Not often does a performer of Bill Miller’s stature come to perform at Lincoln Land Community College, where I teach. How great to take a break from grading papers in the middle of the day, take the elevator downstairs, and settle into a front-row seat to watch a two-time grammy winner, as well as winner of many Native American music awards. He began by playing four tunes to each direction of the winds, on High Spirits flutes by Odell Borg. He told stories of growing up on the reservation in northern Wisconsin, attending art school in Milwaukee, and how we all need to experience other cultures and settings outside our comfort zones–things we can’t read in a book or learn from television. He played guitar and sang an eclectic blend of music from Native American songs to the Allman Brothers and Bob Dylan. I’m here to tell you he plays a wicked good blues guitar, having learned from players on Maxwell Street in Chicago during the 1970s. What a privilege it was to talk to him afterwards, pick up a couple of his CDs (Cedar Dream Songs and a new release Spirit Wind North), and have my photo taken with him. Thanks, Bill. Your influence will always have a positive effect on me.
Mythologies, perhaps, originate as dreams, and their meanings are often open to debate. I like to think that the opportunities they afford for reflection and discussion are the meanings. Linda R. Herzog is an artist I discovered recently when searching online for images of Euterpe (yoo TER pee), the Greek muse of music who is usually depicted playing a flute or double aulos. Herzog tells us that her fantasy visions come to her in the night while she sleeps. They are so vivid and powerful that she wakes up to sketch them before falling back to sleep. Is this how it works … mythology? Her images are fantastic and surrealistic — surprising and fun — but we might be left puzzled at their meaning.
The work depicted above is called Euterpe and was painted in 2006. It immediately made me think of Darwin and the biblical Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The parting waters might also remind us of Moses parting the Red Sea. Euterpe, I naturally assumed, plays the flute. I’d seen images before of Adam and Eve depicted as monkeys. This one stands unabashedly exposed, minus a fig leaf — clearly before the biblical Fall (and perhaps even before the creation of woman). At the same time, he is depicted as a kind of Pied Piper, perhaps luring (a devil in disguise) or leading (Moses in disguise) his people out of slavery in Egypt and toward the Promised Land. The image is at once ominous and hopeful. But why connect the obviously male figure to the female muse?
Not much information is available about Euterpe. Hesiod identifies her only as one of the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (Memory). Only later, in classical Greece, was she given a flute and associated with music and lyric poetry. We also learn that she became pregnant by the river god Strymon and bore him a son. His name was Rhesus who, Homer tells us in the Iliad, led a small army of Thracian soldiers into the Trojan War, where he was tragically killed by Diomedes.
Don’t bother to look up the etymology of rhesus. I couldn’t find a Greek meaning for the word. The rhesus monkey, as it turns out, was arbitrarily named after the Thracian king. Each one of us has an rh (rhesus) factor helping to identify our blood type. So … the rhesus monkey in Herzog’s painting is not Euterpe, after all. It is representative of the son that Euterpe bore. It emerges out of the river (the god Strymon) and has inherited its mother’s flute. And because we are all blood-connected by the rh element, the painting ultimately depicts our own image mirrored back to us. Maybe we view ourselves as Adam tempted by the knowledge leading to his fall, or maybe we view ourselves as the Thracian king Rhesus fighting for a seemingly noble cause tragically leading to his death. We might even view ourselves as Moses leading “our people” to a better place, or as a semi-dark figure luring others toward an ambiguous end.
The monkey’s shadow connects him to the Tree of Knowledge, and the small bell suspended from a branch above him connects his mother Euterpe to both music and the fruit of knowledge–of both good and evil. When we call upon the muse, do we anticipate a tragic ending or a comic progression, or something else? If you’ve been following my blog, you know that I call it a journey of the dragonfly, my spirit mentor and, increasingly, mirror image of my own psyche. Imagine my surprise and delight, then, upon discovering that Herzog’s paintings were featured in a Kevin Costner film entitled Dragonfly.
“Just be yourself,” people tell us when they think we’re trying to be something we’re not. But I wonder what this really means—to be yourself. How do we distinguish between an authentic self and an inauthentic one? Does our concept of self—who we are—imply that we are static entities? All we have to do is find our true self, and we’ll become whole and complete? Or are we already whole and complete … all we have to do is cast off what doesn’t belong? These questions arose in the context of thinking about Martin Gardner’s essay “Did Adam and Eve Have Navels?” collected in a work with the same title (Did Adam and Eve Have Navels? Debunking Pseudoscience). Some creationists, he writes, argue that God brought forth mature trees where none before existed, complete with annual growth rings. Are we like these trees, in which growth is implied but of inexplicable origin or inconsequential value? Do we define an authentic self only at the point of our creation, or only at the point of our current state of existence? My own belief is that I am a work in progress, that my concept of self undergoes continual transformation.
