serve as an invaluable tool for re-imagining and mythologizing one’s life—but there are times it can also be a bit of a straitjacket. As Abraham Maslow says in The Psychology of Science: A Renaissance , "If the only tool you have is a hammer, it is tempting to treat everything as if it were a nail." There are times when I am called not to be the hero, but a mentor—and other times when my role is, at best, that of mere bystander, witness to what’s unfolding. And when I identify only and always with The Hero, regardless of circumstance, that’s when my inner Tyrant Holdfast is most likely to emerge.  What I have learned over time is that the Hero’s Journey isn’t always all about me (a lesson that bears repeating): “Once a hero, always the hero,” no more.

The Child and the Mandalorian (Pedro Pascal) in Lucasfilm's THE MANDALORIAN, exclusively on Disney+. ©2020 Lucasfilm Limited &™. All Rights Reserved. Modern technology has given us more ways than ever before to discover the stories, the rituals, and the characters that make up our mythologies. The technology of the written word vastly changed the ways that myths were passed from one generation to the next, thus transforming the myths themselves. Anyone engaged in regularly streaming the latest binge-worthy television series or playing popular video games will quickly find themselves face-to-face with modern mythological expressions and explicit mythic narratives from our ancient past.  It is thought-provoking to see how, over the course of history, mythology has slowly developed into a domain favored largely by children. The same evolution can be seen with fairy tales. Perhaps it’s the deceivingly simple “face” of so many myths that cause them to be offered for the still-maturing. Of course, we recognize that what we initially encounter with myths is no face at all, but a mask. As Joseph Campbell suggested, behind these masks are the most transcendent, mysterious, and divine ideas that humankind has fathomed. While a rich exposure to myth in one’s childhood offers a base for the later exploration of nuance in a world filled with complexities and psychological mysteries, Campbell also offered a stern warning about allowing these myths to only become playthings for children. In the first volume of his Masks of God series, Primitive Mythology , he states:  Clearly, mythology is no toy for children. Nor is it a matter of archaic, merely scholarly concern, of no moment to modern men of action. For its symbols (whether in the tangible form of images or in the abstract form of ideas) touch and release the deepest centers of motivation, moving literate and illiterate alike, moving mobs, moving civilizations. (Primitive Mythology, p. 27) Modern mythology-heavy media, such as Disney+’s The Mandalorian (a series born from the Star Wars universe), have gained popularity with adults and children alike. Superhero films of the past decade have shared the same wide audiences, appealing to moviegoers from the ages of nine to ninety. The Mandalorian , however, has managed to draw viewers into a more complex vision of the mythological, not only relying on the hero and his journey, but casting a web of archetypes that play together in a mythic symphony. Perhaps the mythological nature of the show, and its success, should not be surprising as its creator John Favreau has spoken at length about the influence of Campbell on his work and particularly on this show. For those unfamiliar with the series, it takes place five years after Episode VI in the Star Wars saga, Return of the Jedi. The narrative centers around a devout warrior and bounty hunter named Din Djarin that follows a mystic tradition. This Mandalorian is hired by dark forces to retrieve a seemingly orphaned child, named Grogu. After finding him, our hero goes on the run to protect the child from the forces that initially hired him and return the child instead to those who recognize his true lineage. Even in this brief description, the narrative drips with mythic motifs.  In the conclusion of the second season, a character is introduced from the origins of Star Wars . This creative decision has caused its own wars among devotees to the show, many of whom feel it should continue to move within its own path and avoid what some see as unnecessary emotional returns to its deepest roots. This phenomenon is interesting as it occurs in many different and diverse expressions of the human experience. Returning to one’s origins can sometimes be traumatic, producing pain or conflict which one would rather avoid. Entire segments of our mental healthcare system are devoted to recovering from the wounds experienced in our origin stories. Origins, and the stories that encompass them, are beloved by many, and despised by so many others. Salvation and damnation are often both found in our initiatory practices and in our mythologies. The repercussions can be severe for us; as Campbell insinuated, our myths can be dangerous. They can move mobs and civilizations. They can wound the guilty and the innocent. However, it would be unreasonable to believe that they can only be guarded by elites in the ivory towers of academia — an area in which I often work. Campbell’s warning above also addresses the dangers of fencing off myth into the courtyards of universities and libraries, rendering it toothless and irrelevant. Seeing the mythic consequences of The Mandalorian debated on Twitter and Reddit might seem like a bad idea to some — a waste of time and technology. However, it is worth noting that this might just be evidence of myth being taken seriously by a mass culture that may have no other avenue into deeper discussions of the mythological. Pop culture powerhouses like Disney are easy to dismiss and criticize for their historic sanitization of fairy tales and reductive approach to myth. However, they also provide a gateway into deeper explorations of the mythic for those just beginning to look at their own origin stories, regardless of education or age.

Myth is a holy ghost, moving effortlessly through boundaries while making sacred appearances that sometimes seem to come out of nowhere. It moves as a zeitgeist that has always resisted being confined to a single expression. It defies linear history, geographic borders, and profane attempts to capture and confine it. For some, it primarily manifested in oral tales; for others, it appeared in written words; and still, for others, it has been revealed through images and symbols. In Creative Mythology , the final volume of his Masks of God series, Joseph Campbell explores images and symbols, stating, “Mythological symbols touch and exhilarate centers of life beyond the reach of vocabularies or reason and coercion” (6). It's perhaps no wonder that images and symbols are carried into our eyes on something as delicate as light itself. Campbell continues discussing this fragile relationship between symbols and light, saying, “The light-world modes of experience and thought were late, very late, developments in the biological prehistory of our species. Even in the life-course of the individual, the opening of the eyes to light occurs only after all the main miracles have been accomplished of the building of a living body of already functioning organs, each with its inherent aim … though our eyes and what they witness may persuade us ...” Hearing Campbell speak of light passing through the opening of the eyes and persuading our beliefs, I cannot help but think of how this also occurs in cinema. Dream palaces and cathedrals The moving images of myth have always struck me in ways that I haven’t always had language to describe. As a young boy, I was mesmerized by Star Wars, though not just by the spaceships and the Wookies. They transported me into a world much larger than the Texas landscape I grew up in. Entering that dark room, sitting with strangers, eating popcorn, and drinking soda felt magical, transcendent, and almost ritualistic. I wasn’t just transported into a different time in a galaxy far, far away. I was transported into something that felt beyond the experiences of reality and consciousness I had previously known. Now, years later, I have come to recognize the similarities between theaters, temples, and cathedrals. All involve the coming together of the community to participate in spoken and unspoken rituals. The experience in the theater was not unlike my experience each Sunday at church. The bread and the wine were reflected in the soda and the popcorn, echoing the ancient practice of buying ritual corn before entering the temple. The movie theaters of the 1940s explicitly recognized the mythic connection, often referring to their venues as “Dream Palaces,” referencing the fact that both dreams and movies take place in the dark and often outside the conscious experience. Campbell famously described the dream as a personalized myth and the myth as the depersonalized dream (The Hero with a Thousand Faces, pg. 19). The 6200-seat Roxy Theater in New York City claimed to be “the cathedral of the motion picture” and offered what was akin to a religious experience for many attendees—an ecstatic event that inspired awe. That ecstasy came from the movies themselves and the surroundings in which they were presented—the cinema. Since its inception, the cinematic experience has been recognized as a container for something larger than itself. The art form of cinema is a container for the archetypes of ancient myth. Cinematic sacred spaces The movie theater remains a place where we go to enter another world. It was (and maybe still is) one of the only places you could go and sit in total darkness with strangers, experiencing something together. It was (and maybe still is) one of the only places where it was okay to cry in public. These factors, and dozens of others, made movie theaters special and even sacred for some. As a culture, we went to experience something we couldn’t experience by ourselves at home. When society began watching movies in their homes and then on their phones, noticeable confusion set in about that type of space the movie theater was. It became ordinary, less special, and no longer sacred, and in turn, people started behaving as if it was not a special place anymore—a reality that has kept many away from theaters in recent times. But I would suggest that for those with eyes to see it, cinema still holds all the power it ever did, even though we as a culture have slowly stopped recognizing it in its fullness. Throughout its brief history, cinema has played a crucial role in identity formation for many and helped others negotiate significant changes in their identity. Films have reflected who we believed we were at the time of their creation and traced our transformation from one “world” to another. For these reasons and so many more, we have decided, here at the Joseph Campbell Foundation, to theme our 2025 MythBlast series around an invitation to experience the power of myth at the movies. We believe that in this age of screens, great value can be found in allowing those screens to act as mirrors, reflecting who we are and who we could be. We believe those reflections can lead us toward deeper insights into some of the most profound mythic questions that can be asked—what it means to be human, who we truly are, how we can experience life fully—and countless others. Over the coming months, writers and thinkers in this series will explore stories, characters, archetypes, and motifs of the screen that have made an impact on them individually or on us collectively. We hope that by better understanding mythic ideas through the lens of cinema, unforeseen understandings about our journeys might also be revealed to us all. So, we invite you to sit back, get comfortable, grab your popcorn, and experience the power of myth at the movies with us in 2025. MythBlast authored by: John Bucher is a renowned mythologist and story expert who has been featured on the BBC , the History Channel , the LA Times , The Hollywood Reporter and on numerous other international outlets . He serves as Executive Director for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and is a writer, podcaster, storyteller, and speaker. He has worked with government and cultural leaders around the world as well as organizations such as HBO, DC Comics, Paramount Pictures, Nickelodeon, A24 Films, Atlas Obscura, and The John Maxwell Leadership Foundation, bringing his deep understanding of narrative and myth to a wide array of audiences. He is the author of six influential books on storytelling, including the best-selling Storytelling for Virtual Reality, named by BookAuthority as one of the best storytelling books of all time. John has worked with New York Times Best Selling authors, YouTube influencers, Eisner winners, Emmy winners, Academy Award nominees, magicians, and cast members from Saturday Night Live . Holding a PhD in Mythology & Depth Psychology, he integrates scholarly insights with practical storytelling techniques, exploring the profound connections between myth, culture, and personal identity. His expertise has helped shape compelling narratives across various platforms, enriching the way stories are told and experienced globally. This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Fool . Latest Podcast This episode of Pathways with Joseph Campbell, titled " The Harmony and Discord of Religions ," was recorded at Brandeis University in 1958. At the time, Joseph Campbell was 54 years old and nearing the completion of Primitive Mythology, the first volume of his Masks of God series. In this lecture, Campbell offers an affirmative defense of comparative methodologies, exploring both the commonalities and differences among the world’s religious traditions. