Friday, April 1, 2016

Antaeus Shows How It's Done

We all need to keep connected to the nourishing fundamentals of our lives. For a runner, it's shoes and a road. For the Zen practitioner, a floor to sit on, and counting the breath. For the gardener, it's warm black soil at the fingertips, and seeds. It's beautiful, what basic stuff can keep us strong, if we keep in continual contact with it. And we should, heck even giants need a foundation when they go around being giants. Just consider Antaeus.

According to the ancient Greeks, who were very wise about many things, Antaeus was a giant. His father was Poseidon, and his mother was the earth goddess, Gaia. Antaeus wrestled. And so long as his feet were firmly planted on the earth (his mother) he could wrestle anytime and anyone, and win. For years and years he won against every challenger, and he had plenty. Always his victory was total. Every defeated opponent—ahem—well, Antaeus took the skull, and added it to a temple he was building to his father, ruler of the wine-dark sea, these skulls being not just ambiance and decor for the place, but what the whole thing was made of, grin grin. The very walls.

Antaeus was eventually beaten by Hercules, who in the ultimate mythic match up, strategically lifted Antaeus so that his feet were off the ground, then crushed him against his body in a suffocating bear hug. I have mixed feeling about Hercules here. I suspect he wasn't playing by the rules. Though of course, at least as far as the skulls go, we can probably leave Antaeus out as a role model too.

But the general Greek point here is: keep connected with what gives you strength, because that's your ultimate mother. Never step away from her. Never let anyone rip you apart from her. And yes, this is about dependence. Not the dependence that says "aw honey you don't have to fight," but the dependence that provides the fizz of the fight in you, and that stabilizes and confirms.

It happens that in the last couple of years or so, I've come to discover that my Gaia, my ground of support, is really other people. A turn of the door knob. Footsteps I know. Familiar voices cheerful or sad. A chink of glasses. A slap on the shoulder. A press of the hand. A smile reflected. An insight communicated. A grudge rehashed. A bit of gossip whispered low. A punchline and a slap of the thigh.  A "remember when?" A "do you see?" I love all these. I need them.

It's probably important to say that what nourishes us in a deep way isn't necessarily just one thing, or to be found in only one venue. It isn't even necessarily what we're obviously and outwardly attached to while we're doing what others would say we "do," though when it's not directly with us, we may need to imagine it being there. When I write my plays, for instance, I try to write them with specific actors in mind. People I know. Real people I love. This approach, because it grounds itself in my love of people, is I think a real source of strength. It makes me want to write in such a way as to make these people radiate the truth that I know is in them. To pair their gestures and smiles with suitable words. To embody the intonations of their speech in living story. 

When do you feel most connected to what nourishes you? Are you in contact with it now?

HB

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