Three Fates, Nine Muses

Visiting the Cradle of Democracy During the American Election

Poetry of Everyday Life Blogpost #29

Most souls, on occasion, feel the need to embark on a voyage of personal discovery. Depending on their  backgrounds, some may choose to visit Benaris or Chenai in India, others the slave ports of Africa, or a village in Toisan, China. Children of Holocaust survivors might choose to visit Auschwitz.  I might have wanted to visit the shtetl, now the town of Shpola in Russia, where my  grandparents once lived.  Instead, my wife Amanda and I chose Greece:  the birthplace not only of democracy but of the rich cultural heritage of storytelling that has played such a huge  role in our life’s work and passions. 

Here’s how it happened. At very same time Amanda and I were planning a trip to Greece, my ping pong buddy, John McFadden, and his wife Lucille told me they were planning a similar trip.  When we scheduled our trip together through a wonderful, small travel agency, Esplora Travel (esplora.co.uk) we didn’t give a thought to our dates, October 25^th to November 8^th, realizing only later that the days would span the American election on November 5th.

So, while the country bit its nails, said prayers, sweated polls, and contemplated the future of democracy, John, Lucille, Amanda and I along with two other ping pong buddies, Barbara and Carol, toured ancient ruins—in the birthplace of democracy. We could almost feel the ghosts of Greek athletes racing naked or, at times, in full armor in Olympia, the oracle providing cryptic advice in heptameter to princes and kings in Delphi, and Pericles supervising the vote at the Agora public space in Athens.  At times, we felt we were imbibing the wisdom of ancient philosophers.  Thankfully the journey to the ancient ruins of Greece not only saved us considerable angst but also gave us a perspective on the election.  If Greek culture could survive invasions by the Mycenaeans, Persians, Alexander the Great,  Goths, Romans, Ottomans, and Nazis, perhaps ours, too, can make it through.  

Our trip began in Athens. Following Draco’s institution of the “draconian laws” in 621 BC, democratic reformer Cleisthenes (508-507 BC), introduced a political system called demokratia, or “rule by the people,” the first known democracy in the world. The fragile system was upended by a series of tyrants, then thrived (for a time) under Pericles in the 5^th and 4^th centuries BC until the conquest of Alexander the Great. During those two short centuries, male citizens who had completed their military service (definitely not women or the enslaved)  had an equal say and opportunity in the governing of Athens. Eligible citizens would meet on a hillside 30 to 40 times a year to discuss how to improve the city.  (Those who were eligible but did not participate were known as “idiots,” truants, “id” being the Greek word for person, so the term meant getting the “id” “out.”)

Democracy’s downsides were clearly in view when in 399 BC Socrates (470–399 BC) was brought to trial for impiety towards the gods.  His now famed Socratic method is the art of dissecting a topic through questioning. The Oracle of Delphi once declared Socrates to be Athens’ wisest human, and Socrates explained this by saying this was because, “I know that I know nothing.” The charges against him were put to a vote in one of the judicial bodies in Athens; he lost 280 to 220 on the first vote, and by more on the second.  He then  drank the poisonous hemlock rather than resist and forsake his principles, including his belief in democracy.

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  Not long after, Atheneans strongly regretted their vote, raised a bronze statue of him, and punished his accusers.  Voter’s remorse.  (Interestingly, our wise man Socrates argued that writing would ultimately destroy civilization, believing it would weaken people’s memories and critical thinking by making them reliant on external written records instead of internal knowledge. The jury is still out on that one — though we can only imagine what he’d say about social media.) On our trip, we relished the chance to visit Socrates’ Cave, where, legend has it, he was imprisoned before his death, joking that we could almost smell the hemlock.

Another focus of our journey was digging down to the roots of the myriad contemporary images, words, and stories that trace back to ancient Greece.  Before embarking,  Amanda and I watched the wonderful series, Great Greek Myths. We were struck by how much the films we had watched with our children, like Willow, The Neverending Story, and even Star Wars, drew heavily from those myths, as does so much of contemporary storytelling – not to mention the fact that modern rocketships are named for the Greek Gods – Apollo, Atlas, Hermes, Artemis. And then there is the English language: we undertake a Herculean task, have the Midas touch, rest on our laurels, suffer from an Oedipus complex, or set forth on an odyssey.

On the trip, I wrote a “Where I’m From Poem” to capture the feeling that part of my cultural history lies amidst these ruins.  An excerpt:

I am from Pandora’s box
Achilles’ Heel
the three fates,
nine muses

From Zeus and Hera
Artemis and Athena

 Homer’s wine-dark sea
rosy-fingered dawn

When I sent the poem to my Brevitas poetry group, my friend Cindy Hochman responded with a poem she, too, had written in that spirit. 

I am the girl with the mythological ethos
I am the girl with a soft spot for Eros
I am the girl who won’t sleep with Narcissus
I am the girl who has slept with Echo
I am the girl who breaks glass with Dionysus
I am the girl who has drunk the fine nectar
I am the girl who hangs out with Hermes
I am the girl who writes odes to Hades
I am the girl who’s as lame as Hephaestus
I am the girl who combs Medusa’s hair
I am the girl who calls Zeus her father
I am the girl with two Achilles’ heels
I am the girl who meditates with Pandora
I am the girl who edited The Odyssey
I am the girl who has reached Mount Olympus
I am the girl who turns gods into poems

When we traveled to Corinth, our marvelous Greek guide, Demetrios Katsoulis, an archaeologist, violinist, icon painter, kick boxer and all-around Renaissance man, told us about Diogenes (404–323 BC), one of the founders of the “Cynicism” school of Greek philosophy.  So many legends surround him. It is said he carried around a lantern in broad daylight in the hopes of spotting a truly honest person. 

When Alexander the Great, known for his intellect, swept through the City State of Corinth, according to legend, he asked to see the renowned philosopher Diogenes who lived, impoverished, in a large, empty wine vat. On his visit, Alexander asked the philosopher, “What can I do for you?” Diogenes replied simply, “I would like you to move a little to the right so as not to block the light. That’s all I want from you.” Some took this as Diogenes being dismissive of Alexander; others took it to mean that he didn’t want Alexander to detract Diogenes from the illumination and wisdom of the light.

At the end of 12 days, we returned home, our odyssey complete, the ambiguity of the election resolved, and the prospect of a new administration looming.  Facing this reality, let us take Diogenes as our teacher:  When a towering or tyrannical figure  chooses to block the light, let us shift slightly, so a ray hope still shines upon us.

Tell the stories, build the temples, venerate beauty, don’t block the light.

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