The emergence of individuality involves not only leaving childhood behind, but also facing and battling with those forces in the world and within ourselves that are regressive, destructive, stagnant and unwilling to cope with the limits of earthly life. This battle for autonomy is a rite of passage which every young person faces and it may have to be fought many times on many different levels, from the teens through the thirties, before we feel confident, real and worthwhile enough to express who we are in the most positive, creative way. There is no cheating with this rite of passage. It may be subtle, taking forms which are not immediately recognized as a battleground. But if we try to avoid the challenge of autonomy, we remain forever fragile, immature and vulnerable to having our brittle defenses shattered by the slightest of life's disappointments.
Battling with inertia
The great figure of Siegfried is known in myth from Germany to Iceland, and he is the quintessential northern European hero. Called Sigurd in Scandinavian stories, his exploits are the subject of some of the finest epic poetry in the world. The part of the tale that is relevant here is the battle between the young Siegfried and the dragon Fafnir, guardian of the Nibelungs' gold.
iegfried was the child of a forbidden union between Siegmund and his sister Sieglinde. Although both brother and sister met a tragic end, Siegmund left a great and beautiful sword to the son he would never meet. The sword was broken, yet, if mended, it could never be defeated in battle. The orphaned child Siegfried was raised by the Nibelung (dwarf) Mime, who grudgingly looked after him in the hope that one day the powerful, courageous youth would find the strength to kill the dragon Fafnir and capture the great hoard of gold which had, long before, been stolen from the Nibelungs by the god Wotan. Then Mime planned to kill Siegfried and keep the gold for himself.
But the gods favored Siegfried, for one day when the youth was walking through the forest he heard a bird singing and found that he could understand its song. The bird warned him, not only that Mime intended to kill him, but also why. When Siegfried returned to Mime's forge he said nothing of this new-found knowledge; but he bided his time, waited and watched. Soon, Mime asked him to forge his father's sword anew, and Siegfried did as he was bid, turning his strength and endurance to the task. Mime told him of the hoard of gold, hidden deep in a cave and guarded by the sleeping dragon Fafnir. Amidst this gold was the Ring of the Nibelungs, which had many powers, and which Mime coveted above all else. The dwarf then instructed Siegfried to return to him with the gold. But Siegfried had heard enough of the dwarf's treachery; and he killed him with the sword.
The young hero now set off in search of the dragon Fafnir. This dragon had once been a giant, not very intelligent, but extremely large and threatening. Through the power of the Ring, Fafnir had turned himself into a huge, loathsome, scaled creature. This dragon slept all the time, perpetually enchanted by dreams of the gold buried beneath its serpent-like coils. The bird which had first told Siegfried of Mime's treachery now led the young man to the cave, and Siegfried, brandishing his sword, killed the dragon and found the golden hoard. But so unaffected was Siegfried by the temptations of wealth, that he chose only two things to take with him from the hoard: a helmet that could make him invisible and the Ring of the Nibelungs, whose powers he did not yet understand. And thus he set out on further adventures.
Like so many heroes of myth, Siegfried does not know his parents, nor his true potential. All he has is a broken sword, inherited from a father who died before he was born. Yet this sword, although it must be forged anew, is a legacy of strength and courage which has passed down through the generations. So too do we inherit gifts from our parents and grandparents, which we must shape according to our own values and abilities in order to use them in our own way and in pursuit of our own individual destiny. Also like many heroes of myth, Siegfried is in danger from a treacherous creature who wishes to use the youth's strength for his own purposes. This first conflict with a foe reflects the early realization that not all the world is on our side, and that we must be conscious of the reality of envy, meanness and destructiveness – whether in our families, our school environment, our place of work or within ourselves – if we are to make our way in life.
Siegfried becomes aware of this need for self-protection by listening to a bird's song. What might this strange image mean to us? The bird is the voice of nature and the instincts warning us that we are in danger and showing us the right path when the time comes to pursue our quest. Perhaps all of us possess this ability to understand the voice of the instincts, if we would only take the time to listen. Because Siegfried stops and listens and opens himself to the wisdom of the bird, he learns not only where the gold is hidden, but also whom he must fight in order to survive.