The concept of transformation implies several additional ideas worth reflecting on … origins and end points, for example, and current states of being. Origins imply the idea of being first in some respect, but even this simple statement requires clarification. There are first flutes, as discovered by archaeologists; and there are stories about first flutes, as discovered in the written literature. But also there are almost certainly yet undiscovered flutes predating recent finds in southern Germany—bone and ivory flutes dating to the Paleolithic period 40,000 years ago—and there were many stories about flutes circulating in oral cultures long before the invention of writing. We might even refer to the first idea of a flute in the mind of paleolithic or neanderthal man before he ever thought to fashion one for himself. And let’s not forget my first flute, or even my first F# or my first from a particular maker. It’s said that you never forget your first—but there may be lots of other firsts in competition. These, though, will suffice to make my point.
My point is this: While it’s true that I haven’t forgotten my first flute, or my first serious experience of hearing one played, I also haven’t forgotten the one I’m playing right now—or the ones I will play tomorrow … or the ones on order that I have yet to see or play … or the ones I plan to order some day … or the ones I don’t yet even know about. Each flute has its own song. Each inspires me in a different way. Each participates in my continual transformation of self. More importantly, each flute challenges me to transcend my concept of self and partake in a higher order of being—for me, this means a higher order of humanity. Mythology inhabits the murky realm between gods and man, or between man and beasts. It’s where our awareness of the “first tree” or the “first flute” confronts the dreamy, silent past or the dreamy, silent future. To “just be yourself,” I think, means to set aside these impractical dreams which make transformation possible. Mythology both obscures and reveals to us who and what we are, hence the paradox.
Just returned from the Lakeside Music & Arts Festival in Decatur. The venue was noisy with sounds of speeding motorboats, popping balloons (from a balloon artist), and competing acts–and a bit too windy for mics and flutes. But the weather was otherwise nearly perfect–especially after yesterday’s cancellation due to rain–and I had a blast. Below is a short video shot by my 6-year-old son Ingmar Berg … err … Nate Van Heuklom entitled My Dad–The World’s Greatest Flute Player. It’s destined to become a classic, in my household at least. Acknowledgments are due also to Mary Youngblood for ”Beneath the Raven Moon,” played by me on an old-growth redwood Fm by J.P. Gomez of Heartsong Flutes. “Who Am I?” is played on a western red cedar Em by Colyn Petersen of Woodland Voices. “Amazing Grace” and “Simple Gifts” are played on a western red cedar Gm by Colyn Petersen.
Due to stormy weather, all Saturday (July 4) performances at the Decatur Lakeside Music & Arts Festival have been cancelled. As far as I know, Sunday (July 5) is still a go. Look for me at 1:05 p.m. and 2:40 p.m. in the Nelson Park amphitheater. See below for details.
This weekend, July 4th and 5th, I will be performing four shows at the Lakeside Music & Arts Festival in Decatur, Illinois–Saturday at 12:00 noon and again at 1:35 p.m., and Sunday at 1:05 p.m. and again at 2:40 p.m. All shows will be at the Nelson Park amphitheater east of the Beach House Restaurant.
Family-oriented daytime hours for the festival are 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Night time entertainment starts at 6 p.m. and runs until 10:30 p.m. According to the festival’s website, this “top shelf undertaking spotlights the best in art, music, theater arts and culinary arts.” I’m deeply honored to be included in this year’s events.
The festival is located at the Nelson Park Boat Basin (2301 E. Lake Shore Drive) in Decatur. From Springfield, take I-72/US-36 East. At Decatur, keep right to take US-36 East via exit 133A and continue for 7.4 miles. Turn right onto IL-105 and go less than a mile before turning left onto Lakeshore Drive.
Hope to see you there. Stop by and say hello if you get a chance. Stay late and enjoy the fireworks!
Many superstitions surround the dragonfly. Some of them are reported in a brilliantly illustrated book by entomologists Forrest L. Mitchell and James L. Lasswell entitled A Dazzle of Dragonflies. One such belief is that dragonflies are poisonous and that their sting is fatal. They are said to be servants to snakes and the devil. Still today, one common name for the dragonfly in the U.S. is “devil’s darning needle.” They are to be avoided at all costs. The book’s authors assure us that these beliefs aren’t true, but they also admit that dragonfly lore is beyond their expertise. Truth can be powerful medicine, although many people resist it. But stories can be powerful medicine, too–or powerful poison.
