Popular wisdom tells us that Icarus was a bit of an idiot. A hubristic fool. If you don’t remember the story, here’s a quick recap: Icarus’s dad, Daedalus, was a Renaissance man with particular aptitude for engineering. After incurring the wrath of King Minos, Daedalus was imprisoned, along with his son for good measure. But wily dude that he was, Daedalus DIY’d some wings and father and son flew straight out of Minos’s reach. Daedalus warned Icarus that they must fly the middle ground and stay the course. If they flew too low, the feathers would sog, rendering them useless; if they flew too high, the wax holding the wings together would melt, causing them to plummet to a watery grave. Youthful, arrogant boy that he was, Icarus ignored the advice and poor old Pops was forced to watch helplessly as his kid tested the boundaries and flirted with disaster. Eventually, Icarus flew too high and suffered what must be the world’s worst belly flop.

This myth is a metaphor for hubris, both Icarus’s (because he imprudently became punch-drunk with exhilaration upon becoming the first-ever human to fly) and Daedalus’s (because he was arrogant enough to use his talents to defy the king in the first place). Myths are stories that belong to us. They generally exist to teach us something, to impart some sort of wisdom. They explain our practices and beliefs. We create them to explain what’s important to us and why we are the way we are. In The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell spoke about the search for the new myth, the one that would define the world as it is today. He said,

“When you see the earth from the moon, you don’t see any divisions there of nations or states. This might be the symbol, really, for the new mythology to come. That is the country that we are going to be celebrating. And those are the people that we are one with.”1 (Campbell and Moyers, 32)

Of course, it’s difficult to interpret culture in real-time and translate it into myth; myth requires perspective. But Campbell was on to something because the world becomes smaller with each technological marvel and each billion-people added to its number. Until very recently in the scheme of humanity, we have been too segregated by distance to truly grasp the scope of our interconnection. With the internet, communication is instantaneous. We’re able to see and hear and participate with the rest of the world in real-time. And how are we responding to this unprecedented super power? By disconnecting from each other with near-Icarus-level hubris. Isolationism. Nationalism. Protectionism. It’s happening all over the world. It’s happening right here in the United States. It’s happening in schools, where our kids are mimicking the behavior modelled for them in their communities and at home. We’re afraid, we’re all afraid. We’re afraid of foreigners harming our country the way they did on 9/11 and we’re afraid of repeating the intolerance of the past that led to holocaust. We’re afraid of losing what we’ve worked for and of being blocked from the opportunity to earn it in the first place. We’re afraid of the government robbing our means to protect ourselves and the people we love. We’re afraid to go to a club or a concert or a movie. Or to send our children to school.

Every era grapples fears like these; not the exact fears we face today, but terrifying, divisive fears nonetheless. We look back, and the choices made in each era seem obvious in hindsight, for right or for wrong, but the people of the past had to figure it out as they lived through their fears. And it wasn’t any less scary for them than it is for us. Consider Walt Whitman’s observation as America careened toward the Civil War in his poem, “Song of Myself”:

“Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward
     and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or
     lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors or fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
     the fitful events;
These came to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.”2 (Whitman, 31-32)

It is easy to be swallowed by the minutiae of our lives and of the world around us, “the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events.” It is easy to be glued to the news or to reject the narrative we hear because it conflicts with the narrative we believe. It’s incredibly easy to feel powerless. Whitman felt it in his time too, but he had the right idea: they are not the Me myself. He’s not talking about self-absorption and he’s not a narcissist. The Me myself he refers to is the part of him that is connected to all other people and things. Later in “Song of Myself” he writes,

“This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This the common air that bathes the globe.” (43)

We’re all part of each other, connected by a massive root system, all sharing land and water and air. Campbell and Whitman are right: there are no divisions. The divisions are artificial; unity is the reality. Fear, anger, hurt, these things are real, too, and we can—and do—use them to create ever more division. But they are not the Me myself.

How do we move beyond our divisions and reach toward unity? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Are we idiots, like Icarus, aiming our ideals too high? Or skimming too low without ever even trying to lift off from our basest fears to ever wonder what marvels we could experience? The aim of this blog is to explore our options. Given that humanity has swooped and soared and crashed many times before, let’s look to some of humanity’s big-picture thinkers; those who have observed and made connections, for guidance on unmooring ourselves from the manipulation of division. Let’s think about how we can adapt the stories that have come before to move us forward and cultivate unity. In this spirit, what if we take this ancient myth of Icarus and look at it through a different aperture? What if we tell a different ending, one that explains what’s important to us, why we are the way we are, and how we can be now? What if Icarus didn’t drown?