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "I think that the movie is the perfect medium for mythological messages. The medium is so plastic and pliable and magic things can happen. And then the combination, you know, of fantastic landscape and possible modes of action and voyaging that we can hardly conceive of in good solid terms ... That’s a mythological realm, and movies could handle this kind of thing." -- Joseph Campbell The Wisdom of Joseph Campbell (© 1997 New Dimensions Foundation)  Tape 3, Side 1 The Hero with a Thousand Faces (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Death Valley by Pedro Szekely Death: the good version and the bad version As I love telling my fellow associates and colluders in myth: “If death’s not your favorite part of this stuff, then you’re just not studying hard enough.” Granted, my zealous ultimatums have been known to prompt concern—especially from the more literal-minded—who then take steps to deescalate my passion through masterfully rendered rebuttals cloaked in neutral tones like: “I don’t think so” or “Maybe you should sit down for a minute?” or “Here, have some of this non-caffeinated herbal tea.” I gladly comply because I see the unconscious affirmation concealed in their reactions. They are all reducible to notions of death and underworldly directions whether through a nonplussed disagreement intentionally engineered to have as little to do with the matter (cf., the realm of the living) as possible, or through a striving toward calmness, stillness—an out, so to speak, from the heated blood of life for which the shades of Hades so yearn in the  Odyssey . Oh, the irony. For once one gets past its literal face, there’s something about how the content of and around death deepens downward (and concurrently grows upward) the more one looks at it, watches it, reflects on it—something about its fertile richness, its dark mystery that is so present and necessary to the fullness of psyche. Technically the full topic is “death and renewal,” but as far as mythology’s concerned, renewal is the inseparable complement and completion to death.  More pressing for the moment, however, is all this glib talk, my light tossing around of such a heavy term. Precisely what makes “death” so amenable and easy on my tongue is simply the notion that I am talking here about  metaphorical  death, which means I am encountering the concept  of death through the innumerable attributes and entailments of whichever sources are fitting comparisons (e.g., sunsets, waning moons, winter, sleep, etc.). Let that foundational fact sink in, please. For surely there is that other death, literal  death—the kind we read about in headlines, and that we all have witnessed one way or another, and been touched by. I mean the kind of death that we have crumbled before on those ruinous occasions when it came and took everything and left in its wake not a thing but the poignantly tangible absence of what once was present and dear and warm and suddenly, irrevocably gone. I will not presume to investigate this literal version—a separate thing altogether—before which I cover my mouth, lower my head, and am silent. Coming to life through metaphor Meanwhile, back to the metaphor, which presents a very different perspective and which renders a depth of experience by providing contexts of association through relationships in place of denotative definitions. Before proceeding, let’s do a quick refresh on metaphor so we can sate the logos (our trusty and necessary threshold guardian) and get on with the mythos… Simply put, a metaphor works by making a comparison between two things (and a “thing” can be an image, an action, or a concept), in which attributes are borrowed from one thing (the source ) and applied to another thing (the target ). On a deeper level, however, attributes are not borrowed from only the source itself, but from the “domain” of that source—meaning, from that source’s whole environment . This includes all the other phenomena that inhabit that same environment and  all the relationships that the source has with those other phenomena!  This very complex network of relationships ( entailments ) within a particular source-domain is then mapped onto the equally complex domain of a target. Thus metaphor is not just a comparison of one thing to another thing, but a comparison of the innumerable relationships within one thing’s “life” (to employ a type of metaphor called “personification”) to the equally innumerable relationships within another thing’s life. In short, metaphor puts relationships into relationship with each other. Whew, that was hard work. But don’t worry, there’s more…  As an example, one can say that a sunset is a metaphor for death—or even an archetype  for death, as it is seen, for example, as marking the beginning of the sun god’s journey through the “twelve hours” of the Ancient Egyptian underworld. For our purposes here, archetypes are simply metaphors that are universal, metaphors that register across cultures. As Jung reminds us, “An archetype expresses itself, first and foremost, in metaphors” ( The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious , 157). Whether we call it metaphor or archetype, the many entailments that accompany a sunset can easily be applied to the concept of death: a sunset is a transitioning event that eventually ends; a sunset sinks down into a horizon and disappears; a sunset is a thing of warmth that becomes cold, a thing of light that becomes dark. And speaking of entailments within domains, “light” is a subcategory of the broader category of sunsets. Within this subcategory, light is (independently) a metaphor for “consciousness” and for “being alive.”  Perpetual depth in metaphor  If I may take things one step further, let me suggest that metaphors are not the one-way journeys of entailments from a source to a target. Rather, metaphors are simultaneously the reciprocal journeys of entailments from the target back to the source. Why is this important? Because it emphasizes a chief concern of individuated consciousness: Relationship —or, worded differently: “interaction with the cosmos that an individuated consciousness finds itself in.” Moreover this concurrent reciprocity imagines a dialogue  between source and target. Unlike the monologues of literal fact that simply put a bow on the matter and end it, dialogues iterate. They actually “go” somewhere—as in two feet working in tandem, striding, the one and then the other, carrying the attention of the witness (i.e., us) deeper and deeper into the ever-unfolding terrain of their perpetual interaction.  And this, like all things associative and connotative, renders experience to the witness because the attributes and entailments (which, metaphorically speaking, are the contents of the conversation that the source and target pass back and forth to each other) are never captured .  Rather, their perpetual dialogue summons responses and associations from the witness, and so the metaphor is encountered and experienced as living, as protean. In the field of life, everything is relative, encountered and experienced through comparison. The path of the living metaphor simply goes on and on, deeper and deeper towards  transcendence and (I like to think) backlit by the pure energy of being that inexplicably emits from transcendence. The only thing that can stop this emittance and perpetual deepening is literal thinking which shifts the perspective from relationships to isolation, from connotative to denotative. And denotation is an experiential dead-end—it is an intellectual solution  that stops shy of transcendence. Sure, the connotation never reaches transcendence, either. But unlike the denotation, it does not shut it out completely. Metaphors cease to be metaphors when they become denotative, when the dialogue ends, when the associations borne by comparison become facts, when figurative thinking becomes literal, when “raining cats and dogs” summons naught but the concept of heavy rain (and leaves neither the images nor the ideas of lovely pets anywhere in mind). Fittingly, these are called dead metaphors, more popularly known as clichés: dead bodies or husks of words over which we might as well throw some dirt, some flowers, mumble something or other, and go back to our cars. Maybe a real metaphor will sprout in the spring. With all that in mind, let’s take a moment to appreciate Joseph Campbell’s “new” definition of myth: “My definition of myth now is: a metaphor transparent to transcendence … Mythology opens the world so that it becomes transparent to something that is beyond speech, beyond words, in short, to what we call transcendence. If the metaphor closes in on itself [i.e., becomes literal] then it has closed the transcendence; it's no longer mythological. It's distortion” ( The Hero’s Journey , 40). And so, a death-and-renewal metaphor that can be applied as an effective approach to metaphor: When we die to the confining urge of literalism, we are renewed in the living spaciousness of metaphor and myth. When we die to the confining urge of literalism, we are renewed in the living spaciousness of metaphor and myth. A bird and a stream Here is something that happened to me a few days ago while I was writing this essay in the mountains. I could call it a small myth about death and renewal. I will not explicate, I will not kill the metaphor or the myth. Instead, I leave you to your associations, the only way they can be: Living and as they are. Hopefully all that metaphor-math above has groomed the trail for frictionless passage to that special kind of experience that Campbell spoke of—the kind that has a little transcendence coming through. Anyway, I was walking through 10 degrees Fahrenheit along a ploughed path beside a stream cutting through several feet of snow, edged on both shores by sheets of ice protruding like shelves over the busy water. And then there was this bird, a songbird, about the size of a baseball standing on the far sheet looking into the black glassy current. To my horror the lovely creature just hopped into the water and disappeared. Moments later it reappeared, emerging out of the icy water. A flurry of wings, and it was back on its ice sheet. Then back into the water again, and I mean underwater . This went on for some time and I thought, “Well this is fitting content for my essay: a death-and-renewal metaphor wrought not of words nor of concepts, but of ice and feathers, sunlight and snow.” It was my first encounter with the American dipper. Obviously, my new favorite bird. MythBlast authored by: Craig Deininger  has been writing for the JCF Mythblast series since 2018. He has taught at 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 counterbalanced his studies with manual work in fields like big ag farming, landscaping, commercial fishing, trail-building, framing houses and so on. He is grateful to have somehow made it to later life after too many outdoor misadventures in backpacking, rock climbing, hiking and, especially, trying to get too close to wildlife that doesn’t want to be gotten-too-close-to. 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 Patrick Slattery and published by Mandorla Books. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 6, and The Hero's Journey Latest Podcast In this episode, recorded in 1974, Joseph Campbell explores the relationship between humans and their gods. The lecture was given just two years after Campbell's retirement from Sarah Lawrence College and five years after the publication of the final volume in his Masks of God series. Host Bradley Olson introduces the lecture and provides commentary at the conclusion. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Life is but a mask worn on the face of death. And is death, then, but another mask? "How many can say,' asks the Aztec poet, 'that there is, or is not, a truth beyond?" -- Joseph Campbell The Mythic Image , 160 The Eternal Principle (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