Native American writer Thomas King (The Truth about Stories) tells us that we are our stories. We have to be careful with them because, as he says, they contain “relationships that help to define the nature of the universe and how cultures understand the world in which they exist.” Truth would seem to eliminate the need for stories, reducing existence to little more than biological and physical facts, which is fine if you’re a rock, an ocean wave or a fruit fly. But since we’re self-aware, self-conscious humans we need stories to define who we are. We might say that fiction is our truth–that it provides meaning, purpose, direction to our lives.
Truth is, Dragonfly might be poisonous after all. He can make people fearful and angry. He can fill them with shame. He can, it is said, sew up the fingers and mouths of nagging women, mouthy children and men who cuss up a blue storm. One story says he can fly right into your ear and penetrate your brain. It’s true … I swear! He really can! In fact, he has just penetrated your brain and is waiting there now for your response. The dragonfly is a trickster, though. A.R. Campbell (Bats, Mosquitoes, and Dollars) referred to the dragonfly in 1925 as “man’s best friend in the insect world” (qtd. in Mitchell, Lasswell). He can cure malaria by eating mosquitoes. I swear … this, too, is true.
The devil may be in your own mind, and so may the healer … the good and bad together, says a Lakota man I know about. A constant refrain in King’s book, referred to above, is that (in my partly paraphrased, partly quoted version) you may do whatever you want with the story–scoff at it, dismiss it, forget about it. Just don’t say that if you had heard it earlier you would have lived your life differently. “You’ve heard it now.”
Amazing what we will see if we just start looking and asking questions. One thing leads to another, connections are made, knowledge and understanding expand. Maybe the world makes a little more sense, or maybe we just learn to appreciate common motifs interpreted through different perspectives. As I was looking at images of the Greek god Apollo, I noticed this one with a black bird in it and immediately thought of Rainbow Crow who became blackened by soot bringing fire from the Creator to his animal pals slowly freezing to death on earth (see last post). I figured the bird must have some meaning, so I Googled it.
Apollo, the sun god–and god of music and reason–had many lovers. One was Coronis, who was pregnant with his child. In one of his many absences, he became fearful that she would take another lover, so he enlisted the help of a white raven to spy on her. The news wasn’t good, and in his anger Apollo turned the white raven black. He also killed Coronis but saved the child and named him Asclepius, then trained him in the healing arts. Asclepius, we may know, grew up to become the “father of modern medicine.”
It might be easy to feel sorry for the raven (an example of “shooting” the messenger), but after all it’s a symbol of change, a symbol of the passage from innocence to knowledge–and like Rainbow Crow, the raven is rewarded by becoming sacred to Apollo. In the background, I hear dragonfly whispering to me, warning that I might get burned for curiosity but also reassuring me that the rewards might be great. Maybe it will give birth to a great healing.
The story of Rainbow Crow first came to me through Billy Crowbeak (Woodpecker Creations) who made the beautiful flute shown here. It originates from the Lenni Lenape tribe and is retold by S.E. Schlosser. You may want to read it here (Rainbow Crow) before continuing.
When I first read the story, I thought immediately of the ancient Greek myth of Prometheus, whose name means “forethought.” He was the Titan who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to primitive man, who in turn used it to prosper and grow. Whereas Prometheus resorted to trickery and deceit, Rainbow Crow exchanged his beautiful song for fire, willingly bestowed by Creator. The other animals (no mention is made of humans) are saved from certain death under a freezing blanket of snow. Both Prometheus and Rainbow Crow sacrifice themselves for the benefit of others, both are “punished” or in some way humbled, and both find release or compensation from their trials.
Whatever the true origin of fire—whether from the gods, Creator, or some accident of nature—we might understand it in both literal and metaphorical terms. On the literal level, fire allowed us to warm ourselves and cook our food (helping to kill germs and preserve meat). On a metaphorical level, fire is often associated with thought, with an idea. Today, we think of a light bulb switching on in our heads. We might wonder … before primitive man had the capacity to ideate—to picture the concept of a god or the uses to which fire might be put—what sparked the first imagination, and what price did that person have to pay for introducing potentially terrifying new ideas into the community?