What if Icarus swam?

Some ground rules: literary logic deals in mythic truth, not scientific fact. So please put aside traditional facts (e.g. How could he swim?! That fall would be impossible to survive! This whole wax/feather/flying story is unbelievable in the first place!). We’re speaking the language of poetry here which differs from hard logic. This is not in any way a rejection of logic or fact or science. It is merely a distinction that you can’t confuse fact-based logic with mythic logic. Facts aim for the truth of the physical world, myths aim for the truth of the mind/heart/soul, however you’d like to characterize that part of us that is ethereal. Please also understand that mythic truth is not fake news or alternative fact. Fake news sows chaos, division, polarity. Mythic truth aims for unity. Now that these ground rules are established, let’s get on with the question at hand. What if Icarus swam?

Let’s pick up the story at the moment of that epic fall into the ocean: Icarus is terrified during the free fall, then there’s that belly flop, which blazes with pain from head to toe. There’s the plunge into the ocean, introducing him to terrifying, grotesque creatures that don’t and shouldn’t ever see the light of day. Even when our hero makes it back to the surface to breathe, he can’t. The wind was too thoroughly knocked out of him during the belly flop stage of this debacle. He thrashes, he panics; finally, his body remembers how to breathe, and he does his best to rest, his back to the monsters lurking in the water beneath him while he desperately tries to figure out what to do. Dad flies by, not too close, but not too far away either. It sounds like Dad’s crying, but he’s going to keep moving on and save himself. Icarus has three choices:

1). He can give up and drown, allowing himself to be swallowed by the monsters of the deep.
2). He can try to keep floating and hope that someone comes along to save him. But realistically, if Dad flew by, it’s only a matter of time until Icarus will acquiesce to option one.

The last choice is obvious:

3). Icarus swims.

Humanity is brash and idealistic and hubristic like Icarus, and we’ve had occasion to swim in the past because humanity has experienced some intense belly flops. But we are Icarus, all of us together. Icarus is the Me myself. And Icarus had better start swimming.

So how exactly can we swim? That’s a difficult question without an easy answer. Sorry. Maybe we start by accepting that complicated problems require nuanced solutions. Maybe we start by reframing our own thoughts to assume that we’re all part of each other. Maybe we start by rejecting the Us/Them dichotomy foisted upon us by the fear reverberating against our echo chambers. There’s no this team and that team. If we’re going to swim, we must agree that we’re in this together. Otherwise we’ll continue to be our own obnoxious older brother, splashing water in our face and taunting why do you keep splashing yourself? While we drown. The natural conclusion of Us/Them is butchery: it’s the Inquisition, it’s the Trail of Tears, it’s every genocide the world has ever seen. Us/Them doesn’t conclude with a you do you, I’ll do me approach. Us/Them is a drum beat to annihilate each other.

We don’t have to agree with each other, but we do need to be civil. Use your voice to appeal to your elected representatives about issues you care about. Speak up when you see injustice and hatred. Vote. Fly high, young Icarus, we’ve created a beautiful democracy that gives you the gifts of these rights. Don’t be too lazy to reach for them.

And while you’re reaching, practice your best humanity. Don’t use your voice to bludgeon and belittle and objectify people that disagree with you. Donate your money or time to something you believe in. Ask yourself every day, what can I do to help someone else? And then do it. We all know there are plenty of people that need help, right? It doesn’t need to be a grand gesture; it could be forgiving the person that cuts you off in traffic—without honking (or worse). Remind yourself that other people are human too and have hopes and dreams and fears. Just like you.

Good people of the world: we need to care about each other. We need to ask what we can do for the world. We’re all stinging from the impact of our fear, but we are in this together. You can help by refusing to be swallowed into the belly of the basest, ugliest impulses of human nature. We need to dry our wings a bit so we can take flight again, but in the meantime:

United we swim. Divided we flail.

___________________________________________________________________________Notes:

Artwork by dimitrisvetsikas1969 is licensed under CC0 Creative Commons

1.       Campbell, Joseph and Bill Moyers. The Power of Myth. New York: Doubleday. 1988. 

2.       Whitman, Walt. “Song of Myself.” Leaves of Grass. Amhearst, NY: Prometheus Books. 1995.