The Freeway Method of Enlightenment

I've been in L.A. since Thursday for some events connected with the publication of Jung's Red Book, but it hasn't been all scholarly activity. I've spent a lot of time exploring: looking for places to eat, shopping, walking, driving, and just plain looking. Lots of walking, lots of driving. The thing about writing about labyrinths is that you start to notice them more and more, both the ones that are clearly marked and the ones that aren't.

Yesterday I drove down to Laguna Beach, chancing the freeways of Orange County. Laguna Beach, with its curving boardwalk and garden-like cliffside path, sparkled under a cloudless sky. I made time for a labyrinth at an Episcopal Church in Laguna Hills, finding it after only one wrong turn on a street named El Toro. This church is next to a busy road, with the freeway humming not far away, so the labyrinth is an oasis of calm in the midst of much activity.

I left that labyrinth only to enter a larger one, the freeway system of Southern California. Despite driving down from L.A. without a hitch, I missed my freeway entrance on the way back and ended up on the I-5 instead -- so the way in was not the way out. I was trying to get back to L.A. in time to stop by the Jung Center, where a colleague from school had offered to show me around if I was in the neighborhood, and I would have made it if not for taking that wrong turn (or was it the right turn?). I ended up seeing parts of L.A. that I wouldn't have seen otherwise but missed the Jung Center altogether.

Then things got really complicated this morning, after I had what seemed like a simple idea. I thought it might be nice to visit an old church I once discovered near Olvera Street in downtown L.A. Olvera Street is all I saw of L.A. the first time I visited years ago, so it's where all my explorations here began. I even gave up breakfast at my hotel to try to get to the church by 8 a.m., which is saying something considering how much I like those Urth Cafe danishes.

I knew I needed to get on the I-10 from Cloverfield, and even though I knew it, I turned onto Olympic instead and missed the entrance. I cut over to Pico and headed for what I knew was another entry to the I-10. I almost missed this one as well since it came up sooner than I expected, but I saw the sign at the last minute. I had memorized the series of moves I needed to make downtown and didn't consider it to be big deal since I had gone this way many times. But somehow the directions didn't work, and I found myself on a strange freeway, heading toward Santa Ana, with downtown fading into the distance and the sky turning a grim industrial gray that made me think of East Germany behind the Iron Curtain. According to my map, I was southeast of L.A., but I felt like I was in Mordor, or at least in one of Dante's lower circles. Sometimes the descent happens just that fast.

I figured the best thing to do was to stay on the freeway and wait until it connected with a road I knew. This happened eventually, but not until I had crossed all the way back to the 405 and then the I-10, retracing my route from earlier. I obviously wasn't going to make the Mass, but I could still visit the church, and this time, following my own hunch, I exited at the right place and found it. I addressed myself to Mary, Queen of the Angels, since she was the one I had come to see, put money in the poor box, and lit a candle. Then I walked over to Olvera Street and had breakfast.

I was supposed to meet friends at 11:30 at the Hammer Museum, and at that point I still had adequate time. Not wanting to risk getting lost again, I asked the parking lot attendant the best way to get back to I-10; either I misunderstood him or he had things a bit scrambled, because the way he told me to go ended at a dead end. Then I got on the freeway, but it was going the wrong way. I got off and traveled the surface roads until I saw a sign for I-10 West, and I was just congratulating myself on spotting one when I realized (right after getting on the freeway) that I was almost out of gas. After a quick exit and a panicked search for a gas station that refused to appear until I was almost running on fumes, I found one at the corner of Pico and Vermont, jumped back on the I-10, and sailed on, making it to my destination 45 minutes later than I had planned.