The human mythic imagination Bill Moyers: What do you think our souls owe to ancient myths? Joseph Campbell: Well, the ancient myths were designed to put the mind, the mental system, into accord with this body system, with this inheritance. Bill Moyers: A harmony? Joseph Campbell: To harmonize. The mind can ramble off in strange ways and want things that the body does not want. And the myths and rites were a means to put the mind in accord with the body, and the way of life in accord with the way that nature dictates. Bill Moyers: So in a way these old stories live in us. Joseph Campbell: They do, indeed… (5:08-5:53) In this episode of the Power of Myth , Campbell speaks of the mythic imagination that arose from human interaction with animals as hunters. He points to the Lascaux caves exquisite paintings as a “burst of magnificent art and all the evidence you need of a mythic imagination in full career” ( 28:00-28:10 ). At an estimated 30,000 years old, the Lascaux cave paintings in Dordogne, and the even earlier paintings of Chauvet-Pont D’arc in Ardèche in France are magnificent—Picasso anecdotally said, “Since Lascaux, we have invented nothing.” What if story is not a human invention? I am wondering about an idea, though: while these caves may well be one of the earliest efforts at mythic storytelling by humans, there are actually story-tellers that began these stories millions of years earlier. What if story is not simply a human invention, but one we humans simply understand in a particular way? What if story is not simply a human invention, but one we humans simply understand in a particular way? If we think mythically about stories themselves, and about how these stories create the world as much as they define it—and how as humans we are created by the stories we tell, an intriguing mythic and scientific lens begins to open. The creator microbes In June, The New York Times Magazine published a piece by science writer Ferris Jabr , an adaptation of his book Becoming Earth: How Our Planet Came to Life. Jabr accompanied a group of geomicrobiologists down into a mine shaft in South Dakota, a cave carved out by gold miners rather than water, tunneling a mile and a half below the surface. What they discovered here is extraordinary, as Jabr writes: “Here we were, deep within Earth’s crust—a place where, without human intervention, there would be no light and little oxygen—yet life was literally gush­ing from rock.“ Microbes abound there, without human intervention, and they are ancient, living and moving seemingly endlessly, and they breathe, eat, and create rock. It’s a radical realization: that our planet is not life perched on a shallow surface, but is instead constantly being created by life. These microorganisms create their surroundings. Jabr continues, “Subsurface microbes carve vast caverns, concentrate minerals and precious metals and regulate the global cycling of carbon and nutrients. Microbes may even have helped construct the continents, literally laying the ground­work for all other terrestrial life.” Simultaneously, microbiologists are just beginning to parse out the relationship between microbes in the human body, particularly in the human gut, and how they don’t merely inhabit their surroundings, but transform them as well. Genes in the human gut microbiome vastly outnumber the “human” genes we carry, and not only develop human cognitive function, including memory, but our emotional capacity. In an article echoing Jung in its title, “Collective Unconscious: How Gut Microbes Shape Human Behavior,” researchers report that “gut microbes are part of the unconscious system influencing behavior, and microbes majorly impact on cognitive function and fundamental behavior patterns” (pgs. 1-9). Mythic microbial stories If Campbell is right—and our human myths emerged as a way to bring harmony with the natural world—and the microbiologists and microgeologists are right—and the microbe community on the planet are creators and communicators, building both the natural world and human capacities to function within it—is it that outrageous to imagine that the first and most powerful story-tellers were not human at all? But that our stories that we shape and are shaped by each telling of them actually are mythic echoes of microbial stories? I find this idea both utterly compelling and oddly comforting. It weaves a powerful connection and rightness for me, in both scientific and mythic ways, about human kinship with everything else on—and in—this planet. And perhaps this affinity can be an opening into how we might better articulate that connection as we try to respond to a beleaguered natural world. 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 3, and Romance of the Grail Latest Podcast In this episode we speak with Master Chungliang Al Huang —a tai chi master, writer, philosopher, dancer, and generational teacher. Originally from Shanghai, China, Master Huang moved to the United States to study architecture and cultural anthropology, and later Dance. In the 1960s, Master Huang forged a significant collaboration with philosopher Alan Watts, which led him to Esalen. There, he became a beloved teacher and formed meaningful connections with thought leaders such as Huston Smith, Gregory Bateson, and Joseph Campbell. He and Joe taught together at Esalen until Joe’s death in 1987. Master Huang is an author of many books including the classic Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain. His contributions include pioneering modern dance in the Republic of China and sharing the stage with luminaries like the Dalai Lama and Jane Goodall. He has been an assembly member and presenter at The Council for the Parliament of the World’s Religions and has been a keynote speaker for the YPO (Young Presidents’ Organization) and WPO (World Presidents’ Organization) and at major global gatherings in China, India, Switzerland, Germany, South America, South Africa, and Bali. In 1988 he was featured in the inaugural segment of the PBS series, A World of Ideas, moderated by Bill Moyers. Joseph Campbell famously remarked, “Chungliang Al Huang’s Tai Ji dancing is ‘mythic images’ incarnate. He has found a new way to explain ‘the hero’s journey’ to help others follow their bliss through the experience of tai ji practice in his work through the Living Tao Foundation.” In this conversation, we discuss his life, his relationship with Alan Watts, and his friendship with Joseph Campbell. For learn more about Chungliang visit:  https://livingtao.org Listen Here This Week's Highlights “Within each person there is what Jung called a collective unconscious. We are not only individuals with our unconscious intentions related to a specific social environment. We are also representatives of the species Homo sapiens. And that universality is in us whether we know it or not." -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning , 18 The Center of The World (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Still from "Doctor Strange" (2016) Directed by Scott Derrickson. © Marvel Studios. From the time of the first myths and stories, the problem of the overinflated ego and its repercussions has been a recurring theme. This psychic construct, which ostensibly helps us to survive and find a place in our “tribe,” seems to sometimes go astray during its development, distorting a person’s sense of identity and importance. In fact, one of the most prominent signs of excessive ego—hubris—underpins two of the best-known mythic epics, Gilgamesh  and The Iliad . And while we certainly do not lack examples of egocentrism in modern culture, I am always fascinated by how fictional storytelling addresses this problem. In 2016, the Marvel Cinematic Universe introduced its version of Doctor Strange, a character that Steve Ditko first developed for comics in 1963. I loved Doctor Strange  from the first time I watched it, but I had to reflect for some time on how it was speaking to me and what root themes I felt called to investigate. One of these roots is the archetype of the ego, and I want to explore that motif in the film (note: some spoilers ahead, but not the ending). The fall to adventure Stephen Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) is undoubtedly a gifted neurosurgeon—so gifted, in fact, that he can spout answers to music trivia questions in the midst of performing the most delicate operation and not make a mistake at either one. Yet after he performs an intricate procedure in the emergency room at the request of ER surgeon Christine (Rachel McAdams), she pointedly explains why he refuses to work consistently in that “butcher shop”: “In the ER, you’re only saving lives. There’s no fame, there’s no CNN interviews.” This insight is confirmed in the very next scene when, as Strange drives to a speaking engagement, he discusses on a phone call the types of cases he will take, all to boost his prestige. Distracted while racing down the rain-slick road, Strange plummets over the edge of a cliff, where his hands are crushed by the vehicle. “Pride goeth before a fall” literalized on film. Wayne Dyer has defined two aspects of ego as “ I am what I do.  My achievements define me” and “ I am what others think of me.  