In killing Mime, he acts in self-defense, for otherwise the dwarf would kill him. We do not usually have to kill anyone in order to achieve autonomy; but the killing of Mime suggests, on the symbolic level, that we must be willing to be ruthless in removing ourselves from those people who wish us ill. This is a hard lesson for any young person to learn; for unless we have grown up embittered by life, we have ideals which make us believe that all doors will open for us at our command and assume that all people will be kind and love us. This is both the gift and the shortcoming of youth. Sadly, like Siegfried, we may have to learn, early rather than late, that the world is peopled with both love and hatred and that, while some people may be loving, some may not.
The dragon Fafnir is a curious creature, part giant and part dragon. This figure is an image of human greed and inertia. Content with simply possessing the gold, Fafnir has no intention of using it, for good or ill; he just wishes to keep it in his grasp. Unlike many dragons, that are altogether more rampant and dangerous, Fafnir is an image of waste, of unused power and potentials. Gold represents value and energy; and thus the dragon, a symbol of all that is lazy, slothful, greedy and stagnant in human nature, is content to sleep on these precious unused resources, doing nothing, going nowhere and keeping the forces of life in stasis. In destroying the dragon, Siegfried releases these potentials, allowing them to flow into life once again.
But the hero does not want great wealth, nor all the things which the gold could buy him. Because of the trials through which he has already passed, he has learned the wisdom of the instincts, has faced the reality of human malice, and has reclaimed and renewed his inheritance – the sword which gives him the power to conquer. But he has also found something else, which is integrity. Siegfried knows what he values, and that is not the indiscriminate luxury and wordly power which the gold could give him. He chooses only the helmet of invisibility and the Ring. He does not know their history; he chooses them because he finds them beautiful and because his instincts tell him they are of greater value than any coin or golden bauble.
These objects are profoundly important, for they carry magical powers. The helmet of invisibility is an ancient symbol we find also in Greek myth; there it is portrayed as the property of Hades, and it allows its wearer to move through life concealed. It is an image of worldly wisdom, for with it we know when to be still, so that we can observe and learn from life without imposing our own views, wishes and opinions on others. It is also an image of the ability to know and keep secrets, without which we remain children who must blurt out everything we feel and think to anyone who will listen.
And the Ring of the Nibelungs? Entire volumes have been written about its meaning, and the golden Ring of Power appears not only in Teutonic and Norse myth, but also in J. R. R. Tolkien's classic twentieth-century tale, The Lord of the Rings. The Ring of the Nibelungs first comes from the depths of the waters, an image of the natural magic and power in the depths of the human soul. It is stolen first by the dwarf Alberich, who seeks power over the world; and in turn it is stolen by the great god Wotan. This Ring holds the power to both create and enslave others. It is wrested from the depths of the unconscious and forged into a tool which can be used for good or evil – for such is the power of human ingenuity and creative inspiration. Alberich wishes to use it for evil; Mime wants to do the same; Wotan wishes no evil, but feeds his vanity and sets evil in motion unwittingly. Yet Siegfried wants the Ring only because it is beautiful. He does not yet understand what it can do. Eventually it leads him to tragedy; but that is later, and due to his own foolishness. For now, we need to remember that the Ring contains all the human potentials for creativity and leadership which can be discovered by every young person, if the dragon of sloth, inertia and unconsciousness can be conquered.
Finding an identity
In myth, the hero represents the human impulse to leave the safety of tame and familiar surroundings and move out into unknown, even dangerous, territory. In Arthurian myths, the Knight Errant confronts many dangers, but the two greatest perils he must face are dishonor and death. In other words, he risks his life for his ideal of what he should be. In this tale, our hero is Guinglain. In the beginning, like Peredur and Siegfried, he does not know his name, nor who his father is. His mother has brought him up alone and, on account of his stunning good looks, calls him Fair Son.
n reaching manhood, Guinglain left his mother's house and rode off to the court of King Arthur. He boldly entered the great hall, and asked the king to grant him whatever he asked. Arthur, amused by the youth's strange mixture of confidence and naivety, agreed. As the young man had no name but a handsome and pleasing countenance, the king called him the Fair Unknown.
Just then another stranger appeared – a maiden, whose name was Helie. She begged Arthur to send a knight to rescue her mistress, Blonde Esmeree, the queen of Wales. Two wicked sorcerers had turned Esmeree into a dragon, and the poor queen could only be released from her bondage by a kiss. Of course, Guinglain offered his services immediately; and Arthur, bound by his promise to give the youth anything he asked, granted him permission. At first Helie was irritated by being given an inexperienced young man, lacking even a name, to accomplish such an important task. She rode away in a fury, and Guinglain had quite a job to catch up with her.