I was still early for the event but too far back in line to see my friends. I was silently berating myself for undertaking such a wild scheme that morning when a man who had joined me in line struck up a conversation. We ended up talking during much of the hour and 40-minute wait before the event started. He had a background in film and writing, and I was struck by the ways our stories were alike as well as the ways they differed. I had once wanted to be a psychologist; he actually was one. We had both written unpublished children's stories. I told him about the recent "big dream" I had about my grandmother, and he picked up on an aspect of it that I had overlooked. He talked about his wife helping to design the facility we were standing in. He had just joined the Hammer Museum as a member and kindly offered to let me enter as his guest so I would be sure of getting a seat in the auditorium instead of the overflow gallery.

I wouldn't have met this man and had this conversation if I hadn't been lost and running late. So was I really lost and late, or did I arrive just when I was supposed to? Perhaps there was something he said that I needed to hear. One of the things he told me was that in his own life he was trying to listen to the universe, trust it, and live in the flow. That is a Jungian idea, and I agree with it, but as I said to him, it's hard to know sometimes just how to do that. He agreed that it is a challenge.

While we were waiting, I saw my friend from the Jung Center at a distance, and we waved at each other across a sea of people. One connection missed . . . but another one made. I found the friends I came to meet, and we decided to get together in the courtyard afterwards. The talk itself, a conversation between James Hillman and Sonu Shamdasani, editor of the Red Book, was rich and fascinating, but it was only one of several remarkable things that happened on this trip.

After the talk, the Red Book exhibit, and a visit with my friends, I drove toward the ocean, feeling pensive. I went for a walk in the canyon neighborhood that I somehow think of as mine, though I don't own an inch of property there. A bit of melancholy had hung over this trip, retreating and returning at intervals, and it came back now as I faced my last evening here. After the walk, I drove down to the Pacific Coast Highway, thinking of having dinner downtown. Instead, I found myself in a lane that only turned right, once again forced in a direction contrary to my intention. I sat at that long light feeling both annoyed and tired, though there was nothing to do but go with the traffic.

When the light changed, and I turned onto the highway, I saw what I could not see before -- the rays of the setting sun streaming down from behind a bank of clouds, forming a shining path on the ocean and the land in a spectacular interplay of light, sky, water, and earth that I would have had my back to had I gone the way I intended.

I've walked so many of these labyrinths, always considering it a conscious choice, something for research, the path to my dissertation -- meaningful, of course -- but really my own doing. But right now I'm beginning to wonder: Am I walking them, or are they walking me? Both, maybe?

I Am Your Labyrinth

I visited the Descanso Gardens this morning to celebrate Easter. It's a little off the beaten track, requiring the negotiation of several freeways and a stomach for wild driving. It was a windy, cool day, with the sun and clouds chasing each other and people shivering a little in their Easter finery. I had brought a wide-brimmed hat that I don't wear at home, since it never seems appropriate anywhere, but it was perfect today with my silky rose cardigan, floaty white blouse, and movie-star sunglasses. It's nice when the wardrobe gods smile. (That must be chiefly Athena, whose department included weaving and textiles.)

I've sometimes wondered why I bought that hat, which has been languishing in my room for several years, looking a little superfluous. This proves there was never anything wrong with the hat -- it just lacked the right setting.

Anyway, there we all were at Descanso, zooming around amid the blooms in our spring attire, looking a little bit like flowers ourselves. Naturally, I couldn't help thinking about what the philosopher Slavoj Zizek said about flowers. I was introduced to his work by my ex-boyfriend, and although I find some of his thinking hard to penetrate, I always remember what he said about the true purpose of flowers and the reason for their showiness. He remarked (tongue in cheek, I think) that flowers are inappropriate for children. There were many children of all ages in the garden today, excited about the Easter Egg hunt that was underway, oblivious of philosophers and their subversive ideas . . . but Zizek is right about one thing. Spring is about Eros.

Descanso is less manicured than my long-time favorite, the Huntington Gardens, a bit wilder and more rustic. Over the course of a two-hour ramble, I encountered such sights as a long, gorgeous bed of tulips in every spring hue imaginable; trails leading into wooded areas with views of the surrounding hills; native wildflowers; delicate roses; camellias of all kinds; blossoming cherry trees; a Japanese garden with a curved orange bridge; and a one-acre lilac garden. Also, a couple of surprises: the children's garden had a small hedge maze, and there was even a labyrinth of sorts. The research just won't leave me alone.