My reputation defines me” ( The Power of Intention , pg. 10). Of course, this leads to questions we all must face: who are you when you can’t  do, and who are you when your reputation changes? For Strange, this is the moment of crisis and desperation, because he has constructed his self-identity around his abilities and status as a skilled doctor. But those abilities are instantly taken away; his hands shake when he tries to steady them, and he finds no chance of recovery (despite his own deep knowledge to guide other surgeons and his herculean rehabilitation efforts). Strange has gotten so accustomed to the esteem his skills and intellect give him that his ego is viewing this as a survival situation–not so much financially but instrumentally (what he can do) and positionally  (how he “ranks” in society). With all the possibilities for Western medical solutions exhausted, Doctor Strange heads to a mysterious place in Kathmandu called Kamar-Taj seeking answers and hoping to recover the physical ability he has lost. Meeting (and mistreating) the mentor Joseph Campbell speaks about the encounter of East meeting West and the problem of conflicting worldviews. “In the Orient, the path of salvation is to follow a way that already has been marked out by the guru. You go to a guru with perfect faith and no questions. He didn’t question his guru … The goal of Oriental mysticism is to wipe out the ego” ( Myth and Meaning: Conversations on Mythology and Life 145-146). In Doctor Strange , the guru he meets is called the Ancient One (Tilda Swinton). Still, as relatively humbled as Strange is by his ego defeat, he resists belief in the non-rational/non-scientific vision the Ancient One speaks of—until she evokes several out-of-body and surreal experiences that even more reduce his ego and his trust in the size and power of his knowledge. The overinflated ego, however, can resist deflation quite zealously. Even after Strange submits to a rigorous study of the mystical arts, he continues trying to be clever. He often questions his guru and opposes the more organic experiential/emotional aspects of the training, leading to his difficulty in producing any mystical effects. “[You once] told me to open my eyes,” he complains, “Now I’m being told to blindly accept rules that make no sense!” The Ancient One insists, “Your intellect has taken you far in life, but it will take you no further … Silence your ego, and your power will rise.” Later in the Myth and Meaning  conversation, Campbell explains the Western resistance to the path when adopting Eastern philosophies: “When the Westerner puts himself through an Oriental meditation system … [i]t’s as though you were trying to break a boulder with a tack hammer … The way that’s more congenial to us [Westerners] is one of bringing, little by little, the unconscious orders into play in our conscious world; that is to say, a slow integration” (pg. 149). Indeed, more time and experience are needed for Strange to shed his uber-reliance on his intellect before he can begin to uncover his undeveloped/shadow aspects (both his feeling function and his mystical abilities), and thus find integrative power. "… Silence your ego, and your power will rise." Letting (e)go The final hammer-blow to Strange’s ego comes when Earth is faced with a metaphysical threat, and Stephen must kill in order to defend the planet from an initial attack. “I’m not doing that again,” he asserts to the Ancient One, “I became a doctor to save lives, not take them.” She retorts, “You became a doctor to save one life above all others: your own.” Will Doctor Strange return to his old life and simply revert to the ego structure props of what he does and what others think of him? Or will he dedicate himself to a cause far greater than “saving his own life” and be of service for completely different and non-egoic reasons? I won’t reveal the end of the film, but suffice it to say that Strange must address the question Campbell (paraphrasing Schopenhauer) poses in the “Sacrifice and Bliss” episode of The Power of Myth : “How can this happen? That what we normally think of as the first law of nature, namely self-preservation, is suddenly dissolved?” (28:39-28:46). Or more broadly for us viewers, what beloved ego concept must we let go for us to step into our path and power? Strange behavior, indeed.     MythBlast authored by: Scott Neumeister  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  The Power of Myth  Episode 4, and Myth and Meaning Latest Podcast In this episode we speak with Master Chungliang Al Huang—a tai chi master, writer, philosopher, dancer, and generational teacher. Originally from Shanghai, China, Master Huang moved to the United States to study architecture and cultural anthropology, and later Dance. In the 1960s, Master Huang forged a significant collaboration with philosopher Alan Watts, which led him to Esalen. There, he became a beloved teacher and formed meaningful connections with thought leaders such as Huston Smith, Gregory Bateson, and Joseph Campbell. He and Joe taught together at Esalen until Joe’s death in 1987. Master Huang is an author of many books including the classic Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain. His contributions include pioneering modern dance in the Republic of China and sharing the stage with luminaries like the Dalai Lama and Jane Goodall. He has been an assembly member and presenter at The Council for the Parliament of the World’s Religions and has been a keynote speaker for the YPO (Young Presidents’ Organization) and WPO (World Presidents’ Organization) and at major global gatherings in China, India, Switzerland, Germany, South America, South Africa, and Bali. In 1988 he was featured in the inaugural segment of the PBS series, A World of Ideas, moderated by Bill Moyers. Joseph Campbell famously remarked, “Chungliang Al Huang’s Tai Ji dancing is ‘mythic images’ incarnate. He has found a new way to explain ‘the hero’s journey’ to help others follow their bliss through the experience of tai ji practice in his work through the Living Tao Foundation.” In this conversation, we discuss his life, his relationship with Alan Watts, and his friendship with Joseph Campbell. For learn more about Chungliang visit : https://livingtao.org Listen Here This Week's Highlights "What is it we are questing for? It is the fulfillment of that which is potential in each of us. Questing for it is not an ego trip; it is an adventure to bring into fulfillment your gift to the world, which is yourself. There is nothing you can do that's more important than being fulfilled. You become a sign, you become a signal, transparent to transcendence; in this way you will find, live, become a realization of your own personal myth." -- Joseph Campbell Pathways to Bliss Nature and the Human Mind (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

N.C. Wyeth To put into rhyme (at the count’s command) The best of tales That are told in royal court: This is the story of the Grail. Chrétien de Troyes Joseph Campbell looked comprehensively upon the whole corpus of medieval Holy Grail stories and pronounced it the world’s first “secular mythology.” And that means, according to one expert, that “the myths were not to be taken literally but to be interpreted as metaphors of the natural stages of spiritual growth and development—symbols of the stages of the individual process, one might say” (Lansing-Smith, Romance of the Grail: The Magic and Mystery of Arthurian Myth , 18).  Like the clash of matter and antimatter, Catholic and Pagan influences (which is to say Cistercian monks’ reworking of Celtic material) cancel each other out, leaving Campbell’s secular mythology in place:  But no matter what their origins may have been, it is clear that these curious parallels between tales of the Crucifixion and of the dolorous stroke [the wound received by the Fisher King] were recognized by Medieval ecclesiastics and employed to allegorical purpose. Discovering in the grail romances material susceptible to reinterpretation, good monks carefully set about reorganizing the legend, abridging here, interpolating there, explaining, allegorizing, and embellishing. The lance they connected with the lance of the Crucifixion. The grail they connected with the cup of the Last Supper. The maimed king they connected with Joseph of Arimathea, who preserved the holy relics of Christ’s passion. The young fertility god, they renamed, finally, Galahad; and then they exalted him to the strangely incongruous role of the celibate ideal. The women connected to the legend they transformed either into nuns or into temptations. The Celtic marvels they turned into Hebraic miracles. ( Romance of the Grail , 313) All. For. Nothing. The Grail will never be Catholic. If the Arthurian canon—including de Troyes’ Romanz de Perceval , Robert de Boron’s Roman de l’Estoire dou Graal , Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, the Vulgate cycle of the well-intentioned Cistercians, the original Celtic stories, Sir Thomas Malory’s fifteenth-century Le Morte d’Arthur  among others—ended up with a patina of Christian theology, the true meaning of the myth transcended all denominational bias.  The conflict between the Grail tradition and twelfth-century Catholicism is mirrored in that deep division between theology and psychology: “In the church, there are leaders who tell the followers what to think and how to worship. The priests hear confessions, celebrate the Mass, and assure the faithful that salvation is theirs. But the adventurer must always quest for the Grail alone” ( Myth and Meaning: Conversations on Mythology and Life ,   145). Which is why I would suggest that the Grail can never be found by either Catholic or Celt because it is not an element of a faith tradition.  It is an element of the unconscious.   It belongs to everyone who looks not to some distant shore where an imagined enemy walks among the parapets of stone defenses, but with the inward look, to the Self, to the Soul. In brief, the Grail belongs to depth psychology. The Grail belongs to everyone who looks not to some distant shore where an imagined enemy walks among the parapets of stone defenses, but with the inward look, to the Self, to the Soul. Dropping the reins  Those of us who cherish insights regarding the true nature of the Self cannot help but take note when Perceval, having only recently acquired his horse, simply lets go of the reins. Why would a knight on a quest relinquish the power of agency for the skittish wisdom of a beast? During the Middle Ages, the power of life was symbolized in the horse, and the power of the mind in the rider. So, in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, when Parzival seeks the Grail Castle, he lets the reins lie on the neck of the horse. He could not have guided the horse to the castle; the horse knew where it was and automatically led the way. You have to be guided by nature, not by this head up at the top. ( Myth and Meaning , 112) We “drop the reins” when we allow in the experience of Jungian “active imagination,” never knowing where the next set of mental associations will take us, ceding our autonomy to our unconscious, hoping for the best but keeping our thumb off the scale.  We “drop the reins” when we follow our bliss, knowing that we are not in control of all the outcomes, only of our attitudes—foremost among which is hope.  Moses “dropped the reins” to follow his creator for a forty-year tour of the desert in the hopes of reaching a Promised Land. And Joseph Campbell dropped the reins when he disappeared into a reading room for five years and emerged the foremost scholar of mythology in the twentieth century who would come to the conclusion that “[t]he Waste Land is the land of people not living their own authentic lives, but doing what people expect them to do. One goes and gets a job because you’ve got to live, and so you’re doing the daily grind” ( Myth and Meaning , 145).  How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen calvary? The Mass no longer spoke to the hearts of Crusader Europe because the act of military incursion in the name of Christ is, to put it mildly, a contradiction, and a fatal one at that. Chrétien and Wolfram were both military men. Subverting the bloodless simplicity of the Eucharistic feast for actual warfare in the name of the Prince of Peace left these noble knights—indeed, much of Europe—in a dissociative state where principles had eroded with the clash of spears and thundering of hooves.  Against their better intentions, these twelfth-century writers had been forced to look through  the symbols of the Mass and to insist that we do the same because the old thinking had become obsolete: Today, with the economic net knitting us all together and the resulting interdependency, every single one of the in-group mythologies is not only out of date, but dangerous. There’s no notion of the global community as the prime unit. What I see as the main problem of mythology today is not what the new myth is going to be. The myth is going to be one that recognizes the whole planet as our society … and the next breakthrough has to be of the recognition of the planet as the Holy Land. ( Myth and Meaning , 205) Knights like Chrétien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach learned this lesson the hard way and wrote their works in part to process the disintegration of former orthodoxies. Their faith died on the battlefield because it was not intended for the battlefield. Or, put another way, the armies of Pope Innocent III were successful in their attempt to destroy a religion contrary to the teaching of the Messiah, but that religion turned out to be their own. MythBlast authored by: John Bonaduce, PhD , a seasoned writer for Norman Lear and for most of the major Hollywood studios (Fox, Paramount, Warner Bros, et al.) developed a profound interest in story structure beyond the commercial objectives of the industry. His exploration led him to conclude that much of what we call myth derives from a biological origin. This insight inspired his pursuit of deeper relationships between biology and narrative through his theory of Mythobiogenesis, which he explored in his dissertation at Pacifica Graduate Institute and was recognized as a “discovery” in the field of prenatal psychology by Dr. Thomas Verny. John was recently appointed to the editorial board of the Journal of Prenatal and Perinatal Psychology and Health (JOPPPAH) where he advocates for an unrecognized level of human consciousness which exists at the border of biology and mythology. As a featured writer for the Joseph Campbell Foundation’s MythBlast, he passionately showcases Joseph Campbell’s enduring relevance to a modern audience. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 4, and Myth and Meaning Latest Podcast In this episode, we’re joined by the legendary John Densmore, the rhythmic force behind one of the most iconic bands in rock history, The Doors. From his early days as a young musician in Southern California, John has always been captivated by the primal call of the drum—a heartbeat that transcends time and culture. In this conversation we discuss his relationship with Joseph Campbell, and explore his deep connections to music, spirituality, and the creative process that has fueled his remarkable career. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "In the church, there are leaders who tell the followers what to think and how to worship. The priests hear confessions, celebrate the Mass, and assure the faithful that salvation is theirs. But the adventurer must always quest for the Grail alone." -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning , 145 Becoming One with the Beloved (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

