“Myths, Old and New”

Waking Point

by Helen Noakes

“When you see the Earth from space, you don’t see any divisions of nation-states there. This may be the symbol of the new mythology to come; this is the country we will celebrate, and these are the people we are one with.”

—Joseph Campbell

SAN FRANCISCO, CA—(Weekly Hubris)—6/28/10—I think that what distinguishes us from other species is our need to create stories to explain our world, to explain our role in it, to explain each other and, most importantly, to explain the intricate workings of our conscious and subconscious minds.

Every culture devises complex myths of heroes venturing into unknown, often dangerous territories, to explore distant and exotic lands, to outwit lurking monsters and placate angry gods.

Psychologists, such as Carl Jung, posited the fact that ancient myths explained archetypal forces at work within the depths of our subconscious minds. Joseph Campbell pointed out the similarity in the mythologies of vastly divergent cultures.

I’ve long been fascinated by mythology, gathering images and information from all the places that I’ve been lucky enough to visit. What I find most compelling is the repeated refrain of virgin births, dying and resurrecting gods, journeys into darkness or the underworld that try the hero’s soul before he or she can reach the light.

Light must always be earned, it seems. In the “Old Testament,” God decrees it into existence before the universe takes form. In every creation myth, light is the first thing that comes into being. We humans obviously cannot fathom a world without it, and we’re absolutely right.

In practical terms, our galaxy would not exist without the sun at its center; in philosophical terms, we humans would not evolve without the inner light of intelligence and, for those of us who believe in it, the greater light of our souls.

The other myth that is prevalent is that of a great flood, leading many to believe that this was an actual meteorological event. The waters took the form of ice and snow in the north, where myths of a Noah-like man tell of his sheltering animals, two by two, within a vast cave, where they, along with his family, survived the punishing freeze.

How much we have in common, we humans of this blue planet. How much we share at the depth of our experience as members of this human race. If we would just take a moment and look around and listen to our neighbor’s stories, we just might find that they are much the same as ours.

There are, of course, stories that might be completely new to us, strange, perhaps frightening. But if we dig deep, if we look below the costumes, listen beyond the exotic music and strange language, we would most likely find a tale told in our own country that matches in ferocity or languor, the tale told by the foreigner.

In my travels, I have come to the conclusion that the myths of a people are the best indicator of their culture’s psyche.

And if we believe that myths are simply phenomena of the past, we need only to look at our tabloids and TV gossip fests, which focus intense attention on actors and celebrities, whose lives become, for some, matters of consuming interest. Are these our modern gods? If so, what does this say about us?

Our film and music industries in America have created a global mythology. I doubt that many people in the world would wonder who I was talking about if I referred to Elvis or Marilyn, Bogie or Brangelina.

I won’t deny that this fact gives me pause. I wonder if these people populate the true mythology of these United States. Should it not be the Statue of Liberty that represents us? Is the lady in the harbor a long forgotten avatar of myth?

I know what it is to be an immigrant in America. It wasn’t easy, but we were given a chance. We had to persevere against immense odds, but we were given the opportunity. Those of us who didn’t arrive with an accent were not fodder for ridicule but, even if we were not so fortunate, we knew that we could, if we worked hard enough, reach our goals. And we worked harder than most.

What brought my family to this country was the promise of America. My parents believed in it without question. Their hope of being assimilated into this culture was only partially realized, but they did not complain. They found friends here, they found peace. There was no scimitar ready to slash us; no Bolshevik ready to slit our throats.

I remember our early years in the US—the adjustments, the work, the slow but steady building of our lives, and I have much to be grateful for.

I remember, and I wonder if, as Joseph Campbell says, we can create a new mythology where boundaries are set only by garden gates—and “our neighbor” might live in Asia, Africa, or the Middle East.