However, before long, Helie changed her mind, as the Fair Unknown proved a courageous and clever companion. He overcame a fierce knight at the Perilous Ford, saved a girl from two giants, and defeated a further three knights who attacked him. Helie and the Fair Unknown arrived at the Golden Island, which could only be reached by a causeway. It was well defended by a formidable knight who wished to marry the lady of the Golden Island; but this lady did not love him, and promised that she would only consent to marriage if he managed to hold the causeway for seven years. The knight had succeeded in this for the first five years, and a row of severed heads on tall spikes marked his efficiency in combat. Guinglain, however, challenged, fought and killed the knight without further ado.
The lady of the island was a breathtakingly lovely fay called the Maiden of the White Hands. She lived in a castle made of crystal, set in a garden filled with spices and flowers which blossomed all the year round. The fay had long loved Guinglain, although he did not know this. She welcomed him to the island and declared her wish to marry him. Guinglain felt a strong attraction to her, too; but Helie reminded him of the task in hand, and early the next morning they crept away.
That night, they arrived at a castle where the custom was to fight the castellan for a night's lodging. Guinglain won the joust easily, and the castellan gave them a warm welcome. The next day he led them to the Waste City of Senaudon, where Helie's mistress, the Blonde Esmeree, was imprisoned. The castellan warned Guinglain that he should return any welcome he received in the city with a curse.
The city of Senaudon had once been glorious, but now it lay in ruins. Guinglain rode through a broken gate and passed crumbling, deserted towers; and at last he reached a palace. There, pale minstrels played in candlelit windows, calling him welcome. But Guinglain obeyed his orders and cursed them. He entered the great hall, where he was attacked by axes – yet the hands which wielded them were invisible. Then a huge knight appeared on a fire-breathing horse. Guinglain, though powerfully afraid, courageously fought and killed him, and the knight's body miraculously putrefied before his eyes.
The minstrels then fled with their candles, and Guinglain was alone in darkness, keeping his spirits up by thinking of the beautiful Maiden with the White Hands. Then a horrible fire-breathing serpent glided towards him in the darkness and kissed him on the lips. A mysterious voice announced, ‘Your name is Guinglain and you are the son of Gawain.’ His quest finally achieved, Guinglain fell asleep on the spot, exhausted but overjoyed that he now knew who he was.
When he awoke, the hall was full of light, and next to him stood a beautiful woman, although not quite as beautiful as the Maiden with the White Hands. This lady was Blonde Esmeree, returned to her human form. She told Guinglain that the two enchanters, Mabon and Evrain, had bewitched both her and the city in order to make her marry Mabon; and the spell had driven all the inhabitants of the city away. Mabon was the giant knight on the fire-breathing horse, whom Guinglain had killed the night before; and now that she was free from the spell, Esmeree intended to marry Guinglain.
Guinglain at first agreed, but found himself wishing for his beautiful fay, the Maiden with the White Hands. He returned once more to the Golden Island, where at last he and the fay consummated their love. She told him she had watched over him all his life. She had sent Helie to Arthur's court, knowing that Guinglain would volunteer for the adventure; and it was her voice that pronounced his name and revealed his true identity to him at last.
However, when news arrived that King Arthur had organized a grand tournament, the fay knew she could not hold her lover any longer. And, having slept in her arms, Guinglain awoke alone in a wood, armor-clad and with a horse at his side. He proved his valor over and over at the tournament and was reunited with Blonde Esmeree, who had followed him there. Together they travelled to Senaudon, delighting in the fact that its people had returned. There they were married and crowned king and queen amid great rejoicing.
The story of the Fair Unknown describes the search for identity and tells us that only through enduring danger and difficulty can the true self be discovered. At the beginning of the story, Guinglain, like most other young people, does not know who he is. In order to discover himself, he must face many perils. In everyday life, each individual must leave the safety of home to strike out alone. In many myths, a dragon fight is a requirement in order to conquer evil. Dragons are often symbols of human greed, chaos and destructiveness; they devour whatever crosses their path and destroy everything by fire. But Guinglain's task is not to kill this dragon; it is to kiss the creature to break the spell and restore the city to life. This suggests that compassion and understanding may achieve far more than rage or suppression in the battle against inner destructiveness. The wicked sorcerers, Mabon and Evrain, represent an anti-life-force, promoting stasis and corruption. They numb the city by driving away its people; and the minstrels with their candles, who welcome Guinglain so avidly, are the walking dead, the people who have died within because they have given way to an inner despair and darkness. Mabon, too, is inwardly dead – there is no love, compassion or joy in his heart – which is why he putrefies immediately.
