Slow Havamal: 3

[kylec]

In the third verse, we are presented with a man who has just come inside after a long journey over the mountains, knees shivering. The host is advised to build him a fire, and provide him with food and dry clothing.

A guest has arrived after many hardships. He is visibly cold and wet, no doubt hungry. The host’s responsibility is to observe his needs and supply what he’s missing—what he needs in order to feel human again. We see an ability to put ourselves in another’s shoes, to pick up on cues, to imagine what we would want in the same situation. These are things the host is currently enjoying: food, dry clothing, a fire. They’ll come from the host’s own stock. The needs listed in this verse are typical of an old traveler, but the point is that the host has made an honest assessment and done his best to attend to the needs of the man before him. Different men will need different things, some of which we may be able to help with.

We saw in earlier verses this guest was eager to try his luck, to see what he might gain from the hospitality of the man who lives here. In the simplest terms, to gain means to find easier access to something. If I had no bread, and you hand me bread—no blanket and one is folded before me—my access becomes pretty straightforward. Even when I say I “have” something that isn’t right in front of me, like a house, or a truck, what I mean is I have an expectation of easy access and use. No man or force of nature tries to prevent me from reaching it any longer. In hospitality, this requires a concession of a host, which I’ll define as relinquishing one’s own access to some degree, that another may have easier access. The owner of the refuge gives up his own ability to make use of wood, gruel, a clean shirt, at least temporarily. In the most basic terms, we should give of what we can spare in order to bring a guest as close as is reasonable to our own level of comfort.

So far in this series, I’ve been using the metaphor of hospitality to symbolize any new endeavor into which someone might enter. Even those who travel alone require help along the way. We find ourselves exhausted, our resources depleted. Or we find others in this state. For example, I entered into this study of Havamal because I’m looking for something that I couldn’t get on my own. Maybe I ran myself down looking, or I come to this situation with a history of trials and difficulty, and am at last received where I might find something to keep me going. Or to read these characters as aspects of the self, the nobler side must receive the struggle-bus version. I have to be patient with myself over the fact that it’s taking a long time to get what I seek, and be kind to myself instead of casting myself out into the cold wilderness.

On the other hand, I can see this visitor as those nobler aspects. That man who has done all the heavy work and learned the commensurate lessons. He has a lot of good stories to tell. Useful advice for whoever might listen. The more selfish, materialistic aspect would do well to bring him in and offer refuge, and in turn, benefit from his travels. But wait! Isn’t that a contradiction? Shouldn’t I stick with one or the other arrangement?

I see the world through many different eyes, all of them my own. Depending on how my day is going and my disposition, I could be in a nobler mood, or a selfish one. I could be tired, or brimming with energy, or meandering without a care. Some days I’m the traveler, some days I’m the host. Some days, the traveler is one thing, or another. It requires a contextual evaluation to determine what role I play, just as a host must look over his guest and determine his needs, and a guest must look over his host and determine what manners he should follow and how much he should ask. The dynamics change significantly depending on who plays what role, and maybe part of the lesson of hospitality is that we all have to experience each side eventually, in its totality. It isn’t possible to understand a whole from just one of its parts.

Many folks would argue that the original intention of the writer was straightforward, and has nothing to do with any of these metaphorical readings I’m pulling out of a dark and balmy place. That may be true. I would also point out that none of us have any notion what the writer intended, or how it was received by the original contemporary audience. Within the same audience, it likely had as many interpretations as there were ears—which means at least two per person.

Nor am I limited in what value I can get out of the text by what a 9th century audience heard, which again is pure speculation on anyone’s part. These essays say more about the person writing them than they do Havamal, and that’s true of anyone’s reading. So be it. Different guests, different hosts.