I wasn't looking for labyrinths today, but this one found me. Looking down into a clearing amid tall trees in the camellia garden, I saw what looked like a collection of small stone piers. When I went down to investigate, I found a plaque explaining the importance of the spiral in nature and the Fibonacci sequence, the numeral description of the spiral's shape. I had been standing in the center of the spiral for several minutes, looking around, when a little boy came by with his grandmother. She was trying to read the plaque and explain the math part of it, but his first instinct was to run into the middle of the spiral, yelling.

Watching him reminded me of how much I loved curving paths when I was little. When I was six or seven, my parents used to sometimes have business at an office building with a small enclosed courtyard. A walkway spiraled sinuously through the center of this courtyard, and I used to amuse myself by following it in and out, over and over, while my parents were inside. It was something about the shape of the path, so much more magical than a straight line, that drew me in, like the flowers draw in the bees. I imagined I was following the Yellow Brick Road.

To me, the labyrinth resembles a flower, a rose or a camellia, with its ever-tightening whorls protecting a mysterious center. A maze is another story, something more of a wild card and a puzzle than the regular and predictable unicursal labyrinth. I think they represent two different things, or maybe two different ways of thinking about the same thing. The children flinging themselves at them today treated them both like games, and maybe that's what they are. The labyrinth seems tamer, since there's only one way in and one way out (usually). But that simplicity, like Zizek's flowers, might mask a great secret. It's probably never good to underestimate what seems simple. Labyrinths can surprise you.

For instance: I was amazed to learn a few days ago that the Huntington Gardens has a labyrinth. What! Are you sure? I love the Huntington and have been there several times, but I have never heard of this labyrinth. It's a turf one, so it's even possible that I, the great labyrinth investigator, walked right over it. I would have said I had been all over those grounds, but I didn't have a clue this labyrinth existed. Hidden in plain sight . . . there's a lesson there.

So, another labyrinth for another day.

Rainy Day Mnemosyne

I’m reading a book called Ariadne's Thread, in which author J. Hillis Miller uses the associated metaphors of thread and line to examine narrative. I've been thinking so much about the labyrinth itself that I had forgotten the aftermath of the story until Miller reminded me. After escaping the labyrinth, Theseus abandons Ariadne on the island of Naxos.

Without Ariadne's help, Theseus could not have defeated the Minotuar and found his way out of the labyrinth. Despite this, he doesn't feel obligated to stick with her and ends up marrying her sister instead. That's Theseus's little white sail in the painting above, as he hightails it out of Naxos. Ariadne has just realized she's been betrayed when Dionysus shows up with his retinue, telling her to forget about Theseus, that he himself is her rightful husband.

This painting reminds me of my first conscious encounter with mythology. I must have been about four, and I was fascinated by an ad in a magazine for what, as I remember it, was chewing gum. The ad was full of fantastical figures – gods, goddesses, nymphs, cupids with arrows – crowded together in a busy tableau. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I didn’t quite know who they were, but I think what enchanted me was the energy and variety; they had human characteristics but were obviously not people. I was in awe of this not-quite-human cast and the dynamic interplay.

The chapter I’ve been reading in Miller discusses character in literature and the problem of “self.” Miller examines the assumptions we make about the unity of self and casts doubt on them. He is only taking up the thread, so to speak, of other critics before him who deny that we can speak of the self as a distinct, consistent entity, believing instead that identity is a "necessary fiction."

In spite of the attempts of so many philosophers to dispense with the self, for me the idea sticks. I do experience myself as a consistent identity, with attitudes and ways of thinking that persist from day to day. I think most people do the same. Ten years from now, I will be able to remember tonight, just like I can now remember myself as a four-year-old.

