Slow Havamal: 14

[kylec]

In the fourteenth verse, Odin admits having been too drunk at the house of wise Fjalar, and goes on to say that the best feast is the one you return from in possession of your wits.

Again, we have Odin admit a past mistake. The notion of infallibility simply doesn’t exist for the gods in Havamal. Who would you rather tell you that you shouldn’t do something: someone blamelessly pious, or someone who speaks from the wisdom of their own errors? The second person is already more likable to me, because I’m not perfect, either. I know what it feels like to do something regrettable, then regret it. Any time I’m faced with a prohibition, by inner five-year-old responds with a string of “whys”. When it comes from someone who’s lived the consequences, the advice carries more weight. I imagine that recovering alcoholics prefer to lean on others who’ve recovered from alcoholism, as opposed to tea-totaling nuns. And remember that this is advice, not an edict. We’re free to ignore it. The only consequences are those inherent in the act itself.

Jackson Crawford states that we don’t know who Fjalar is. There are a few folks by that name in other Norse myths, but none is an obvious fit. He could be one of the same, in a myth that didn’t survive, or another person by that name. All we can be sure of is that he is wise, and he once hosted Odin, who drank to excess. Using the perspective I’ve been tracking (with inebriation as a metaphor for being inflamed in passions; and wisdom as a structure of relationships born from experience that informs future actions), what we have is a guest who received hospitality from a host, and preferred to indulge himself in familiar behavior. It isn’t possible to benefit from the wisdom of our host if we insist on getting plastered to the point that we can barely hear our own thoughts. Of course, the host will allow us to drink what we please. It’s incumbent upon the guest to know when enough is enough. The guest’s responsibilities in the hospitality equation likely go unfulfilled when he gets too drunk.

This verse reminds us that when presented with an opportunity to learn, we should shut up and listen, instead of forcing our own predilections onto the situation. Too often, I decide ahead of time what a place, an event, or an interaction will be like, and then work hard to pay attention to only those aspects that agree with my expectations. This is especially true when I turn my inner monologue and outer dialogue to topics that I want to talk about, in terms that I see them, in order to get some kind of emotional jolt. A good guest would look at the place he visits, careful to take in both what he knew he’d find, and as many unexpected elements as he can pin down. He would let the host steer the conversation, even if that means it moves away from his pet topic before he has a chance to say his bit. Instead of looking to prove what he knows, or what skills he has, he should look for places where he feels lost, incapable. That’s where new wisdom lies. It should be an exciting discovery, rather than a humiliation.

The goal is to return from the feast with our wits. In this sense, that means the capacity to discern. To pay attention, notice, process, and relate the experience to many previous ones—to exercise wisdom. We tend to see a feast as competitive indulgence. How much food and drink can I stuff down and sleep off? All of it for a few hours’ worth of thrills, followed by many more of misery, and little to show for it. A memory that stops at the threshold and awakes in a dank room the next morning. Whoever the wise man hosting us, the feast he offers is a share of his wisdom. If we can forego the cheap tangible rewards and remain sober, there are many deeper ones to be had. Things that don’t pass out both ends of us the next morning. To “go home” means to have the experiences, and the memory of them, to integrate with our own storehouse of wisdom, that we might fine-tune it, if not change our minds altogether. Fjalar is a chance story someone tells us. A new route to work. New eyes on the same old hike. Fresh attention to how we play a particular song on the guitar. A new recipe. A boring meeting. Supper alone. A news article, judgment reserved. Anything can host wisdom for us if we can restrain our passions, hear it out, and enjoy the next morning with a clear head and our wits.