The balance of sacrifice and reward: a chemical analogy If you’re getting your dopamine from a source that does not require some form of effort on your part, beware!  Dr. Andrew Huberman (Neurobiologist) This, you probably already know. But just in case, and in (very) brief, dopamine is the chief chemical responsible for experiences of fulfillment, meaning, reward and novelty. Every time we do something that introduces dopamine to the bloodstream, we get so-called “dopamine hits.” And when, for example, I eat an avocado, the dopamine is what makes me feel good and fulfilled.  A less healthy example of getting dopamine, and one that does not require effort, is when I keep scrolling like a zombie through lists of news headlines on my smartphone, inducing cheap dopamine-hits in an attempt to sate my appetite to experience something new. However, as I get my fix in this listless way, something simultaneously drains my soul.  Whether it is cheaply acquired or not, the unfortunate news is that  any  dopamine surge will cause one’s dopamine baseline to drop, requiring either an increase in speed or magnitude of the dopamine-inducing activity (which then lowers the baseline even further), OR one can escape the catch-22 by initiating an act of replenishment. To accomplish this, Huberman’s formula (above) emphasizes effort . This replenishment can be effort in the more concrete sense of the physical exertion that drives such things as running, weightlifting, walking, gardening, and so on. Or, it can be the effort of the ego—that is, the pinch the ego feels when it must choose a thing less thrilling or immediately gratifying—when it must exert to clear an opening of time, or perhaps to muster enough patience to enable its person (so to speak) to sit still long enough to appreciate a setting sun or to properly observe (like Whitman would) a spear of summer grass.  What Huberman is calling effort , mythologists call sacrifice . But keep in mind that Huberman is employing the best term he can to describe what it is and what it takes to sustain a balanced relationship between the cost (replenishing the dopamine baseline) and the reward (enjoying the dopamine). In depth psychology, when we speak of balance we often speak also of the tension of the opposites which are held in balance, and we also acknowledge the responsibility of the individual to provide the energy to hold them. I believe Huberman’s effort  intuits not only the sacrifice that must be made, but also the presence of the “tension” that indicates a balance is in holding in the first place. Also of importance, these dynamics of dopamine functioning show that nature has already set it up (indeed, has wired it into our brains) that if we want to feel good and live well, we must regularly engage in sacrifice.   If we want to feel good and live well, we must regularly engage in sacrifice.  Pursuing the possibility curve: inviting sacrifice I thought [to myself] "…but I do know where my rapture is. So let me hang on to rapture, and that will bring me both my consciousness and my being." I think it worked.                                               Joseph Campbell ( The Power of Myth , 120) I feel fortunate when I look back upon the rapturous, ruinous history of my youth, replete with all the psychological trainwrecks and self-induced disasters prompted by a seemingly endless spate of asinine choices.  I also feel fortunate because I indeed did pursue my bliss (which Campbell is addressing in terms of “rapture” in the above quote). And I like the quote because the question of what bliss  is  does not get watered down into some abstract definition. Instead, he provides a simple, common-sense formula that says: You know what you like or what calls you, so just hold on to that. It’s kind of like saying you don’t have to know what a glass of milk is, or how to define it, to drink it. Just drink the damn milk. Well, my version of milk was exploring, and my methods were as reckless and passionate as they were open and sincere.  But now that I’m approaching my 60s and the spark of let’s-just-do-it-and-see-what-happens has pretty much been clobbered out of me, I have the luxury and disposition of reflecting: central to all the mayhem, I believe, was the drive to explore (which involved a lot of “testing” of reality). I suppose it all involved a desire for possibilities that were significantly different from the ones the universe kept offering.  So, I engaged in what (in recent years) I’ve come to call the possibility curve : a notion which I had unconsciously formed and pitted against the immensely more popular and dependable probability curve . What made the possibility curve exhilarating was getting to be far out on the margins where certainty was least and chance greatest, where the likelihood of an act rendering a favorable result was absurdly low. But under these conditions, a uniqueness or specialness was ceded to those few occasions in which favorable results did come through, soaked with intimacy and meaning. It was as if they’d beaten all imaginable odds to get here. Anyway, these rare occasions were the paydays, while the rest of the time involved a lot of losing.    But losing was not a loss. Rather it was excellent training in getting familiar with sacrifice. “But these were consequences,” you may say. Yes, but who’s to say that consequence and sacrifice are not just two sides of the same coin, where consequence follow s, while sacrifice precedes,  an event? And where consequence is sent from “out there” while sacrifice emerges from “in here”? And what if our notion of sacrifice  can be described as consequence-in-advance? Etymologically speaking, “consequence” does not indicate a linear timeline of cause and effect. Rather it means the “uniting” of sequence. I bring this up because I’m suspecting/guessing/intuiting there’s a concurrence-value to this relationship between sacrifice and bliss—neither the credit card of consequence nor the up-front-in-cash of the sacrifice. More precisely, I’m thinking of those kinds of sacrifice that are enacted while  the reward is being reaped, like a bicyclist locked into an uphill slope, his lungs gasping for air, his thighs burning, and yet these very sensations thrill and fulfill him. Or the fulfillment that accompanies the egoic effort it takes to watch a sunset or (again) observe a spear of summer grass.  In short, there’s something about all this stuff that feels like it needs to be mixed into one moment, pulsating, resonating like a frequency of vibration that hums through the body and psyche, the kind one feels when they are in stride with their dharma (i.e., their calling) because they have taken full responsibility for their individuation. In so doing, they reap the rewards of their condition because they are simultaneously making the sacrifice of bearing that responsibility. All this, I am guessing, is getting nearer in definition to what bliss is, on levels beyond mere pleasure or reward.  The sacrifice that is not offered is imposed Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering                      C. G. Jung (from   Psychology and Religion: West and East , CW 11, para. 129) To conclude the concept of sacrifice and consequence as two sides of the same coin, here is an exceptionally apt depth-psychological context. It’s important to point out that “neurosis” is a neutral term that simply indicates an incompatibility between one’s ego and their unconscious—in other words, neurosis is a condition that affects all human beings in various forms and degrees. And so, relevant to us all. Regarding the above quote, the neurotic symptoms are the sacrifices that are imposed  (cf. consequences) upon those who do not pay  attention to the correlating complex. Or another way to put it, neurotic symptoms are the collection-agents of the unconscious. Jolande Jacobi provides what I consider a priceless formula by which one can direct the energy of neurosis into individuation. She writes of neurosis that something in us “knows full well that no complex can be resolved unless one faces the conflict that causes it, and this requires courage, strength, and an ego that is capable of suffering" ( Complex, Archetype, Symbol in the Psychology of C. G. Jung , 18). Let me repeat that last part … and an ego that is capable of suffering . For that is the payload. Huberman would approve, as Jacobi’s suffering  correlates nicely with his effort .  And, let me leave you with this final thought as a possibility: bliss as a unified phenomenon, as the simultaneity or dynamic synergy of sacrifice and reward, as a fluid concurrence of opposites in which the suffering—and effort—aspects neither hinder nor hurt (precisely because they complement and, indeed, complete  the reward). And for some rather inexplicable, paradoxical reason, this delights. 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 4, and Myth and Meaning Latest Podcast In this bonus episode recorded in 1957 at The Cooper Union in New York, Joseph Campbell speaks about the similarities and differences in "Eastern" and "Western" mythologies and ways of thinking. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "The basic myth is of an earthly paradise, like the Garden of Eden, where there is no distinction between male and female, between men and animals, and no movement in time. Then a killing takes place, the bodies are planted, and out of that come the food plants. So begetting and death come together. You see in some ritual sacrifices the repetition of that original mythological act: you go back to the beginning and get a renewal of energy." -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning , 39 Follow Your Bliss (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Dionysus, as played by Nabhaan Rizwan, from KAOS. © Netflix “ Celestis, Divinitus, Insania, Vero .” Maybe, like me, you’ve also recently devoured the mythological black comedy TV series KAOS  on Netflix where the deities of the Greek pantheon are revealed to be the ones who originally put the “funk” into the term “dysfunctional family.” And, like me, maybe you too have thoroughly enjoyed the Greek myths being reimagined, with Hera shown to be as calculating and ruthless as Zeus, Eurydice seemingly content in the underworld and not particularly desiring a rescue by Orpheus, and Persephone adoringly doting on Hades and willingly being married to him.  