These images of evil which Guinglain conquers are not only ‘out there’ in the world, but also within the Fair Unknown himself. They are the dark, destructive, regressive impulses with which all young people must battle if they are to win their place in the light and claim a sense of inner identity and a fulfilling and productive life. In the images of the sorcerers, we may glimpse the bitterness and hopelessness which lie behind so many tragic examples of young people who become drug addicts and criminals. Like the queen and her city, they are bewitched by the belief that there is no hope and that the world is a terrible, barren place. It is not sufficient to blame these anti-life-forces on ‘society’ or ‘government’. They lie within each of us, and the quest for identity involves facing them honestly and surmounting them.
Guinglain brings the Waste City back to life by marrying its queen, and becomes a king of life rather than of death. He also wins the love of the fay, and it is she who tells him his name. It was once believed that the real name of a person contained the essence of that person's being, and receiving the gift of his name means that Guinglain now knows who and what he truly is. He gains the fay's love through his courage and beauty, yet it is ultimately his devotion to duty, reflected in his allegiance to King Arthur, which breaks her spell over him. Instead of dwelling with the fay, he marries a human queen and rules over a human city, not a fairy's domain. This is an important part of the tale; for it is through marrying a real woman, not a creature of fantasy, that Guinglain reaches his full integrity. He must turn away from fantasy loves and lives, for his path lies in the human world, not in a tempting land of ever-blooming flowers. In this way, the fay represents an inner death if Guinglain stays with her too long; the road to her domain is, after all, lined with severed heads. The fay's magical island is the realm of the imagination, separated from life, which can lead us to our potential creativity. She is also an image of the ideals which give us the incentive to move out into life. Ideals inspire us to pursue the good, the true and the beautiful; yet, by their nature, they can never be entirely achieved, and if we dwell too long in the realm of the imagination we may ignore the outer world which requires our efforts and attention. We need both ideals and a sense of reality, for each individual must come to terms with living life here and now, and must find his or her own identity within the framework of being human.
Accepting mortality
The Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh is a lengthy four-thousand-year-old tale describing the exploits of the first of the great mythic heroes. Gilgamesh, like his later counterparts, is an image of the heroic aspect of each one of us, striving to be an individual, entering the battle of life and defining a place in the world. The part of the tale which concerns us here describes how Gilgamesh decided he wanted to be immortal, and set off in quest of the Tree of Immortality beneath the sea. Needless to say, he learned what we all must learn sooner or later, as our youthful hopes and aspirations collide with the reality of life in the earthly world.
oung Gilgamesh and his friend Enkidu fought many hard battles against monsters and demons, and always returned victorious. But Enkidu incurred the wrath of the great goddess Ishtar, who persuaded the other gods that Enkidu must die. When Gilgamesh found out about the unexpected and unfair death of this bravest and most beloved of comrades, the hero mourned deeply. He mourned not only because he missed his friend, but also because Enkidu's death reminded him that he too was mortal and would one day die.
Being a hero, Gilgamesh could not sit about pondering the ultimate fate of all humanity. He decided to go in search of immortality. He knew that his ancestor Utnapishtim, the survivor of the Great Flood sent by the gods to punish humankind, was the only earthly creature ever to have achieved immortality. He was determined to find this man and learn from him the secrets of life and death.
At the outset of his journey, he came to the foot of a great range of mountains guarded by a scorpion-man and his wife. The scorpion-man told Gilgamesh that no mortal had ever crossed the mountains and braved their dangers. But Gilgamesh told him the purpose of his quest, and the scorpion-man, full of admiration, let the hero pass. Gilgamesh travelled for twelve leagues in darkness and, eventually, arrived at the abode of the sun-god. The sun-god warned the hero that his quest was in vain, but Gilgamesh would not be dissuaded and went on his way.
At last, he arrived at the shores of the sea of the waters of death. There he met a guardian, a woman with a jug of ale, who, like the scorpion-man and the sun-god, endeavored to dissuade him from his quest. The ale-woman reminded him that life was to be enjoyed:
‘Gilgamesh, where do you wander?
You shall not find what you seek.
When the gods created human beings,
Death is what they allotted to mortals,
Retaining the secret of life in their own hands.
Let your belly be full, Gilgamesh,
And make a feast of rejoicing each day.
