“It
was great,” I tell them.
But
what I really want to say is that it changed my life; that when I look at the photos
my heart hurts with longing and my eyes begin to shine; that something about it
moved me deeply, in ways I can never explain.
As
an act of reverence for the enchantment of Iceland I set myself on a course of
study I’d neglected for too long – Norse mythology. In 1,000 C.E. Iceland was
the last European nation to convert to Christianity, and even then it didn’t
outlaw the old ways – they stayed alive and thrive to this day. Jesus and Odin
walk together across her fresh green fields and glacial moraines.
Iceland
was first settled by Norwegians, then later by Celts. The spiritual landscape
of Iceland is a mélange of Norse mythology, archaic Christianity, and Celtic mysticism.
The gods of the Aesir and Vanir jostle for space with the huldufólk or “hidden people” – the elves, trolls, and fairies who inhabit
the mounds and outcroppings that rise from the fields of every farm.
The
veil between the seen and unseen world is very thin in Iceland.
In
Norse mythology Odin was the oldest and greatest of the gods. Long ago, when
the world was young, Odin disguised himself as a traveler and went to find
Mimir’s well whose waters rose up from the core of the earth to nourish Yggdrasil,
the world-tree. Legend has it that one drink from Mimir’s well would make one
wise. When Odin found the well he asked Mimir for a drink. Mimir told him no,
the water was only for him. But Odin could be persuasive. Finally Mimir agreed,
if Odin would do one thing for him.
“What?”
Odin asked.
“Give
me one of your eyes.”
Without
hesitation Odin performed the grisly task, tossing his eye into the well. Mimir
nodded, handing Odin his horn.
Odin
filled the horn and drank deeply. He felt wisdom flooding through him, and he
was transformed. From then on he was known as the Blind God, although he still
had one good eye.
Odin
has many names and often travels in disguise. He’s tricky that way. He also has
two ravens, Hugin and Munin, which mean “thought” and “memory.” They fly far
and wide, and are the eyes of Odin. When you see a raven, Odin is watching.
They return to sit on his shoulders and whisper into his ears all of the things
they know and remember. So it is that nothing eludes Odin’s grasp.
One
time Odin performed a great sacrifice in order to attain a higher state of
divinity. He hung himself on the world-tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nine
nights with nothing to eat and nothing to drink, his side pierced by a spear. His
agony transformed him – he was now able to understand the sacred runes that
once had no meaning. His resilience unlocked the secrets of the world.
Like
gods everywhere, Odin stands as a metaphor for that which is unrealized in us –
our highest manifestation. If, as Joseph Campbell claims, “each of us is the
hero of our own lives,” then Odin’s story, like the story of any sacrificial
god, is our story: evolution driven by the engine of resilience.
In
a farmer’s field far off the beaten track, soaking in the roughhewn hot springs
at Hruni, my wife and my friends and I let the warm waters wash away the
weariness every traveler knows. In the late afternoon light two ravens perched
on the roof of the stone cottage across the meadow – memory and thought. Odin
is here. Our traveling, our struggles, and our sacrifices pull the threads that
help us unravel the mystery of our own lives. We are all on the world-tree,
wounded, and longing to become who we really are. One day soon, on the other
side of these hardships, we will be able to read all of the runes.
[This piece previously appeared in my "A to Zen" column in the November/December 2017 issue of Unity Magazine, and is reproduced here with permission.]
[This piece previously appeared in my "A to Zen" column in the November/December 2017 issue of Unity Magazine, and is reproduced here with permission.]