This month the MythBlasts have focused on unpacking the term bliss , and I want to do this via the Dionysus character in KAOS  (played by Nabhaan Rizwan). In doing so, I’m mindful of the following Joseph Campbell quotation. He wrote in The Hero’s Journey : “If your bliss is just your fun and your excitement, you’re on the wrong track. I mean, you need instruction. Know where your bliss is. And that involves coming down to a deep place in yourself” (253). These words and this sentiment will become apparent in the course of my commentary.  ​ Spoilers ahead We find Dionysus in Episode 1 bored with being the god of pleasure, madness, and wild frenzy. Tired of being perceived as a lightweight and a disappointment, he wants a promotion. At the Fate of Falafel food truck, Dionysus innocently asks the vendor if he likes his job because he says he’s bored of his.   Vendor: What do you do?  Dionysus: I work for my dad. But he doesn’t take me seriously. I could do more with the humans.  Vendor: Huh?  Dionysus: The ... people. I’m good with them. I like them. I just want to get more involved. I want more responsibility.  Vendor: You mean like moving to HR or something?  Dionysus: HR, exactly. Yes.  Vendor: Well, tell him how you feel.   Dionysus: Yeah, it doesn’t really work like that with him. He doesn’t really do emotions. So Dionysus heads up to Mount Olympus and asks his father, Zeus (Jeff Goldblum) for a promotion, “ Just make me the god of love, or ... or, uh, war. Wisdom. I don’t know. Something serious. Something proper with influence. ” But he’s sharply rebuked and finds himself back at the falafel cart. Complaining about Zeus’ attitude towards him, Dionysus receives these words of wisdom from the vendor: “Find a purpose for yourself, not your father.” Soon after at a concert by Orpheus (Killian Scott), Dionysus is utterly moved by the performance of his song “Eurydice,” the musician’s passionate offering to his muse that professes his absolute undying love for her. He then appears bereft and heartbroken at Eurydice’s funeral when we then hear a voiceover from Prometheus (Stephen Dillane), “ Dionysus has found his purpose. Helping Orpheus. ” So what may we take from this? Well, “true” bliss is never solely self-seeking. Dionysus discovering a purpose–wanting to help Orpheus be the first mortal to bring someone out of the underworld because he feels how Orpheus’ love for Eurydice is greater than death–is him following his bliss. Though Dionysus eventually needs to explain his decision to his furious father. “ I gave your watch to the Fates so that a mortal could get his wife back from the dead. … And he failed the quiz, but he loved his wife. I’ve never seen anything like it. … the more I saw of him, of his love, the more I just ... I wanted him to be able to get her back.” Bliss is a state of a co-existence Genuine bliss always involves an element of service because our potential can only become fully actualized when it’s in service to something greater than ourselves. But bliss isn’t just about existing in selfless service. It’s also present when the psyche has arrived at a state of integration, harmony, and wholeness. Campbell’s invitation of “coming down to a deep place in yourself” won’t–on its own–automatically lead you to bliss, because   service to others, or to a noble ideal or even self-sacrifice, are essential elements of bliss too. Furthermore, bliss can’t just self-generate or exist on its own. It mostly often emerges through being in enriching relationships with other people, or with the Divine, or with animals. Bliss can also be felt when we’re in a sacred relationship with our own creativity, or when we’re steeped in prayer, or immersed in nature. And yes, human relationships often include a lot of messiness, despair, and sorrow, but the potential for bliss exists even there ... and indeed everywhere.  Service to others, or to a noble ideal or even self-sacrifice, are essential elements of bliss   Ethical hedonism  Seeking bliss isn’t the craving for it as a peak state. It’s also not about fixating on bliss as an end goal while dismissing the process and ignoring who you’re becoming (character development) along the way. Also, bliss is not a pass for selfish, reckless, hedonistic behavior with absolutely no regard of the consequences for oneself or for others. But it doesn’t need to be boring or moralistic. Following your bliss in a more rounded sense can be a highly exalted, explorative process. A euphoric inner quest can be as rapturous as any experience in the outer world. Either way, inner or outer bliss in this richer context is not simply given to us on a silver platter (as much as we sometimes wish it were!).  Pathways to bliss We each have our own path to bliss. The most important thing to remember though is that we are all on a path. And this path is not just a journey; it’s a process of becoming. In this, it isn’t the mere exhilaration of simply feeling blissful (i.e. the naïveté of a “bliss bunny”). The vibrant resonance of bliss cries out for multi-dimensional depths, profound embodiment, and relational capacities. It’s also a state of being that requires commitment, nurture, and work, but it’s not about the hustle culture with its endless “rise and grind” attitude. Yes, an ongoing focused attentiveness is required for cultivating this state. Yet on some occasions, bliss is miraculously and graciously bestowed on us as if from the realm of the gods or from one’s Higher Self or Daimon.   Following your calling In an interview on netflix.com  describing the character of Dionysus, Rizwan states, “He’s kind of not got a life. He’s just out here partying and everyone else has gone off and got proper jobs. The god version of proper jobs, which is part of Dionysus’ dilemma. He wants something real to do in the world. He feels something deeper.” As I alluded to earlier, our genius gets expressed when it’s in service (or even sacrifice) to others, so when Dionysus turns his back on partying to help someone else, his genius– his Daimon–is awakened, and therefore his capacity for bliss awakens too. We could also note that in this respect the word sacrifice  derives etymologically from a Latin term meaning “make sacred.” And as Moyers succinctly states in Episode 4  of Joseph Campbell and The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers , “From death comes life; from sacrifice, bliss.” Bliss co-exists with sacrifice, not outside of it.  All the best things are human   In the final KAOS  episode, Zeus berates his son with this tongue lashing: “ ... human love, that needy, cloying, unsophisticated stuff that they experience, it’s not somethin’ to be admired. … It’s ... It’s weakness. … You’re a god. We’re gods. We don’t bleed. We don’t die. And, uh, we don’t love anything lesser than ourselves. ” The gods who do not love anything lesser than themselves can never progress because they can never self-actualize into a higher level of their being or potential. In all of this, we should remember that human beings aren’t one-dimensional. We contain multitudes: love and indifference, trust and betrayal, light and shadow, order and chaos, death, rebirth, and renewal. And precisely through experiencing and feeling these multitudes, we evolve. Returning now to Zeus’ words above, human love is not a weakness. Not in the slightest. And as Persephone (Rakie Ayola) comfortingly says to Dionysus after the tirade from the king of the gods, “ Maybe the better part of you is human. ” Being human means being willing to experience all the blissful perfections, imperfections, contradictions, and sacrifices that a mortal life and journey holds. Let us be thankful to the gods for this. “ Vero! ” MythBlast authored by: Kristina Dryža  is an ex-futurist, author, TEDx speaker, archetypal consultant, one of the Joseph Campbell Foundation’s Editorial Advisory Group, and a steward for The Fifth Direction. Based between Australia and Lithuania, her work focuses less on the future and more on the unknown. Presence. Not prediction. What’s sacred? Not only what’s next. Kristina is passionate about helping people to perceive mythically and sense archetypally to better understand our shared humanity, yet honor the diverse ways we all live and make meaning. To learn more about Kristina, you can view her TEDx talk: Archetypes and Mythology. Why They Matter Even More So Today   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2o4PYNroZBY&t=525s This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 4, and Myth and Meaning Latest Podcast In this episode, we’re joined by the legendary John Densmore , the rhythmic force behind one of the most iconic bands in rock history, The Doors. From his early days as a young musician in Southern California, John has always been captivated by the primal call of the drum—a heartbeat that transcends time and culture. In this conversation we discuss his relationship with Joseph Campbell, and explore his deep connections to music, spirituality, and the creative process that has fueled his remarkable career. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "So, I have a little word: “Follow your bliss.” The bliss is the message of God to yourself. That’s where your life is." -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning , 161 Sacred Place (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Figure of Persephone by Christian Friedrich Tieck. The Mont-Saint-Michel Abbey appears as one with the small rocky island on the coast of Normandy, France. With its spires pointing to the heavens, the buildings look as though they are floating on the waters. The islet is inaccessible when the tide closes in, the ocean fortifying the abbey from attack or isolating it for solitude. The journey to the island feels mythic as one crosses water, shuttles ferrying the bustling tourists to the mysterious isle, the winds whipping one’s hair with a story all its own. Our intrepid guide led us through the quaint medieval village lined with storefronts and delicious delights, but our journey was upwards, climbing over 200 steps towards the spire at the top of the abbey with its golden statue of the archangel Michael, aspiring to reach the heavens he points to. Passing through the light-filled sanctuary, then the scriptorium where wise words were memorialized in script, and finally through the public meeting rooms where visitors were welcomed, I was filled with awe by the beauty of the gothic structures. The buildings were layered in order of importance, our guide explained, the sanctuary is closest to God, the business of society the furthest. The organization of the buildings seemed to tell a story as well. Our Lady underneath the earth On our descent from the abbey, our guide pointed to a small door and stated: “And through this door is Notre-Dame-Sous-Terre–Our Lady Underneath.” I froze on the steps. Translated as Our Lady underneath the earth, our guide explained that the oratory, or small chapel, remained buried and hidden for years. Built during the eighth century upon what was thought to be an ancient burial site, what remains of the chapel is one of the oldest structures on the island. Throughout the centuries, structures were built on top of Notre-Dame-Sous-Terre. Forgotten to time, the chapel was excavated in the 19th century. So, at the heart of this 13th-century breathtaking gothic structure is a chapel dedicated to Our Lady underneath the earth–an underworld goddess. One must know death to understand life Underworld goddess figures are often feared in mythology. Homer’s Odyssey refers to the Greek underworld goddess, Persephone, as dread Persephone, showing such trepidation. Yet, in the Sumerian myth of the “ Descent of Inanna, ” the goddess Inanna descends through her own agency, seeking the wisdom found in the underworld. At each of the seven gates of the underworld, Inanna relinquishes her worldly power as goddess of heaven and earth and bows low in the inner sanctum to the goddess of the underworld, Erishkigal, seeking the depths found therein. In The Hero with a Thousand Faces , Campbell finds that in the underworld journey: “The hero, whether god or goddess, man or woman, the figure in a myth or the dreamer of a dream, discovers and assimilates his opposite (his own unsuspected self) either by swallowing it or by being swallowed. One by one the resistances are broken. He must put aside his pride, his virtue, beauty, and life, and bow or submit to the absolutely intolerable. Then he finds that he and his opposite are not of differing species but one flesh.” (89) The descent to the underworld deepens the experiences of the hero and is a transformative moment in the journey. The underworld then appears to be reflective of the psychological experience. Sigmund Freud begins The Interpretation of Dreams with a quote from Virgil’s Aeneid, “Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo, ” referencing the idea that if the heavens will not offer help, one will turn to the underworld. The use of this quote seems to illuminate how the underworld is a source of psychological images for Freud. Mythologist Christine Downing highlights how Freud often refers to the underworld as a “privileged metaphor for the unconscious” ( Gleanings , 129). Archetypal psychologist James Hillman echoes Freud's connection between dream imagery and the underworld. Hillman’s book The Dream and the Underworld relates the psychology of dreams to the mythology of the underworld, demonstrating the mythology’s relevance to the field of psychology. In Myth of Analysis , Hillman states that “the Platonic upward movement toward aestheticism is tempered by the beauty of Persephone” (pg. 102). In other words, the driving forces of our daily lives are informed by the knowledge of the depths of human existence. Hillman refers to these depths as “underworld beauty.” These scholars highlight ways in which myths of the underworld are a source of meaning and significance for enhancing the human experience. Beauty is found in laying down one’s pride, power, and identity in life, to attain the wisdom of the underworld. Somehow, one must know about death to understand life, and therefore these myths are touching on what it means to truly feel alive. Beauty is found in laying down one’s pride, power, and identity in life, to attain the wisdom of the underworld. Insight of the underworld I find it interesting how Notre-Dame-Sous-Terre was hidden for so many years beneath the surface. Like so many goddess figures lost to time. In Episode 5 of the Power of Myth , “ Love and the Goddess ,” Bill Moyers introduces the conversation with Campbell by inquiring about the disappearance of goddess figures, stating that “patriarchal authority finally drove the goddess from the pantheon of imagination” (26:58). Moyers then pointedly asks Campbell, “The Lord’s Prayer begins, ‘Our Father, which art in heaven.’ Could it have begun ‘Our Mother’?” (27:27). “What psychological difference would it have made …?” (33:47). “Well,” Campbell responds, “it makes a psychological difference in the character of the cultures” (33:56). The myths we hold dear in our societies inform societal actions. So too Campbell's statement seems to imply that what is lost to time or buried in the underworld affects the upperworld as well. Later in the episode, Campbell suggests that the goddess returned, “She came back with the virgin in the Roman Catholic tradition … Notre Dame” (37:33). Perhaps Notre-Dame-Sous-Terre, Our Lady of the underworld has something to say about this as well. Campbell asserts that these female figures are surfacing, their presence offering balance, insight, and wisdom to the culture. Surfacing What does it mean for female figures who have been lost to time to step into the light? These goddesses, heroines, and leaders who have remained hidden and unseen for so long–do we fear them, like those who fear the Greek goddess Persephone, or do we welcome their wisdom as the Sumerian goddess Inanna seeking Erishkigal? Can we even begin to remember the time when the church upon the island of Mont-Saint-Michel was dedicated to her, Our Lady Underneath, before the gothic cathedral was built atop her? Perhaps a starting point for excavating the gifts of the goddess is where the “Love and the Goddess” episode ends. Moyers and Campbell have taken the conversation beyond words. Moyers inquires, “And it begins here?” (56:06) as he points to his body, the internal world that is “the womb of all of our being” (54:22), represented mythically as the goddess. And Campbell knowingly nods, responding, “It begins here” (56:06). What must it mean then, from the womb of being, to allow what has been repressed, buried, and hidden for so many years to come into the light? What gifts might this goddess from underneath the earth offer? 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 5, and Goddesses Latest Podcast In this episode, Campbell speaks to the relationship of mythology to psychology. He goes through the four functions of myth and emphasizes the fourth function - the psychological. He focuses on why this psychological function is so important in our contemporary world. The lecture was recorded at the Houston Jung Center in 1972. Host Brad Olson introduces the lecture and offers a commentary at the end. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "There was a whole galaxy of mythologies that influenced each other in that period, back and forth, leading to the Christian recovery of the Goddess. . . . with the Christians in the first centuries, she comes back very strongly. There are certain aspects of Catholicism, for instance, where Mary is more important than either the Father, Son, or Holy Ghost. In all of the great cathedrals of Notre Dame, she is the guardian, protecting, mediating Mother. See, the god image as it is in our tradition is a pretty heavy one—he’s a kind of savage deity—and the mother is a protective, intermediary screen. When she’s wiped out in Puritanism, God becomes really a ferocious figure, as you read in some of those Puritan sermons." -- Joseph Campbell Myth and Meaning , 53 The Great Goddess (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

(c) copyright 1997 – 2024, William F. Hertha " The challenge is to flower as individuals, neither as biological archetypes nor as personalities imitative of the male.”  Joseph Campbell, Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine  (xiii) Myth, religion, and gender For over a decade beginning in the 1970s, Joseph Campbell waded into the murky waters of gender, sex, and myth through a series of lectures on historical goddesses. Dr. Safron Rossi has collected these lectures for us in a compilation entitled Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine . Up to that point, it wasn’t as if Campbell avoided the subject or was not inclusive in his work. Rather, during this time he decided to discuss this archetype separately with more care and intentionality.  Perhaps this undertaking was due to the powerful undercurrent of second wave feminism—built upon the philosophies of people like Simone de Beauvior, Betty Freidan, and Gloria Steinem. These writers inspired and documented a movement which would lead to the Equal Pay Act of 1963, crystallizing the economic rights of women in the United States. A year later, Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 would prohibit discrimination by employers based upon race, religion, sex, or national origin. And nearly a decade later when Campbell was to begin speaking on the goddess, bell hooks was releasing her first writings broadening the feminist movement to include social topics other than economics such as race, love, and sexuality.  While we cannot definitively know what inspired Campbell to take on this project, the evidence would suggest that he found himself (along with most people of that time) staring headlong into more than one existential crisis—who are we , who am I …better yet, what am I ?  And what better tool does our species have than myth to address such amorphous, sensitive, albeit confusing topics such as gender and sexuality?  What better tool does our species have than myth to address such amorphous, sensitive, albeit confusing topics such as gender and sexuality?  The two “traps” Throughout this essay, we are mindful of at least two “traps” for us to fall into and traps which Campbell had to navigate in his lectures. The first trap is that of the fundamental attribution error. To paraphrase Bertram Gawronski, a social psychologist, the fundamental attribution error is a bias humans are prone to express in which we underemphasize situational and environmental factors to explain someone's behavior, while over-index on things like their personality or disposition. In other words, when we study social history (in this case, historical mythology) we are prone to make meaning of events in the past using our interpretation of personality factors rather than the environmental factors which led to individual choices.  The next trap is adjacent to the first—this is the tendency to assume that ancient peoples’ social and cultural experience with things like gender, sex, and roles is similar to our own. True, homo sapiens  30,000 years ago were the same as homo sapiens 2,000 years ago, which are the same as homo sapiens  today. What was different in each of those periods, however, were the norms and expectations socialized among any given people at any given time.  In other words, while we cannot make the mistake of assuming that ancient people were somehow less intelligent, evolved, or capable as we are today, we must also respect that we cannot naturally intuit the social values they held about things like gender and sex, for example. Rather, this takes work, documentation, and evidence gathering as Campbell does in the book Goddesses.  War killed the goddess In the Goddesses we discover early on one of Campbell’s more forceful opinions on the subject of the goddess. He believes that the goddess finds herself a second class citizen of many of the world’s myths. Campbell asserts, “All I can tell you about mythology is what men have said and have experienced, and now women have to tell us from their point of view what the possibilities of the feminine future are. And it is a future—it’s as though the lift-off has taken place, it really has, there’s no doubt about it" (263).  He argues that the primary driver of the devaluation of the woman (and by extension the feminine and the goddess) is rooted in the evolution of war during the Bronze Age–more specifically the developments from the Indo-European warrior cultures to the Semitic-speaking patriarchal cultures. These two warrior cultures differed greatly in the way they approached war and winning. The Semitic-speaking peoples tended to favor annihilation, countering the Indo-European custom of assimilation. To put it another way, war killed the goddess.  When considering this development Campbell questions,  One is moved to ask why the [ancient Semetic speaking peoples]...turned their backs so resolutely on the goddess and her glorious world … A completely contrary understanding and attitude is presented in the mythological system of the other great complex of warrior tribes … Like the bedouins of the deserts, they too were patriarchal herding folk, and their leading gods were gods of war, finally subject however, to the larger powers of nature. (xxiv)  In other words Campbell argues that the Semitic-speaking tribes of the Bronze Age greatly challenged the norms of assimilation with annihilation. This threat of male violence, of patriarchy annihilating the divine feminine—first by separating or “othering” the feminine and then destroying her—is a legacy whose impressions remain to this day. In some respects, the very act of “othering” by separating and classifying is itself the defining behavior of patriarchy. At its core, these particular warrior tribes introduced an idea that man is superior to nature in so many ways. Suddenly the idea emerges that there is only one god, and that god is inherently gendered, and that gender is male. Perhaps the counter force to the warrior death-cults of the Bronze Age is the non-dualistic god of Rome, Janus. Janus stands at the gate–at all gates–with two heads or eyes pointing in opposing directions. One eye looks to the future while the other to the past. Janus is the liminal, the in-between, the doorway from this place to the next. Similarly, in one of the oldest cities on earth called Çatalhöyük, modern excavations have uncovered at the gates of temples and homes alike two felines which gaze at all who enter. One must enter the “in-between” space, under the watch of both this and that. Campbell suggests in his lectures that one of these is a lion and the other a lioness, as if sex, the dualism of male and female, is the gateway to the divine.  