Day and night, dance and play.
Bathe yourself, and pay heed to the child who holds your hand,
And let your wife delight in you.
For this is the task of humankind.’
But Gilgamesh could not forget Enkidu or his own eventual end. He pushed on to the end of his perilous journey. By the shore he met the ancient boatman who had been the steersman of Utnapishtim's boat when the Great Flood destroyed most of the world, and he commanded this old man to ferry him across the waters of death. But the boatman told him to make a boat himself and never to touch a drop of the waters of death as he rowed across the sea. Gilgamesh did as he was instructed and, finally, arrived on an island where dwelt the survivor of the Great Flood.
But Utnapishtim only repeated what all the others had told the hero: the gods have declared immortality for themselves and have assigned death as the lot of humankind. Gilgamesh, abandoning hope at last, prepared to depart. But Utnapishtim took pity on him and told him of a secret Tree that grew at the bottom of the sea, which had the power to make the old young again. Gilgamesh rowed out to the middle of the sea, dived into the waters of death and found the Tree, bringing a branch back to his boat. He crossed safely to land again and began to make his way home with his treasure concealed in a sack. On his way home, he stopped by a pool to bathe and change his clothes. But a serpent, creeping near, smelled the heavenly scent of the Tree of Immortality and carried the branch off and ate the leaves. This is why the serpent is able to renew itself by shedding its skin.
Gilgamesh the hero knelt down by the pool, put his face in his hands and wept. He understood now that what he had been told was true: even the mightiest and most courageous of heroes is human and must learn to live with joy in the moment and acceptance of the inevitable end.
This tale really needs no interpretation; its message is clear and its relevance no less today than it was four thousand years ago. Gilgamesh, the young hero who has already made many conquests, comes face to face with a characteristic manifestation of life's unfairness. He loses his friend, and the only explanation is that it was the will of the gods. In such a way, do we all, sooner or later, encounter the first glimpse of life's cruel face through the loss of a loved one. Often this is a parent or a much-loved grandparent, but it may also be a school friend or a work colleague who is struck down. Or it may not be death that reminds us of the lot of humankind; it may be a realization of the hardship in which so many people live, a confrontation with illness oneself, or difficult circumstances which disrupt one's life and throw one's plans and dreams awry.
Gilgamesh, like the youthful part of all of us, refuses, at first, to accept his fate. After all, he is special; he is a hero; he has conquered monsters and is making his mark on the world. When we hear of others' misfortune, we all say to ourselves, ‘How sad; but it won't happen to me!’ The pursuit of one's destiny in youth is full of confidence and a profound sense of specialness. This is one of the gifts of the first half of life, and, if we are fortunate, we may retain it – perhaps in subtler, more tempered forms – in later life as well. But this firm belief in one's ability to conquer anything will one day collide with reality. Gilgamesh is warned by both guardians, as well as by his ancestor Utnapishtim, that immortality is reserved for the gods alone. He ignores their good advice and, at great risk, steals a branch from the Tree of Immortality. The story of Gilgamesh is older than that of Genesis, and the Babylonian hero is not punished by the gods as are Adam and Eve. It is Nature itself, in the form of the serpent, which gently brings the message home.
There is a deep paradox embedded in this ancient tale. We, like Gilgamesh, need to challenge life when we are young and test our strength against life's limits; and, like Gilgamesh, we may often win and achieve many of our goals. To display cowardice in youth is to ignore the purpose of life, and to try to avoid conflict through clinging to childhood is to avoid one's ultimate destiny as a human being. But, while it is right that the young person challenges life's unfairness and tests what appears to be fate, we may be reminded, in the end, that there are some boundaries we cannot cross. Whatever our religious or spiritual persuasion, and whether we call those boundaries the will of God, human limits or simply ‘the way life is’, we cannot claim to be more than human. We must take our share of grief as well as joy, and failure as well as success. The Tree which renews life and transforms old age into youth may beckon in every health farm or cosmetic surgery clinic, and many of us tend, by the time we reach thirty, to start seeking ways to prolong youth. Perhaps this is fitting and necessary. But Gilgamesh's discovery is one of the great watersheds of arrival at maturity. The individual who can recognize his or her potentials and can take up worldly challenges is indeed heroic, and each of us has this capability, within the limits of our individual gifts and personalities. The young man or woman who can do this, while also remembering that limits must be respected and that life is to be lived here and now, however unfair it may sometimes seem, has truly become adult.