Rainbow Crow loses his bright colors, blackened by the soot of a flaming branch, and his beautiful song is reduced by smoke to a harsh, guttural “caw.” Creator, however, ensures that he will be protected and honored for his sacrifice. In my own continuing story, dragonfly instructs me to play the flute just as Rainbow Crow sings, and to wait patiently and humbly for unexpected gifts bestowed by Creation.
How does a trained skeptic write about a “mythology” he doesn’t quite believe in or comprehend because he stands outside of the culture that produced it? I’m not just talking about Native American stories, either. In school, we often study stories as if they were lifeless insects impaled through the heart by long, sharp needles affixing them to a bed of white cotton. It isn’t often possible to immerse ourselves in living oral traditions we aren’t part of, and even if we could we’d always be outsiders to some degree, ethnographers rather than full participants. Still, we might learn something by exploring the ironies, the distance between illusions and reality … we might even lessen the gap a little among skeptics and believers—assuming this is a worthy goal, and I believe it is.
With the best of intentions, a desire for truth and wisdom, is it still possible to be misled by the dragonfly guide–to steal or misappropriate stories that don’t really belong to us because they must be lived to be understood, not interpreted? Whose story is being told or retold? Whose purpose is being served? Whose well being? Recently, I was led to a book that should become essential reading before anyone embarks on this journey of the dragonfly.
A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Childrenis an encyclopedic collection of critical reviews of books written about Native Americans for children between the early 1900s and 2003, along with stories, essays and poems from its contributors. In an “Open Letter to a Non-Indian Teacher,” a mother asks “What values, class prejudices, and moral principles do you take for granted as universal? [....] Can you help [my child] acquire the intellectual skills he needs without at the same time imposing your values on top of those he already has?” That’s a tall order, for sure, but one that can’t be ignored because lives and identities are at stake.
Three children’s books about Kokopelli are reviewed, all written since 2000 and “all written by cultural outsiders,” the reviewer informs us. She goes on: “[They] will undoubtedly appeal to people who collect Kokopelli lamps, Kokopelli coasters, Kokopelli napkin rings, Kokopelli-printed toilet paper, and the like.” She cites an unnamed but well-known Hopi storyteller who says “In our traditional beliefs, Kokopelli is a Katsina of fertility, he is a deity. He does not go around playing a flute; he’s carrying a cane or rod. And he’s not a ‘humpback,’ he’s carrying a burden. Whenever he appears in our rituals, he is copulating. When the Katsinam come out, he goes around trying to hump people. Grown men run from him! It would be more appropriate to put his image on a bottle of Viagra or on a condom vending machine than in a children’s book.” The storyteller remains anonymous not from a desire to hide but because it is considered impolite to make others appear foolish or stupid.
And so … at the risk of making myself appear foolish or stupid without help from anyone, my journey with dragonfly continues. I invite your comments.
Mnemosyne (Memory). Only later, in classical Greece, was she given a flute and associated with music and lyric poetry. We also learn that she became pregnant by the river god Strymon and bore him a son. His name was Rhesus who, Homer tells us in the Iliad, led a small army of Thracian soldiers into the Trojan War, where he was tragically killed by Diomedes.
example, and current states of being. Origins imply the idea of being first in some respect, but even this simple statement requires clarification. There are first flutes, as discovered by archaeologists; and there are stories about first flutes, as discovered in the written literature. But also there are almost certainly yet undiscovered flutes predating recent finds in southern Germany—
Amazing what we will see if we just start looking and asking questions. One thing leads to another, connections are made, knowledge and understanding expand. Maybe the world makes a little more sense, or maybe we just learn to appreciate common motifs interpreted through different perspectives. As I was looking at images of the Greek god Apollo, I noticed this one with a black bird in it and immediately thought of Rainbow Crow who became blackened by soot bringing fire from the Creator to his animal pals slowly freezing to death on earth (see last post). I figured the bird must have some meaning, so I Googled it.
How does a trained skeptic write about a “mythology” he doesn’t quite believe in or comprehend because he stands outside of the culture that produced it? I’m not just talking about Native American stories, either. In school, we often study stories as if they were lifeless insects impaled through the heart by long, sharp needles affixing them to a bed of white cotton. It isn’t often possible to immerse ourselves in living oral traditions we aren’t part of, and even if we could we’d always be outsiders to some degree, ethnographers rather than full participants. Still, we might learn something by exploring the ironies, the distance between illusions and reality … we might even lessen the gap a little among skeptics and believers—assuming this is a worthy goal, and I believe it is.
