kylec | Slow Havamal: 106

In verse 106, Odin uses a tusk like a drill to burrow out of the cave of the giants, escaping with the mead, and notes that this action risks his head.

This story within Havamal seems to have veered from advice. We get a personal anecdote from Odin that at a glance, is rather hard to apply to our own lives, and may not be intended for that purpose anyway. Having taken some of the giants’ mead, called Oderir, Odin attempts to escape the hall, which now appears to be a network of caves within a mountain full of giants. He used Rati’s tusk to bore a way out. This mead is closely guarded, so his attempt to escape with it will not be taken lightly by Suttung and his ilk.

Knowing how this story ends from other sources like the Prose Edda, we can be grateful that Odin stole the mead of inspiration which he shares with humanity. This is a Promethean act, taking fire from the gods to elevate a lowly bunch. It may not be entirely selfless, but even in our most generous moments we usually get something out of the act itself, if not a material reward. What’s important is that Odin found a prize that was being horded, and freed it to enrich a wider world.

In order to get anything worth having, we must take risks. These can be calculated, of course, but sometimes there is no calculation that could justify the greatest of achievements. They stand as something like a surrender to the forces of nature and their consequences, and are celebrated thusly. Most who try these feats will probably end in miserable oblivion. The rare success is lauded beyond the takers of careful risks, and maybe that’s part of how Odin came into his high position.

Part of me is reminded of the creative act itself. We go into dangerous places, drink of the inspiration, and try to carry some of it home to others in our works. Perhaps every time you write a song or a book, design the landscaping in your yard, or craft a costume, you venture into the dark unknown in hopes of returning with spark of that collective unconscious where the new and the bizarre is born. Being an artist of any sort carries the risk of isolation from people who don’t understand you, of rejection, and most notably of not having much money. We have to find our Rati’s tusk—that thing which allows us to return before we’re consumed by those wild powers of inspiration.

Even if we’re considering mundane things like asking someone on a date, changing jobs, or telling a truth, we risk our heads. What we create is each moment from a seething mountain of raw possibilities, and ultimately, a life of those moments. There are many trips into the mountain, and if we’re swift, just as many back out.