Probably the most famous association with labyrinths in the west is the myth of Theseus and the minotaur. (In fact, the word labyrinth is derived from Crete, where the myth takes place: it likely comes from a Pre-Greek word for ‘double-edged axe,’ a sign of royalty in Crete, and then later becomes labyrinthos, a palace with intricate passageways).
In the myth, Theseus volunteers to be one of the fourteen child sacrifices Athens sends each year to King Minos of Crete, who released them into the labyrinth to be devoured by the Minotaur. Theseus, aided by princess Ariadne, is able to slay the minotaur with the help of two things--one obvious, the other not. Ariadne provides him with a sword, and a ball of yarn. Ariadne instructs Theseus to tie one end of the yarn to the door at the entrance of the labyrinth, and unspool it as he enters the depths. The sword (obviously) is for killing the monster.
The ‘weapons’ Theseus requires are symbolic of the two obstacles he must overcome. On the one hand, he must slay the monster within, but then--equally difficult--he must find his way out again. Yarn serves as a physical and metaphorical embodiment of memory, or, more precisely, of the learning that comes from acting with intention and self awareness. If Theseus were able to remember his path, including his missteps, he would be able to find his way out. The fact that he requires yarn can be read as a tacit critique of our capabilities (or priorities) as heroes in our own stories. We are so focused on reaching our goals, on going after the great monster, that we miss out on learning from our wrong turnings. We rush through the labyrinth towards the Minotaur, without realizing that the confrontation isn’t the only challenge. The challenge is also what comes after.
In the context of a mythical beast, a ball of yarn, and a sword, this conundrum can seem remote or antiquated, but we need only change the props for it to feel relevant to us all. How often have you rushed to meet some deadline or spent a week anxiously fretting over a relationship decision, only to realize that the real work begins after? That the real work is almost always less romantic, more slow, and less easy to build an identity around?
Of course the interpretation of sword-obstacle and yarn-obstacle is only one interpretation of the myth. Myths are, by nature, able to be interpreted in myriad ways. But I think it’s a helpful interpretation if we are to play with the idea of labyrinths as a wider, more luxurious, and highly convenient metaphor for life.
First off, labyrinths are a great spatial representation of how we only ever experience the present. In a labyrinth, we have extremely limited visibility: we are literally confined to being only--and exactly--where we are. This strikes me as a spatial parallelism with the Buddhist exhortation of experience only occurring in the present time. Labyrinths spatially sever us from a past and a future. They compress space, and can make us feel as though we are moving in circles rather than moving ‘forward.’ But to traverse a labyrinth (which is traditionally unicoursal, as opposed to a maze, with is multicoursal), is in fact to move towards an outcome, even if it isn’t felt as such. We may feel as though we are stuck in space, but that’s what the present is like when experienced without a context.
Our reaction to this compressed or ‘limited’ experience is to revolt. Instinct leads us to want to rise above, to climb the labyrinth walls. It is no accident that depictions of labyrinths are always from above--it is only from a god like position that we can see the beautiful intricacy--the meaning--or a labyrinth. But this human instinct to have a greater perspective than our finite experience allows is a foundational part of what it means to be human.
As a university professor of mine once said, “to be human is to first try and fail to be god.”
Ultimately, we can’t observe a labyrinth any more than we can ‘observe’ life. We can only engage with a labyrinth by participating in it. In fact, we tend to think about the high walls bordering a labyrinth solely as a function to block a person’s view from the inside, but we can just as easily examine the importance of blocking the outside viewer from seeing in. The impossibility of viewing a labyrinth from the outside is symbolic of our mortal, finite position: there is no outside, no before or after. We are always in the middle, always journeying, with limited sight ahead and behind. On the one hand, our path is determined for us. On the other, we have agency in the choices we make along the way. It is possible to be eaten alive, and also possible to slay the minotaur.
It is possible to get lost, and also possible to find our way out again.
Words - Finnegan Shepard www.finneganshepard.com
Photography - Mischa de Stroumillo www.mischadestroumillo.com