The labyrinth from which Theseus escaped by means of the clew of Ariadne, was built by Daedalus, a most skilful artificer. It was an edifice with numberless winding passages and turnings opening into one another, and seeming to have neither beginning nor end, like the river Maender, which returns on itself, and flows now onward, now backward, in its course to the sea. Daedalus built the labyrinth for King Minos, but afterwards lost the favor of the king, and was shut up in a tower. He contrived to make his escape from his prison, but could not leave the island by sea, as the king kept strict watch on all the vessels, and permitted none to sail without being carefully searched. "Minos may control the land and sea,:" said Daedalus, "but not the regions of the air. I will try that way." So he set to work to fabricate wings for himself and his young son Icarus. He wrought feathers together beginning with the smallest and adding larger, so as to form an increasing surface. The larger ones he secured with thread and the smaller with wax, and gave the whole a gentle curvature like the wings of a bird. Icarus, the boy, stood and looked on, sometimes running to gather up the feathers which the wind had blown away, and then handling the wax and working it over with his fingers, by his play impeding his father in his labors. When at last the work was done, the artist, waving his wings, found himself buoyed upward and hung suspended, poising himself on the beaten air. He next equipped his son in the same manner, and taught him how to fly, as a bird tempts her young ones from the lofty nest into the air. When all was prepared for flight, he said, "Icarus, my son, I charge you to keep at a moderate height, for if you fly too low the damp will clog your wings, and if too high the heat will melt them. Keep near me and you will be safe." While he gave him these instructions and fitted the wings to his shoulders, the face of the father was wet with tears, and his hands trembled. He kissed the boy, not knowing that it was for the last time. Then rising on his wings he flew off, encouraging him to follow, and looked back from his own flight to see how his son managed his wings. As they flew the ploughman stopped his work to gaze, and the shepherd learned on his staff and watched them, astonished at the sight, and thinking they were gods who could thus cleave the air.
They passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the right, when the boy, exulting in his career, began to leave the guidance of his companion and soar upward as if to reach heaven. The nearness of the blazing sun softened the wax which held the feathers together, and they came off. He fluttered with his arms, but no feathers remained to hold the air. While his mouth uttered cries to his father, it was submerged in the blue waters of the sea, which thenceforth was called by his name. His father cried, "Icarus, Icarus, where are you?" At last he saw the feathers floating on the water, and bitterly lamenting his own arts, he buried the body and called the land Icaria in memory of his child. Daedalus arrived safe in Sicily, where he built a temple to Apollo, and hung up his wings, an offering to the god.
I think Icarus is on the bottom right. You can see his legs sticking out of the water. "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" Painting by Pieter Brueghel the Elder (circa 1558). In the public domain.
If we look at the myth from the point of view of Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey, we can see the part he calls Atonement with the Father. Although the myth of Icarus isn't about a son searching for his father, we have a father who guides his son. He's both helper and destroyer because he creates the wings that can take Icarus above the sea but does so before Icarus is ready to handle them because of his own desire for freedom.
Daedalus fills the role of the enforcer of rules. In this case, the rules involve negotiating between getting too close to the sea and getting too close to the sun. Symbolically, we might see the sea as the unconscious. He tells Icarus that if he flies too low, too near the unconscious, damp will clog his wings. In other words, the messiness of the unconscious mind will keep him down.
If, however, he flies too high, the heat of the sun will melt his wings. According to Joseph Campbell, the sun symbolizes the doorway to spiritual knowledge (among other things). Atonement with the father involves tests to make sure the son is ready to receive that knowledge, and Icarus failed his test. If he would have passed, this would have led to a second birth where he matures and gains the spiritual knowledge the father has.
We can see Icarus as representing us too eager to gain spiritual knowledge. I read somewhere that at one of his lectures, Campbell was approached by a young woman. This was perhaps in the 70s or 80s. She told him that having to go through years of suffering to gain spiritual knowledge in middle age isn't how it's done now. Young people, she said, go straight into learning spiritual knowledge. Needless to say, he wasn't impressed.
If I were in my 20s, I'd probably insist that people my age could gain spiritual knowledge as well (yes, I thought I was "so" wise). But I'll be 43 next month, and I just can't accept that. I believe that the joy that comes from feeling the oneness of all that is comes from balancing what's unique about us with surrendering to a perhaps disturbing thought: that all of nature, including all human beings, are connected.
As an abuse survivor, I feel "very" uncomfortable with the thought that I'm connected spiritually to my abusers. Any of us can feel disturbed by the thought that honest people are connected to people who commit heinous crimes or believe things we just can't accept. It's enough to want to reject all this spirituality stuff!
I think of each person as a unique spark of the Divine. What's unique about each one of us is joyful, but not more joyful than what we contribute to the Universe (which means humans and the earth). Conversely, what we contribute to the earth or others isn't more joyful than what's unique about us. If you ask me, losing the (healthy) ego entirely is easier than balancing it with the joy of oneness.
Rachel Pollack in "Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom wrote that the 6 of Pentacles could symbolize what we're ready to receive. It seems to me that the doorway to flying at a moderate height is to recognize what we're ready to receive, feel good about that, and trust that if we keep making the effort to bring spiritual knowledge into our lives (whether through study or deed), we'll receive more of it, when we're ready.
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