Mnemosyne, one of the oldest of the immortals, is Memory in Greek mythology. She is the mother of the nine Muses (and may even have been somewhere in that fascinating ad all those years ago). Memory makes identity possible, so maybe Memory is Ariadne’s thread, the constant matter out of which a life is woven. This is Memory not just in the sense of what I consciously remember but also in the sense of instinctual and biological memories buried in my cells.

When I first encountered Ariadne and Dionysus in this myth, they seemed like a strange couple. But if myth is really a reflection of lived experience, their belonging together makes sense. Ariadne holds the thread that makes inspiration possible. This thread allows Theseus to penetrate deep into a mystery he couldn’t have managed otherwise, but back in the light of day, he discards the thread. Theseus is, after all, a warrior, and lives by the sword, not by inspiration. Dionysus, a vegetation god, embodies creative life force, ecstasy, song, and dance. Cross him with inspiration, and that makes art. Maybe if you follow the thread back far enough, you always meet Dionysus.

A Goddess Decides

Last Monday, on vacation, I visited Malibu's Getty Villa, where even the driveway was inspired by the streets of ancient Rome (it's like driving on cobblestones). I wandered early on into the Outer Peristyle, a beautiful garden with covered walkways and strategically placed statuary. In a niche at the end of the peristyle was a "touchable" Aphrodite/Venus. It's the only piece, as far as I know, that visitors are encouraged to touch, so that they can experience the varied textures of the stone. Rather shyly, I touched the most innocuous spots I could think of, an arm and a leg. For one thing, it felt strange to be touching anything in a museum, even a copy. For another -- well, after all, it's Aphrodite, a goddess. And not just any goddess, either. Boy, is that ever true.

Of course, the gods and goddesses are only personifications of forces, but the ancients revered them, and the forces themselves are real enough. That feeling of attraction toward a special someone? A love of flowers, chocolate, and gourmet dining? The urge toward adornment and the appreciation of beautiful things? All Aphrodite. I am probably more of an Athena in general; I am a little out of my depth with Aphrodite (except for the chocolate), and you can be sure she's quite aware of that.

After touching the statue, I almost felt I'd committed a sacrilege, or at least a social blunder, and everybody knows how testy the immortals could be over even the tiniest things. Did someone make Aphrodite mad? Well, they might be torn apart by rampaging horses, for starters. When someone dissed her (or she even thought they had), she took swift action. So what would Aphrodite think of a tourist putting fingerprints on her marble limbs? Would she think a mythologist, of all people, should know better? I was ever so slightly uneasy.

As it happens, I was visiting a city that celebrates all things Aphrodite pretty unashamedly. A lot of places are suspicious of Aphrodite, but I don't think L.A. is. What a lot of people criticize as shallow or vacuous in L.A. culture, at least as it's popularly conceived, are things I associate with Aphrodite -- the worship of physical beauty, for instance. This isn't bad in itself, but it can be if over indulged. It's all about balance. You can just as easily be running an Aphrodite deficit as an excess; the former is my usual condition -- and probably part of the reason L.A. appeals to me.

Aphrodite does has a generous side, and because of that, or maybe just because she's a little vain and likes attention, I did not turn into a flock of goats. Instead, I believe she decided to take me under her wing. I developed a propensity for taking scented baths in my jetted spa. I've never craved spas before, but -- presented with the opportunity -- I was suddenly enamored. That's the first thing I noticed. Next, I sought out a three-course meal in a restaurant that had previously intimidated me, ending with a fabulous chocolate dessert that was pure Aphrodite. It had her fingerprints all over it.

As the week went on, things got more interesting. I saw a car near the inn with a license plate that said O EROS. Even my labyrinth researches got the Aphrodite touch. I drove down to Palos Verdes one day to seek out a labyrinth-by-the-sea that I had heard about. It was a long way and not easy to find, but something made me go, and after getting very close to it once and doubling back on my tracks (that labyrinth thing again), I finally found it. It was behind a church on a little promenade overlooking the Pacific, the most Venusian labyrinth I have ever seen, a glowing pink and coral surface with the emblem of a shell at its center. Standing on the shell, with the sea breeze on my back and surfers down below, I closed my eyes and thought about Botticelli. For the first time, I had a visceral sense of that painting.

