The Hero's Journey

From Menletter November 2005

By Tim Baehr

Middle-Age Blues

One of the things I never quite got about the mythopoetic aspect of the men's movement was the question "What is your myth?" or "What myth are you living now?" I couldn't imagine myself in the role of hero, off on a quest to slay a monster, find a hidden treasure, save a beautiful princess, or whatever. I didn't have a vast or deep knowledge of mythology, so I couldn't identify an existing myth that fit my situation, even imperfectly.

I had a similar problem with the idea of initiation. Here I was, in my mid-fifties, without a mentor, without a council of elders looking after me and challenging me. And it seemed to me that any kind of initiation ordeal would be somewhat contrived and a bit like playing Indian.

As much as I loved the company of other men, as much as I loved the poetry, as much as I loved hearing myths, as much as I loved playing my drum, as much as I loved hanging out at men's retreats with the likes of Robert Bly and Michael Meade and James Hillman, I was still just a late-middle-aged white suburban male with a mortgage and a family and a desk job.

Stories

At men's gatherings, men get to tell their stories. Typically, men in the circle listen attentively; offer no side comments or me-toos; make no judgments; dispense no advice. For some men, this can be the first time they have been heard, truly heard with respect and compassion, especially from other men.

I have yet to hear from a man who has had a totally easy, happy life. Maybe men's work attracts a self-selecting bunch of miserable men, and happy men are too busy being happy and successful to get involved. I seriously doubt that. Even the most easy-going, handsome, healthy, charismatic, well-off man will eventually run out of the happy stuff in his life story (a story in which he perhaps completely believes and thinks is complete) and discover the demons, the monsters, the wounds, the unhealed hurts, the unattainable treasures.

Whether or not we admit it, we all have unfulfilled longings and parts of us that need healing, and the sharing of our stories can be a beginning of the fulfillment or healing process. As our stories are heard, and as we hear other men's stories, a balm of compassion reaches deep into our essence.

The Backwards Leap

How does a man acquire his wounds? The same way, I think, that a mythic hero does - by going up against an adversary, often with the odds stacked in the adversary's favor. And if we start with our wounds and scars, we can work backwards into a realization that we have been engaged in nothing less than a heroic struggle and, most of the time, an ordeal of initiation.

What is a hero anyway? Most of us, if we close our eyes, can see a composite, larger-than-life strongman with crafty intelligence a pure soul. A Superman. A Spiderman. A Hercules. The heroes in many stories, however, are the least likely characters in the story. The youngest son of the king. The put-upon stepdaughter. The lost children. The wooden-puppet rascal. The hobbit. The orphan. This kind of hero faces ogres, evil relatives, dangerous journeys, dark witches, ghosts, and so on, the same way any of us would: with abject fear and trembling. Each hero is at one time, or several times, or constantly, convinced that all is lost. Even when the hero is a bona-fide warrior, he is faced with impossible situations that reduce him to tears.

How does the unlikely hero get through the ordeal? In many, perhaps most, stories, an ally comes along in the nick of time. Sometimes it's a fairy godmother or genie or other being with vast magical powers. Just as often it's an old man, a wild man, a crazy man, a witch, a little boy, an animal, a fool. The ally may have been ignored or even abused by other characters in the tale. The help offered, and accepted by the hero, may be magical, or it may simply be good advice or a companion along the way.

Heroes are usually transformed by their ordeal. They may realize that they are the true heirs to a throne, or that they're brave after all, or that the journey has brought them to their true home, and so on. They may also carry a wound from the ordeal - a proud scar or a nagging ache or an unhealed place deep inside.

Most heroes undertake some sort of journey, and most of them come home. Some come home to parades and feasts and a huge wedding with the daughter of the king. Some come home in disguise, revealing themselves at the appropriate time. Some just come home to heal their wounds (if they can) and start a new life (if they can).

Not all tales end with "happily ever after." We can be suspicious of happy endings if only because we know that the story must go on, and all stories can have both happy and unhappy events. The prince may marry the princess, but their son may eventually try to overthrow him, or the princess may fall under the spell of a jealous witch, or some other calamity may occur. Sometimes the hero becomes very melancholic, yearning for the excitement of the journey, for the friends he made, for the very magic that brought him home.

Our Place at the Heroes' Table

We all have earned, or will earn, a place at the heroes' table. This is no trivial thing, like the "everybody's a winner" philosophy of the self-esteem movement. When mythic tales tell us the hero's story and what a hero is like, they are holding up a mirror and saying "Life is this. You are this." We are different only in the details. We all have challenges, are all called to embark on difficult journeys. And the prospects scare the crap out of us.

What challenges?

Here's a laundry list of ogres, witches, evil spells, wicked princes, and so on. Feel free to jump in and add your own: Alcohol. Depression. Tobacco. Cancer. Sudden or chronic illness. Accidents. Drugs. Food. Sex. Abusive parents, teachers, relatives, bosses. Neglectful parents, teachers, relatives, bosses. The evil spell of consumerism, mass media, managed news. Lying and corrupt leaders. Lovelessness. Death of loved ones. Humdrum, boring, day-to-day existence. Poverty. Joblessness.

Each of these represents a journey we must undertake, with or without allies. Most of us can name more than one journey, so our stories will be ongoing and interlocking. The challenges may seem overwhelming, the journey endless. And if we don't feel heroic, or heroic enough, we can remember the youngest sons, the stepdaughters, the puppets, the orphans, and all the other unlikely heroes of myth.

What happens at the heroes' table? We talk. We listen. Together we celebrate victories and weep over setbacks. And we all know that each time we sit down together, our stories will be different. We feed ourselves and each other with heroic helpings of respect and compassion, and sometimes of bitter defeat. Sometimes the sweet dessert of joy arrives, and we share it around eagerly, but knowing that this is but one course in a huge banquet.

Where is this table? It exists anywhere good-hearted people gather with a purpose - men, women, men and women together. A ritual retreat, a vision quest, or a medicine walk can offer such a table. The table also exists in our hearts, as we recognize the hero inside us and become aware that everyone else is on a difficult or impossible journey - and that we, or the other person, may be the ally. Such a virtual table may be very difficult to find on one's own, without a ritual gathering, but I wouldn't rule it out.

Initiation and the Heroes' Table

It's unlikely that many boys in the West will go through a traditional initiation complete with a council of elders, a ritualized ordeal (sometimes with a wounding), and a return to the council of elders as men prepared to be of service to the community. Anything our Western culture can devise is likely to be quite artificial. Even adult and middle-aged men, eager for initiation, wouldn't welcome spending a week or month naked in the woods, having a tooth knocked out or getting a burn or scar.

Initiation is a way of preparing a boy or man-boy for true adulthood. How can we accomplish this? We can re-imagine our heroic journeys, our challenges, our stories, our wounds as initiatory experiences. Then we can bring the tale back to the heroes' table, our council of elders, to be told and heard and appreciated and celebrated as a hero's journey.