Orpheus turned around and Eurydice vanished.
The Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice tells the story of love and loss, and the passionate determination for reunion.
Orpheus was a mesmerizing musician, poet and prophet. Born of the muse, Calliope, and the sun god, Apollo, he fell deeply in love with Eurydice, a tree nymph and daughter of Apollo. Their union was marked by a bad omen and soon after marrying, as she ran from an attacker, Eurydice fell into a nest of vipers, was bitten and died. Utterly bereft, Orpheus set out to retrieve her from the Underworld.
Orpheus turned to Zeus for help but he declined to meddle, though he did offer the assistance of Hermes in escorting him to Hades. Orpheus skillfully met each barrier—paying the ferryman and subduing the ferocious three-headed dog, Cerberus, through his magical song.
Once entering the Underworld, Orpheus with his lyre charmed all its inhabitants, freeing each soul for momentary peace and rest from their endless toil. So impressed, Hades and Persephone granted his wish.
On one condition: Eurydice must walk behind him, and he could not turn around until they were both out of the Underworld caves. Orpheus eagerly agreed.
But the journey was long and, unable to hear her footsteps or sense her presence, doubt began to grow in Orpheus’s mind. He became nervous that she was not actually there behind him. Suddenly, unable to stop himself, he turned to look. There she was in her spirit form, then, at once, was pulled back into the Underworld.
When I have a question, I often turn to mythology to find the stories that resonate and clarify who and how we humans are.
As is often the case, I awoke today with a vivid dream, conscious of every detail. As I turned to move and consider the day ahead, I looked back and realized the dream had vanished. Only a trace remained, with no way to pull it back to me.
There are many spiritual and aesthetic practices that rest on receiving such subtle images as those of dreams—insights and experiences that come to us or through us rather than our reaching for or creating them. Psychic-mediumship, hypnotic regression, Shamanic journeying, dreamwork, intuition, artmaking, Buddhist meditation, Jung’s active imagination… During such practices, our personal stories fall to the background as the heart-mind opens into a non-ordinary consciousness—beyond the veil, as the Irish describe.
I wonder about Orpheus and how he couldn’t help from turning around. All the love and pain that compelled him to search and reconnect with Eurydice, lost in that singular, compelling drive to know.
I feel this when uncertainty arises, my trust in something unseen challenged. It’s so appealing to seek to know, to be reassured and to rest in the structure and security the dualistic mind promises.
But what else might Orpheus had done? What might I do when I feel the need to look, to know?
Don’t care.
Not to be confused with not taking care when care is needed, it’s not unlike the detachment of Zen practice. It’s too easy to think this is an emotional withdrawal. Consider that it’s neither that nor an emotional attachment.
What it may feel like (and feeling is the better way to know you’re there) is leaving yourself aside… having no agenda, no hope… relying on no process or outcome, holding no concerns for what’s ahead or behind, seeking no material success or rational acuity. It’s a taking-nothing-personally. It’s trust.
And what about Hades and Persephone’s condition? What are they saying about us and how we use our minds and hearts? Are we bound to some predicable misstep?
Poet Rabindranath Tagore lyrically responds here: Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.
Until next time…