Of course, it was inevitable that the urge to shop would kick in. On Tuesday, I made a preliminary sortie into Anthropologie, but the jacket that caught my eye didn't fit. On Wednesday, I bought gifts of bath salts on Montana Avenue even as my laundry tumbled in the dryer. On Thursday, I set out to visit a boutique that promised personal attention from the staff, who would size you up and bring you clothes to try. Momentarily daunted when I found out movie stars went there, I recovered with Aphrodite's help and pressed on, letting the stylish, boa-wearing shop girl bring me armloads of items, some of them a bit out of my normal comfort range, until I left an hour later with two new outfits and a dent in my credit card. No, it was not self-indulgence, but a necessary wardrobe corrective (besides, it was good for the economy).

On Friday, I found myself in Silver Lake (in a pouring rain, no less) eyeing hand-crafted jewelry, cosmetics, lace and silk, flowers, and chocolate. I bought a few things, things I didn't strictly need according to Maslow's hierarchy of needs -- but of course, that's the whole point.

I think I fixed my Aphrodite deficit, at least temporarily. I'm pretty sure she thinks I did OK for a novice. So maybe my hesitant bumbling, which I took as an affront, she took as supplication. Maybe she has a soft spot for librarians. Or graduate students. She did such a good job on me that even on my last morning, at the airport, I was looking at the shoes of every girl that walked by, searching for the style of boots that would go with my new pants.

I think the moral of the story is . . . when in Rome, do as the Romans do; when at the Getty Villa, do as the tourists do; and when in L.A. -- live a little.

Aphrodite Rising; Birthday Wishes

I'm in California, tucked into my room at the inn in time to celebrate my birthday with a gas-burning fireplace and a fancy bathroom. (I've never had a bathroom with a daybed in it, and I can't tell you how charming it is. If I rise out of the jetted spa like Aphrodite and feel the need for beauty sleep, that bed is right there. Same thing if I get the vapours while brushing my teeth.) I feel more like a guest in an English country house than a customer; it's like I'm staying with the Bennets at Longbourne. When I got here a few hours ago, the innkeeper greeted me by name and wished me a happy birthday. I got a tour of the house and was shown to my room, where the lamps were already lit and classical music was playing softly. There were cookies on a plate and a card on the little rose table addressed to me.

That's why I picked this place for a few days of vacation, because I thought it would be homey. For the first time in my life, I have completely unpacked my suitcase for a hotel stay.

I flew out to attend a conference at my school, where I saw friends and reconnected with my community of mythologists. It had been six months since I was there, but when I drove through the foothills to campus Thursday evening, it was like I had only been gone a week. I visited both of our campuses, where almost every corner was packed with memories of friends, teachers, animated conversations, long walks, and work accomplished. It felt like part of me had been there all along, waiting, and got up to meet me when I came back.

A theme that came up in numerous talks with friends over the last few days was the archetype of home, which may (or may not) seem strange since most of us were far from our actual homes. I had lunch today with three women, and it turned out all of us were yearning at some level to find our place in the sun, though there were good reasons for not making changes right now. I have wondered for a long time if California might be that place for me. Visiting is not the same as living here, I'm only too aware. I've spent a lot of time out here looking around, wondering how I would feel about this beautiful place if I lived here all the time.

As it happened, I stopped this afternoon to visit a town I came close to living in seven years ago. I had dropped in to visit on the way to the conference and was so intrigued by what I found that I stopped again on the way back. What I remembered as a very quiet place, almost dead on the weekend, was buzzing with people and energy. I found a Main Street on a human scale, numerous shops and restaurants (all open on a Sunday), people relaxing in sidewalk cafes, music pouring out of competing venues, even a place to buy chocolates. The friendly baristas at the local Starbucks wished me an enthusiastic "Happy Birthday" when I went in for my free drink; I sat and read for a while, with a window on the passing scene.

I went into a store I remembered visiting seven years ago, a shop full of angel gifts. The same shopkeeper was still there, a lively lady who just happened to be telling other customers about a local church labyrinth. I told her about my dissertation, and she grew even more excited, telling me about her experiences with the labyrinth and those of people she knew. She gave me her card and asked me to email her and tell her what happened to me when I walked it.

I followed her very good directions and got to the church not long before sunset. The gate was unlocked like she said, so I went in and gathered my thoughts. It was a very soft, somehow feminine labyrinth, in shades of rose and pink stone. I walked slowly, enjoying the meditative rhythm and the quiet. When I got to the center, I paused for a few minutes, thinking about all my unanswered questions. Then I turned and faced each of the four directions, noting what I saw there (I will tell you: a fountain and a tree, a hospital, a set of double doors, and a light next to a tree). When I left, the sky was streaked with the pinks and violets of a beautiful sunset.

Will the turning of my life take me to that spot again? I don't know, but I'm interested.

Naturally, it's no accident that I'm writing about wanderers turning this way and that. Theseus, Odysseus, Dante, Lancelot, Ishmael, William -- they're all looking for something and may or may not end up where they began. For some of them, the end result might be, as T.S. Eliot says, "to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." Others will land in some different country, or perhaps never find True North. I hope the latter isn't true for me; I made a birthday wish (which I wrote down and ritualized) that I would find my right place and be wise enough to know it when I see it.

Birthday wishes have extra mana, right? Especially if sealed with chocolate.

Sympathy for Lancelot

" 'Lancelot, this forest is vast and labyrinthine in its depths; a knight can ride a whole day long and never find a house or refuge.' " -- The Quest of the Holy Grail, Matarasso translation.

This week I've been reading the Grail legend. There are many versions of the story, but this version treats the Quest as a spiritual journey of Christian knights, most of whom fail miserably in their attempts to find the Grail. Perceval, Bors, and Galahad are the most virtuous knights and the only ones to succeed; two of them achieve a mystical state that makes ordinary life impossible thereafter. They never return to Camelot.

I first read this story when I was nine. I remember the set of maroon bound classics, which had everything from Alice in Wonderland to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I ate the books raw; it was extreme pleasure, a whole vista of imaginary realms accessible only through the mind's eye. Especially, I remember the King Arthur stories. I sprawled on the living room floor on a rainy Sunday (much like today, actually), lost in a landscape unlike anything I'd come across before.

The Arthurian world was somehow adult in a way other stories were not. For one thing, the main characters were all adults. For another, it was a mysterious, indeterminate place, full of chapels, monks, references to the Pentecost, and other Christian symbolism, but it had an otherwordly, somewhat eerie atmosphere. A mysterious cup, draped in white samite, floats over people's heads in the dining hall at Camelot, striking everyone dumb and filling the hall with an incredible sweetness. A hand and forearm, clothed in (what else?) samite, passes through a chapel, bearing a candlestick and perplexing Sir Gawain and Sir Hector. Belligerent knights appear out of nowhere, visions abound, hermitages hidden deep in the forest harbor strange ceremonies. Everything happens; nothing is explained.

I know these stories are likely a mix of myths and legends from several sources, an explanation that accounts for the layers of meaning but doesn't diminish the magic. I also understand the archetypal nature of the symbols -- the Grail itself, the lances, the swords, the castle, the maidens -- and of the Quest, a type of story that appears in many guises. The Grail Quest is a type of labyrinth. (Or is it a maze? Very important question.)

Finding an edition of this story that is like the one I remember (that first book being long gone) has been a quest in itself; "the right version" has taken on aspects of the Grail in both allure and elusiveness. The translation I'm reading comes very close; the elegant diction has the right solemnity and tone. I always pictured the events taking place in a misty, watery sort of atmosphere, either because the book created that impression or the day I started reading it was (in my memory) dark and rainy.