The liberation of the goddess (or how the goddess liberates us all) The error of patriarchy, then, is that of a logical fallacy. Patriarchy mistakes the symbol of gender for the reference. It is akin to religious fundamentalism in that it only manages to identify the most basic interpretation available. As Campbell quips in Goddesses , “My definition of mythology  is ‘other people’s religion’” (pg. 14). Unlike the Roman god Janus looking forward and behind or the two felines discovered around Çatalhöyük, the modern world appears increasingly challenged at holding non-dualistic perspectives. Perhaps we have forgotten how to see the world before it was carved up and fought over. Perhaps we have grown accustomed to seeing gender as a fact and less as itself a myth, a story which helps us cope with our psychology. After reflecting on these lectures by Campbell, we believe it’s possible that we as a culture have mistaken the symbol for the reference and forgotten that the goddess is an archetype available to us all—for our wellbeing, for our liberation, and for our hope. Because, like Ranier Maria Rilke so famously captured in his famous poem “Widening Circles” (as translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows):   I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world. I may not complete this last one but I give myself to it. I circle around God, around the primordial tower. I’ve been circling for thousands of years and I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?  If the hero has a thousand faces, would it not be true that some of them are feminine, some masculine, and others something entirely different? Our myth is only as great as our courage and our imagination, and as Campbell reminds us, “The challenge is to flower as individuals, neither as biological archetypes nor as personalities” ( Goddesses , pg. xiii). Perhaps the goddess, in the underworld of oppression all these years, has returned with a boon which she gives freely to us, if we only have the courage to listen.   MythBlast authored by: Kami Hope is a designer, entrepreneur, creative, and myth enthusiast. Growing up in a part of the US which taught religious fundamentalism, Kami has enjoyed exploring art, science, and myth in adulthood in order to navigate the realities of life and better enjoy the world around her. She lives with her partner Matt in Nashville Tennessee along with their two young children—though they are currently relocating to London, England. There she hopes to dive deeper into design and art by taking advantage of iconic museums, culture, and history. Matt Malcom is a writer, public philosopher, and investor currently living in Nashville Tennessee. He studied philosophy at the United States Military Academy at West Point and was an Army Officer before joining the NGO world. During the pandemic, Matt expanded his work in public philosophy by launching a multi year project called The Pocket Philosopher. Now a global community spanning 5 countries, the mission remains focused on increasing public access to philosophical ideas. Today, he works in investment management focusing on ESG integration and is relocating to London at the end of 2024 to further this pursuit. He lives with his partner, Kami and their two young children. Kami and Matt enjoy long discussions about life, love, politics, and philosophy. This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 5, and Goddesses Latest Podcast This bonus episode contains a short lecture that Campbell gave at Westerbee Ranch in Sonoma in 1987 on the "Symbology of the Tarot". It is a "slide" lecture meaning that Campbell was speaking to a curated set of slides, which he often did. Even though we cannot see the slides, his discussion and interpretation of the Tarot deck is worth a listen. This lecture was recorded in the same year as Campbell's death. One can hear him clearing his throat often. He was being treated for esophageal cancer. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "All I can tell you about mythology is what men have said and have experienced, and now women have to tell us from their point of view what the possibilities of the feminine future are. And it is a future—it’s as though the lift-off has taken place, it really has, there’s no doubt about it." -- Joseph Campbell Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine , 263 The Goddess Embodied (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Still from 1998's The Truman Show, directed by Peter Weir. © Paramount Pictures This month’s MythBlast topics include: “death and renewal,” “the Hero’s Journey” and “horizons.” Whew. Now there’s a tricky little puzzle for a winter’s game of connect-the-dots.  Get some hot chocolate, and let’s see if we can fit these together. Death and renewal  Sometimes during the calendar year, metaphors put on their boots and stomp into consciousness. Here in the northern hemisphere we’re enjoying the darkest time of year, just before Sol returns to light up and renew the manger of our hopes. When it comes to Death and Renewal, the Winter Solstice is easily one of those times. Horizons Trickier. Whenever I get into a pickle trying to figure something out, I start by digging into the etymology of whatever it is, and “horizon” has a weirdly contrary genealogy. The word derives from the Greek word horos, stones used to mark boundaries. So, technically, the horizon marks a border. A lot of borders, some with barbed wire, lie between us and the New-Year-of-our-lives. The most imposing ones seem continually out of reach, however, rolling away from us like the rainbow’s end, out there at the edge of our comprehension. But while we’re used to thinking of horizons as something forever in the distance, they’re still borders, and we still stumble into them–a barrier we thought we’d never even approach can turn out to be, surprisingly right there in front of us. Borders can be psychological or temporal or geographical–they can even be gastronomical, if you consider “getting through dinner with some of your relatives” a line you have to cross every year. The hero’s journey Arguably, after getting past the initial threshold guardians, every initiation on the Path is a kind of death and renewal, a doorway that once marked a limit, the horizon of what we knew or believed. In real life a lot of these initiatory stepping stones can seem impossibly distant or impossible to cross: will I ever find a job I love? Will I ever find my people? Will I ever get out of school? Stuff like that. Personally, I was afraid for a while that I’d never fall in love, it was always out there in the receding distance … and then . I got run over by Blitzen. Oops, wrong metaphor. Anyway, you know what I mean. When I think about horizons, I think about The Truman Show,  the movie with Jim Carrey where he plays a guy raised entirely inside a huge artificial world as the subject of a highly-rated “real life” television show. He doesn’t know he’s spent his life inside a huge set until, one day, he overcomes his fears, sails across what he’d taken to be the ocean, and bumps into the horizon. Thump. It was a surprise. After that discovery Truman had to leave the world he knew and venture out to meet … well, the rest of the world. Imagine the collisions of expectation and reality. In a sense, we’re all in the same boat.  Campbell had some thoughts about the loss of horizons in the current era, and the loss of any mythological compass to help us navigate. He wrote: There were formerly horizons within which people lived and thought and mythologized. There are now no more horizons. And with the dissolution of horizons we have experienced and are experiencing collisions, terrific collisions, not only of peoples but also of their mythologies. ... That is just what we are experiencing; and we are riding it: riding it to a new age, a new birth, a totally new condition of mankind—to which no one anywhere alive today can say that he has the key, the answer, the prophecy, to its dawn.” ( Myths to Live By , 254) He has a point.  It’s a constant theme for Campbell: our mythology puts us into relationship with the universe, but when the universe (and thus, our understanding of the universe) changes, our myths need to change as well. When the sources of our traditional mythological discourse have been washed away by science–when God and the angels have been chased out of heaven–our understanding of ourselves seems lost in a boundless universe, one without a North Star. Our relation to that universe, as well as the meaning attached to that relation, seems to recede into an infinite distance. I don’t know what the solution is and Campbell is right: no one alive today has the answer to this question. But we’re all seeing the collisions and we can prepare for them. every initiation on the Path is a kind of death and renewal, a doorway that once marked a limit, the horizon of what we knew or believed. Crossing horizons Thinking about horizons as boundary stones puts some of this into perspective. A boundary is not a thing in itself, although we often think of it that way: as a fence or barbed wire or a line in the sand. But that’s just what it looks like, not what it is. A boundary is really a zone where two territories meet, a line of mediation between ourselves and an often frightening Otherness. Historically a border is where our  territory meets their  territory. Now, if the relations are good, all border crossings are an occasion for happy and congenial trade and interaction. If relations are unfriendly, or yet to be established, the boundary can pose a threat or an occasion for conflict–which is why we say that boundaries “mark” territory. “Mark” is derived from Mars, the Roman god of war and the god who, naturally, oversaw boundaries between territories. There’s some useful mythology: the god of war oversaw boundaries and borders. This much is still true today, geographically but also psychologically, philosophically, and metaphorically.  One thing we can know about a future without horizons is that we’ll bump into new ones, both out there on The Final Frontier but also inwardly, in the conflict between the self you think you are and the Self revealed to you over time as a result of your pilgrimage through life. No Horizons? Nope.   New Horizons. 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 6, and The Hero's Journey Latest Podcast In this episode, we’re pleased to welcome Phil Cousineau —a modern mythologist, storyteller, and inspirational speaker whose life and work are deeply rooted in the world of myth and the wisdom of Joseph Campbell. Cousineau’s journey through mythology is woven into every aspect of his career, from his prolific writing and filmmaking to his role as a teacher and speaker. His fascination with mythology began at an early age and has led him around the globe, exploring the intersections of culture, art, and the human spirit. Over his decades-long career, Cousineau has become an influential voice in translating ancient myths into relevant insights for the modern world, emphasizing what he calls “the omnipresent influence of myth in modern life.” In this episode, he and JCF’s John Bucher delve into Cousineau’s wide-ranging work as an author, filmmaker, and consultant, and explore his relationship with Joseph Campbell. So get comfortable and enjoy this conversation with John Bucher and Phil Cousineau. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Out of perfection, nothing can be made. Every process involves breaking something up. The earth must be broken to bring forth life. If the seed does not die, there is no plant. Bread results from the death of wheat." -- Joseph Campbell A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living , 19 Kundalini Yoga: Yoking to the Source of Consciousness (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter