Endings and Beginnings: Odin’s Quest for Wisdom

The solstice will soon be upon us, followed by the arrival of a new year. A time of endings and beginnings. Reckoning.  This passage through winter darkness here the in northern hemisphere leads me to Norse mythology and my fascination with the god Odin.

Odin is a god who lives with the prophecy that his world will end and he will die. This is an unusual combination of themes, one that imbues Odin with an approachable humanness and sparks my curiosity about the quest for wisdom that defines him.

Odin’s efforts didn’t prevent the end of his world. And yet I suspect the god felt his quest was worth the cost. Is there a parallel in my life? In yours?

This could be a fruitful reflection as 2023 and Season 5 of Myth Matters come to a close. I hope you find something of value in the stories and many thanks for making Myth Matters part of your mythic journey.

Warm wishes for a glorious holiday season and keep the mystery in your life alive.

Transcript of Endings and Beginnings: Odin’s Quest for Wisdom

Hello, and welcome to Myth Matters, storytelling and conversation about mythology and what myth can offer us today. I’m your host and personal mythologist Dr. Catherine Svehla. Wherever you may be in this wide, beautiful, crazy world of ours, you are part of this story circle. 

The passage through winter darkness here the in northern hemisphere, leads me to Norse mythology, the old stories of the North Germanic tribes that roamed northern Europe, Scandinavia,  England, and were part of the Viking culture. Many of the tales are believed to have originated in Iceland. We don’t know how long these stories or poems were told. In medieval times they were written down, the most famous and complete version being the Poetic Edda and its companion the Prose Edda.

The head god, the leader and protector in the Norse pantheon is Odin, known as “The All Father.” Odin, who is one source for the figure of Santa Claus, was a warrior, poet, and seeker of wisdom. I’m fascinated by Odin, who was very human god and more approachable than many others in other mythologies. Zeus, for example, is not a god that I would care to meet. Odin’s humanness stems from his awareness of the fragility of his world and the real possibility that his world and his life as a god would end. 

The Poetic Edda begins with Odin’s visit to an ancient prophetess who remembers the giants who raised her. In this poem, the Völuspá, the prophetess says:

“I born of giants, remember very early
those who nurtured me then: 
I remember nine worlds, I remember nine giant women,
the mighty Measuring Tree, down below the earth.”

(translation by Carolyne Larrington)

She goes on to tell Odin about the creation of the world. She also tells him how he will die, and how the world will end and how a new world may emerge. According to the poem:

“Alone she sat outside, when the old man came,
the Terrible One of the Aesir (she’s referring to Odin) and he looked in her eyes: 
‘Why do you question me? Why do you test me?
I know everything Odin, where you hid your eye
in the famous well of Mirmir. ‘”

Odin seems to want to hear it all, to know the end, and she describes the events that will take place: 

“The sun turns black, earth sinks into the sea,
the bright stars vanish from the sky; 
steam rises up from the conflagration,
a high flame plays against heaven itself.”

And ultimately, Odin will die. 

I’ve thought about Odin a number of times over the years. And I always ask myself, what would it be like to live with the prophecy of your death, and the end of your world? And well, this year, this time around, I realized that each of us is living in similar circumstances. Odin was a god. His mortality was a question– hence the shocking prophesy– whereas our death is inevitable. Odin was offered a wealth of detail about events that would herald the world’s end and the circumstances of his death, details that most of us do not possess. 

And yet. But, death doesn’t always feel real and inevitable to us, does it? Part of maturing into life is accepting mortality. Coming to terms with the deaths that take place around you. Being willing to “love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones” as the poet Mary Oliver says. Opening ourselves to that kind of loss.

As Joseph Campbell observed, conscious recognition of our mortality and the need to grapple with it, to transcend the fact of death, is the first impulse to mythology. This is true for the narratives and systems of thought that we call “myth,” the great mythological traditions from around the world. It’s also true in our ongoing, personal mythologizing, in the stories that we tell about our lives, and the way we live the conversation between our outer and inner experience and the myth themes that express themselves through us.

How do we live with conscious awareness of death? I relate to Odin’s rather obsessive quest for wisdom. And since you’re investigating myth too, I suspect that you are a seeker of some sort as well. So, I want to share some stories about Odin and his quest with you today. What motivated Odin, I wonder? Why did the All Father, leader of the gods, devote himself to acquiring wisdom? I suspect that he hoped to find a way to circumvent the prophecy somehow. Although given the nature of prophecy that was unlikely. His quest for wisdom defined him and his life, what types of choices do we make? What defines us? And what are we willing to accept? 

The myths of Odin reveal three priorities that defined him: family, fellowship, and the quest for wisdom. 

Unlike many other head gods in other mythological systems, Odin was a devoted and loyal husband and father. He was married to the Goddess Frigg, who was not only his wife, but was also a trusted advisor. And he had two sons, Balder and Hod.  Fellowship, in the form of his comrades, the company of the gods, and his band of warriors, and the locus of their fellowship, their devotion to their celebrations and singing and feasting in the mead hall of Valhalla. And then, finally, this quest for wisdom. 

Odin wandered the world with his two ravens, Memory, and Thought, gathering knowledge. He learned the origin of things, how the giant Ymir’s flesh was shaped into earth, for example, and how that giant’s bones became the mountains. He learned the workings of the world. The names of the horses that carried day from east to west, and drew forth the night. He learned how heroes would be made. And he looked for the deeper meaning of events, past and prophesized. 

Now, you would think that because Odin was a god, this was relatively easy. In fact, a lot of chief gods already know everything. And yet, Odin acquired this knowledge with some amount of difficulty and sacrifice. For example, there’s the matter of the well and Mirmir mentioned in that little excerpt from the poem of the prophetess I just shared. Here is that story, in brief. 

Now, Odin had only one eye. He had only one eye but he was known as the All-Seeing in addition to being the Father. He had only one eye because he learned that at the base of the second root of the great world tree  Yggdrasil, the root that went to Midgard and the world of the humans, there was a well of knowledge, the knowledge of all things. This well was carefully guarded by Mirmir who drank from the well every day and was reputed to be the wisest man in the world. 

When Odin heard of the well and Mirmir, he decided to go and drink his fill. When he got there, he greeted Mirmir, and said, “You know why I’m here, I’m here to drink and become wise.” Mirmir said, “I know you Odin, and I know that’s what you want. But the knowledge provided by this water surpasses anything you can imagine. Whoever drinks of it gains a second sight, the ability to see the depth of all things, to see what is otherwise invisible, and you must pay for this power of insight.”

Without hesitation, Odin tore out one of his eyes, and dropped it beside the well. Mirmir nodded, and Odin plunged his face into the water and drank. He accepted the terms of the exchange and gained the wisdom that he was after. 

Now, you might think that Odin simply accepted sacrifice in this instance, because it was imposed upon him by Mirmir. But Odin understood the need for exchange. He understood that what you don’t or won’t pay for has relatively little value, and he imposed the conditions of sacrifice on himself. For example, he hung on the cosmic tree, the World Tree Yggdrasil, in order to gain the power of the runes.

He wounded himself with his own spear and hung on the tree for nine days and nights. In the poem Hávamál, he says, “I know that I hung on a windy tree, nine long nights, wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself, on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run. In another translation that line reads,”I made myself an offering to myself, bound to the tree with roots so deep that no one knows where they go, or where they end.” He goes on to say, “No one gave me food or drink and I was weak. Yet I peered intently down into the depths until I saw the runes, the sacred alphabet. With a mighty cry, I reached down and seized them up. Then I fell. But I have won the power of the word, and learned the nine songs of inspiration.”

The power of the runes. I’m going to return to that in a moment. But lest you think that this need for sacrifice and loss was some weird sadism on the part of Odin, or unique to him, I want to share another story with you. Because the need for an exchange, the need for that kind of willingness to gain powers that are essential to the self was not limited to Odin in this mythology. Tyre, for example, the god of council and war, had to lose his right hand. 

When Odin visited with that prophetess and she was telling him how things were going to happen, she informed him that there were three of the trickster god Loki’s children who were going to play a decisive role in the Ragnarok, the war that would bring about the doom of the gods and the death of Odin. One of these was Loki’s daughter Hel, another was a serpent, and another was a wolf named Fenrir. Odin banished the serpent to the outskirts of the world and he exiled Hel to hell. But he let the wolf Fenrir stay around because he had an affection for wolves. 

Initially, Fenrir was, you know, a wolf pup, but of course the animal grew. One day, the gods noticed that Fenrir was growing very rapidly and that he was already very large. And they decided that it would be prudent to shackle him. But the wolf was already so strong that nothing they had could bind him. Well, eventually they visited the dwarves. The dwarves were the skilled craftsmen of the gods. And the dwarves made a magic ribbon. They used some very unusual materials, like mountain roots, and the noise made by the footfall of a cat, and the silk of a spiderweb. This ribbon looked very flimsy, but it was stronger than any iron chain.

The gods took this to go bind Fenrir Now the wolf was no dummy. He sensed deception, and he refused to submit until one of the gods agreed to place their hand in his mouth. Tyre, known for his great courage, agreed to do this knowing full well what the consequences would be. Because as the bonds were tightened, Fenrir realized that he had been tricked. He clamped down on Tyre’s hand and bit it off. 

Now, I’m noting this theme here, of the need to make a sacrifice in order to gain powers essential to the self. So, I ask you: what is the difference between bravery in a situation in which you believe yourself to be invincible, and bravery. in a situation where loss is the most likely outcome?

How would this knowledge, how would cultivating this kind of bravery, deepen the wisdom and the skill of a god of war? A god who loses some measure of his ability to make oaths and wield weapons. I imagine that a god of war who had to reach down deep into himself for real bravery would have a much more mature calculation of the cost of war. 

These Norse stories and these Norse gods are stories of war and warriors. You remember I said earlier, this is part of the Viking culture. And clearly many of us are not living the lives of warriors in such a culture today. And yet, I think there is something that we are each called to, something that each of us needs to be at least willing to give up in this pursuit of what is essential to us. Which brings me back to Odin and his sacrifice hanging on the world tree to get the runes. 

Now the runes are the early Germanic alphabet, before the Romans came along and brought in the Latin alphabet. The root name, which may be a word that was borrowed from the Celts, from the Celtic tradition, because there’s a lot of overlap between the North and the Celtic– means “secret,’ “mystery,” and also, “counselor.” 

Secret mystery, and also counselor. This takes us back to the very, very early days of written language, and an appreciation for the power inherent in those symbols. This power is not lost on us today, although the way many people wield it, you would think they had completely forgotten it. It’s an amazing thing to create a series of symbols that then become words that then have the power to invoke everything, everything that isn’t there. When you say the word dog, for example, what do those marks on the page, what do those sounds coming out of your mouth, have to do with the real thing? And yet, say or write the word “dog” and dog is there. 

Now in the time of these poems of Odin, the runes may have functioned as divination symbols, but we know that they were seen as spells, as charms. In one of the poems, Odin outlines the various powers that he acquired through his ability to use the runes. These are far ranging and include the ability to bring something back to life. 

Today, you can find these runestones. They’re huge stones that are covered in these markings. You might think that they were all stories of important battles and heroes. And yet, we have discovered that the majority of them commemorate the memory of the lives of very common people. And this brings me back to something that I said earlier about our conversation with life and our mythologizing. How it is that we are each doing that personally, how myth is not merely a matter of the so called “Great.” That is something that each of us is engaged in, personally.

I’ve been thinking some about the nature of that engagement, coming off of the last episode about the doomed Egyptian Prince, and the notion of “aliveness.” Campbell said that it’s not meaning that we’re looking for, but rather aliveness. A this simple definition for this experience is “contact with the mystery.” Awareness that the mystery that we perceive and experience out in the world is resident in us. To be filled with wonder and awe at what is outside and inside, and the shared nature of these things. The overwhelming and satisfying existence of the mystery.

I came across a really beautiful quote from John O’Donohue recently, this was shared by Maria Popova in her really incredible blog called The Marginalian. I will share links to both the book and The Marginalian,– you can’t say that three times fast!–n the transcript of this episode on my website. This is how O’Donohue puts it:

“There is a quiet light that shines in every heart. It draws no attention to itself, though it is always secretly there. It is what illuminates our minds to see beauty, our desire to seek possibility, and our hearts to love life. Without this subtle quickening our days would be empty and wearisome, and no horizon would ever awaken our longing. Our passion for life is quietly sustained from somewhere in us that is wedded to the energy and excitement of life. This shy inner light is what enables us to recognize and receive our very presence here as blessing.” John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

 Our very presence here as blessing. I wonder if that is what Odin’s quest was all about. And moving beyond the stories of the gods, is that our quest ultimately? It may be organized around a variety of things. It need not be the search for knowledge as wisdom and yet finding your own way into the mystery and experiencing your life as blessing despite the fact that it will end… is there anything that could be better than that? 

I want to share the Mary Oliver poem that I referenced earlier in this episode. First, we’ll pause because I want to give  a big welcome to new email subscribers: Ona, Helen, John Mark, Missy, Darja, Richard, Miranda, Sid,  and Amanda. Welcome!

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Now here is “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver

Look, the trees 
are turning
their own bodies 
into pillars 
of light, 
are giving off the rich 
fragrance of cinnamon 
and fulfillment,

the long tapers 
of cattails 
are bursting and floating away over 
the blue shoulders 
of the ponds,
and every pond 
no matter what its 
name is, is
nameless now. 
Every year 
everything 
I have ever learned 

in my lifetime 
leads back to this: the fires 
and the black river of loss 
whose other side 
is salvation, 
whose meaning 
none of us will ever know. 
To live in this world 
you must be able 
to do three things: 
to love what is mortal; 
to hold it 
against your bones knowing 
your own life depends on it; 
and, when the time comes to let it go, 
to let it go.

–Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems

That was “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver. 

If we have a better understanding of our need for myth, and all that our old stories offer, we can live more satisfying lives. We can inhabit a better story and create a more beautiful, just and sustainable world. 

And that’s it for me, Catherine Svehla and Myth Matters. Thank you so much for listening. I’ll meet you in this space in the new year. This is the last episode of season 5 of Myth Matters. Season 6 of Myth Matters will commence in late January. If you feel like emailing me with questions or comments about this episode or the podcast, feel free. 

And please my friend, take good care of yourself. Happy new year, and  keep the mystery in your life alive.