Slow Havamal: 1

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.

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004: Banausos

I don’t speak Ancient Greek, but my favorite word out of the four or five I know is “banausos.” It’s a pejorative for manual laborer, craftsman, one who plies a trade, though that misses the heart of the meaning. It might be more accurate to use the word only at the beginning of the definition. Only a potter. Only a stonemason. Plato used it in contrast to the philosopher, who had many virtues, the system of which made up a philosophical life. If a philosopher was a generalist, a jack of all trades, a banausos was uber-specialized in one field at the expense of his soul. A famous contemporary example would be Floyd Mayweather, Jr. Master of the craft of boxing, but borderline illiterate with no other redeemable qualities as a human being outside of being able to put on a technically perfect boxing match. (Most banausoi—my best guess at the plural form—don’t get to be rich and famous.)

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