Slow Havamal: 1

[kylec]

As I open the pages of Havamal, I see the faint outline of a hall, timber-framed beneath a steep roof that vaults into the deepening blue of twilight. It sits at the end of a footworn path near the onset of a dense wood, a lantern over the door the only mark of life. A thick cloud hides the moon and a cold wind hints at the night that will come upon a traveler exposed. I approach, and the heavy ash door hums against the palm of my hand. Maybe there’s a rune carved on the frame above. It’s already too dark to tell. With more effort than I care to admit, I lean into its weight and it groans open as a rush of warm air escapes. The interior flickers with light. Bodies crowd the room, bent over tables, tripping this way or that, as voices weave over one another and not an eye turns. There are men, women. Cups of mead, and chicken pot pies. A pitcher dances around the room. This is a place for travelers. For the bone-weary, the cold of marrow, those who move under heavy lids. The door is open, and none will stop a man who cares to enter. Yet I hesitate.

This is the first installment of a series in which I read the Norse poem Havamal—the “words of the High One,” Odin—slowly. One verse per week, until it’s done. I’m working with Jackson Crawford’s translation, The Wanderer’s Havamal, and as I don’t have permission to quote the entirety of the book, I’ll paraphrase each verse, and only quote swatches when I absolutely need to. These posts are what I happen to take away from it. They’re not right, hopefully not wrong, and I claim no authority on the subject. I just enjoy old myths, and I think there’s a lot of good stuff tucked away there. Especially in this one.

In the first verse, Odin advises us that at every doorway we come to, we should pause and take a good look around before we enter, because we never know where our enemies might be seated within.

For most of my life, I had no patience for mythology. I found the stories simplistic, childish, and boring. Some kind of proto-writing in which the ancients painstakingly worked out, over centuries, how to write like 20^th century authors. Of course, the only simplistic thing was my own mind. There is nothing more dense in beauty and meaning than a good classic text. No matter how slowly I read it, or how many times I repeat the effort, I’ll never come close to exhausting everything there is to take away from even a single poem of this caliber among a vast corpus.

It’s tempting to read this, and other works of mythology, literally. So tempting, in fact, that I’ll make sure to do it. Havamal especially is a very lively poem full of good literal advice. But my main interest is in a metaphorical reading as it applies to the personal development of the reader into one who possesses the wisdom and virtues it was intended to convey.

I’ll start at the doorway, and linger there for a moment on the advice of Odin. The scene I sketched in the opening paragraph is one that might be familiar, at least in kind, to a traveler of any century—10th or otherwise—in coming upon a strange inn. There aren’t too many folks in my life running around with dirks and derringers in hopes of waylaying me during a meal, but I can imagine someone who lived contemporary to the composition and recitation of this work may well have had his enemies. They may have been outright, or in the habit of greeting one another as friends. So it’s unwise to just saunter into a strange location and plop into the nearest seat, lest you find yourself surrounded by enemies you didn’t bother to recognize. This is useful even now when walking a dark street at night, or boarding a city bus. If you’re a female, it’s probably ten times more useful. We might want the world to be kind. We might expect it, or feel entitled to it. Odin reminds us that the world is under no obligation to meet our expectations, and that it’s wiser to take a moment and look at what actually lies before you. Not your hopes, but also not your darkest fears. What is it that waits ahead? Be honest with yourself.

Moving away from the wood and masonry of the literal world, we are still at the doorway. And what is that? A threshold between worlds. On one side, the place we came from. On the other, a place we might go. When a door closes behind you, the world of your senses changes entirely. This is an initiation. Of a journey, maybe. An experience. Or something else. Any time we undertake to enter a new place, it should be commenced with gravity. Anywhere worth going is worth considering. Be aware of the potential dangers, the seriousness of it, even if the place you go is one of immense promise. Otherwise, you may look up to find your exit blocked by enemies.

For example, I’m undertaking to read one verse of Havamal per week and write a short report on it. That’s a journey that will take 164 weeks, more than three years, and thousands of words. What is it I’m considering at the doorway? I think the telling line is “might be seated within.” Whether that’s in the original, or it’s a clever translation on Crawford’s part, the enemies I need to consider are those I carry with me. With any given task, there are aspects of myself who will do their best to hamper and hamstring me at every corner, if not turn me back. Call them self-defeating habits, or character flaws.

Why would anyone spend 164 weeks reading a poem and writing about it? The noblest answer is to immerse myself in another world’s way of thinking in order to get outside of my own head and gain something of the wisdom and virtues it had stashed away. In truth, there are also a lot of bad reasons. If I imagine these enemies as dwarf versions of myself—shorter limbs and longer beards—their names would be things like Haughty and Sanctimonious, Stir-Causer and Approval-Seeker. Steep ruts that, even with the noblest beginnings, are easy to slip into. They may even seem like fashionable new friends, each holding its own kind of reward. That reward comes at a hefty cost. You need only one good reason to do something. In fact, you can probably only have one. Two reasons is justification, and it means that neither is the true master.

There are also enemies with names like Lazy and Fearful and Bashful and Shifty. Dabbler and Dummy and Forgetful. Busy and Sleepy. All the reasons I might balk or quit, as I have many times in the past. These enemies come as old friends who have always been happy to accept a hand from me, but who offer only daggers when it’s me who needs help.

Before I undertake the task, I need to look around and make sure I know each of them by name, and where they sit. Carl Jung calls those harmful aspects of ourselves that we refuse to acknowledge the Shadow. It’s most dangerous when it’s denied, and left to its own devices. If I name it and keep an eye on it, I not only prevent ambush, but I may be able to integrate it and make use of it in some ways. Few enemies are ever truly evil, and as long as I don’t skip with my eyes closed pulling the petals from daisies, expecting all the world to play fair, which is a word that means “the way I think things ought to be,” these enemies become a lot less daunting.

Notice Odin never says to turn back if your enemies are present. Only to account for them. This place might also be full of good friends, and new acquaintances. There’s much to learn if I focus on my task and keep the dangers in sight. This applies to any new venture, any new way of looking at the world, and each time, the enemies are different, depending on what’s at stake, and how much one grows in between.

So pull up a chair and pour yourself a cup of mead. I don’t know where this leads, but it should be a fun journey.