The characters, though, raise more questions than they used to. Aha! Rather than seeing just a group of knights, I am noticing how tortured Lancelot is, how hearty and plain-spoken Gawain is, and how agreeable Hector is. Galahad and Perceval are virtuous and irritating, though Perceval does have the decency to be nearly seduced by a woman who is not at all what she appears to be. He makes a hairsbreadth escape in an episode that also features a winged serpent and a lion.

I feel bad for Lancelot; I think his passionate love for Guinevere is what makes him human. His suffering is more compelling than Galahad's cool composure, at least so far. Galahad, the perfect knight, is the product of another illicit union, that of Lancelot and Elaine. He waltzes into Camelot and usurps his father's position as foremost knight, and that is supposed to be right and just. All I can think of is how hard that must be for Lancelot, and how annoying complete virtue is when you really think about it.

What it amounts to is that I can't enter the story the way I used to. I was once enchanted by the difficulty with which the Grail was achieved. I still am, but now I'm wondering if I would really want to be one of the knights who found it but never came back. Poof, enlightenment, and poof, you're gone. Ouch. I think the Grail is something different for me than it is for those knights, and I'm working that out bit by bit. That's why it's in my dissertation. That and the fact that I'd still like to know what samite is.

Popcorn and Apocalypse

I started reading Borges' Labyrinths this week, in the midst of a spell of bitter cold weather and gray days. Borges is no Jimmy Buffett. He's not the guy to cajole you out of the January blues, but his book has been staring at me accusingly for some time from the top of a stack of dissertation reading. The silent reproach only got worse after January 1, so on Monday, I dutifully picked the book up and began reading on my lunch hour. The stories are clever and intriguing but usually quite dark. Yikes, just the thing for a vitamin D deficiency.

Last night I did a smart thing and watched Kenneth Branaugh's version of As You Like It, which had the Forest of Arden set in Japan, for some reason. It didn't matter, since the cast was charming and all the lovers ended up with the right people at the finale. A great antidote to the winter blahs.

This morning, I decided to get my reading and chores done early so I could go out to a movie and maybe take a walk. It worked out fine, except that the movie I chose to see was The Road. I had a feeling it was going to be rough going, and it was. It's well-made and well-acted but very, very harrowing. I realized toward the end that I was sitting a little twisted in my seat, as if unable to face it head-on. Popcorn and a cherry coke seemed totally beside the point; it was an underworld journey from beginning to end, and I escaped into daylight feeling extremely somber.

Some people have compared this story to a Homeric odyssey, but I think it's closer in tone to Dante's Inferno, crossed perhaps with Childe Roland. The end reminded me of the last scene in Inferno, where Dante has gone as low as he can go, only to find himself -- without changing direction -- climbing out and up, and seeing the stars.

The same thing happened to me when I walked out of the theater into bright sunlight. I decided that a walk was more important than ever since I needed the illumination in more ways than one. I was muffled up in warm attire, and 19 degrees didn't seem so bad under patches of blue sky (and without cannibals chasing me). I thought about the film's post-apocalyptic vision and was just happy to see the familiar neighborhood quiet under the snow, to smell woodsmoke, and to see my own path down a westward running street glowing with reflected light as I walked straight toward the sun.

I appreciate the working of myth in art and life and the mirroring that takes place, but enough is enough with the minotaurs and dark descents for one week. I came home, fixed pot roast with vegetables, danced to the Blasters in my living room, and ate some dark chocolate with ginger. When I turned the radio on, the song playing was "California Dreamin.' " Right now, I'm listening to Italian pop music on the Putumayo World Music Hour and thinking about how this morning was the last eight o'clock sunrise for this winter. Tomorrow, sunrise comes at 7:59, and since the sunsets have already started coming later, it won't be long before the days are noticeably longer.

It's always darkest before the light, but next week, I'm going to see a comedy.