Being Reclaimed by Mythology

I've got a bit of a confession to make: I've not read much mythology lately. I know, I know, I went on an 8 month rant about the benefits of mythology and how Star Wars was a modern mythological marvel, The Last Jedi especially. Yeah, kinda hypocritical of me. Yup. I mean, don't get me wrong, I've been doing as close to daily as possible my Scripture readings, which is an extremely similar process if you take into account St. Maximos' teachings on how Scripture is meant as a decoder for your life, but classical mythology? Nah, I've not. I got really burned out doing the Star Wars posts, and frankly every time I tried to put myself back into "The Story" I'd just be overwhelmed by my own darkness. But something happened that changed that.

A few months of EMDR therapy later (which is essentially becoming a part of the story you didn't want to acknowledge) and I found myself in a bookstore with my family. We were having a great time; the kids had been at the train table for a long time, the in-laws were happily browsing, and my wife had her hot chocolate. But we were getting hungry and needed to go home for food. Life was good.

I became conscious of an interior call, of some sort. I ignored it, at least at first. I mean, we were wrapping up to go, why now? But the pull persisted. It got so bad that I finally decided to heed... whatever the hell it was. Finally I decided to follow it. The call that came from my soul pulled me into the classics section. And from there to the mythology. And from there to Homer. And from Homer to the Iliad. I'd been down this road many times before, reading the first page and then putting the book down. Rolling my eyes, I picked it up, and opened it to the following words (more or less, as I was reading a different translation):

Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.

And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest. Now Chryses had come to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and had brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo wreathed with a suppliant's wreath and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus, who were their chiefs.

"Sons of Atreus," he cried, "and all other Achaeans, may the gods who dwell in Olympus grant you to sack the city of Priam, and to reach your homes in safety; but free my daughter, and accept a ransom for her, in reverence to Apollo, son of Jove."

On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "Old man," said he, "let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."

 As I read this passage, which I've read over, and over, and over again, that call became a pit. The myth called upon my rage. It was a terrible thing to be asked for; it was decades old, and slowly fading as its underlying causes were being integrated. But here was the myth, asking for my rage, so that way I could do more than understand Achilles, so that way I could be Achilles. I did not fully understand what it was that I was doing, but I needed to do it. And, right there with my family minding their own business, I became Achilles.

Now, let me explain by what I mean by that. Cause that sounds crazy.

I don't mean that I had a hallucination. I was in a bookstore, the whole time. I could see that I was in a bookstore. I could hear everybody around me and was able to respond to them, albeit it took some concentration from me to respond. I just... inside of me something else was happening, and I felt that something distinctly different but just as important (if not more!) was going on, and it so happened that I felt like a completely different person, seeing the world as they did, feeling as they did, wanting what they wanted.

But I wouldn't say that I wasn't affected by what was going on, out in the physical world. My knees buckled, locked, and stayed that way. I swayed, however slightly. My family didn't notice. But I was no longer there. I was Achilles, killing and yelling. I had purpose. My anger drove me. But it was directed. It was not rage. I knew what I was. The anger had context. It meant something. And I wanted to stay there, I wanted to stay where my anger made sense. I wanted to stay Achilles.

I'm not sure when I stopped being Achilles, but at some point I returned. I know I wanted to go back, or better, bring that back to this world. But in order to do that I have to allow my anger and pain to make sense. Mythology may be practice to do that. It may be more than that. I don't know yet. But there's only one way to find out.