globe, the peace symbol – like, possibly, the labyrinth – was one person’s idea that “stuck.” It was a local idea that fast became a global phenomenon.
The third criterion is “the power of context.” Here again, we can relate back to Jung’s hypothesis for the universal power of archetype and myth. The notion of something so simple yet complex as a labyrinth is as compelling to us in the twenty-first century as it was to our earliest ancestors. There is no reason to suggest that they would not have been concerned with the same big, philosophical questions that we still grapple with today – Why are we here? What is the purpose of our lives? What happens when we die? Like us, they would have wanted to better understand life and the purpose of it – and, in particular, how to feel happier and more fulfilled on this lifelong journey.
The psychologist, Abraham Maslow, formulated a hierarchy of needs in which security issues (such as the provision of shelter and food) are at the base of the triangle, with self-actualization (spiritual needs) at the pinnacle. However, this seems to over-simplify the human experience and before Maslow died he admitted that he might have got this the wrong way around. Just because prehistoric people had more pressing security concerns than most of us in the West today, that does not mean that they did not also seek deeper meaning and purpose in their lives.
The manner in which our ancestors explored these issues was through myths and there is considerable similarity in these stories, regardless of the culture. Indeed, rather than accepting that religious writers accessed the power of the collective unconscious, it may be that they borrowed and modified much earlier stories for which the power of context was universal. For instance, there is considerable similarity between archetypes appearing in the Assyro-Babylonian poem the Epic of Gilgamesh (c. 700B.C.) and the Old Testament of the Bible. Both feature a serpent, a woman who robs a hero of his innocence, and someone who survives a Great Flood.
LABYRINTHS AND MYTH
The labyrinth has long been associated with myths and legends, the most direct link being with the story of Theseus and the Minotaur (see here). But why should we be interested in centuries-old accounts of the exploits of fictional gods, goddesses and heroes? More particularly, why would they hold any relevance to us today?
Mythology is populated by archetypal characters who illustrate universal dispositions with which each one of us can relate at various times in our lives. Despite the culture or period in which these mythological tales were written, each one of us recognizes in them universal values around being and behaving. Within an oral tradition, myths ensured the values of a culture were broadcast from generation to generation. They also helped explain fundamental but complex philosophical issues in a way that was more palatable and easily understood – through stories about the adventures and lives of gods and heroes.
For example, no concept intrigues, terrifies, and holds us in awe more than death. Death has been the subject of introspection and debate since the earliest times when bodies, whether of Egyptian pharaohs or Neanderthal nomads, were buried with everything they might need for their next journey, into the “land beyond.” We are fascinated by death from an early age when we ask, unsuccessfully, for confirmation of exactly what happens to us. I remember an occasion when we buried a goldfish in the back garden and my small son pressed me to tell him where it would go. Thinking I was being suitably spiritual in my instruction, I assured Graeme that the goldfish would go to heaven to be with God, only to find my son digging up the area the next day to check whether the fish had got there yet.
The labyrinth is typically associated with dark caves, the inner workings of our subconscious and the way in which we must constantly review our attitudes and behaviors so that we “kill off” any that are no longer useful to us in order to resurrect or discover ones that are. Not surprisingly, the labyrinth motif has been woven into a number of myths concerning death. Such myths also elaborate on the key role of women in the human experience. For example, Joseph Campbell relates the myth of the Malekula islanders in Vanuatu (formerly the New Hebrides) in the South Pacific who learn that their approach to the Land of the Dead will be halted by a female guardian. She draws a labyrinth design in the earth, then erases half of it and the soul’s task is to complete the design perfectly before they will be allowed to pass through to the underworld. If they do not, then they will be eaten by her.
Unlike mazes with their dead ends, labyrinths are reminiscent of coiled snakes. According to the Hindu tradition, Kundalini is the serpent goddess who awakens whenever an individual embarks upon a spiritual journey. As they proceed on their path, overcoming challenges in the way of the hero, Kundalini journeys upwards, piercing each chakra in turn until, reaching the crown chakra, the subject is said to have achieved spiritual enlightenment. (For more on this, see here.)
Snake-like Imprints
Then there is a tale that comes from Arnhem Land in Australia’s Northern Territory which is the aboriginal equivalent of the Biblical story of Noah’s flood – only, as in many non-Christian examples, the story involves female protagonists, not a male one. Two sisters, one already a mother and the other pregnant, are forced to leave their home and begin to journey north. As they travel they give names to everything they see, bringing the stone animals, plants and insects to life. These women belonging to the Wagilag clan, camp alongside the Mirarrmina watering hole, unaware that it is the sacred home of the Giant Python, Wititj.
Angry at being disturbed, Wititj sucks up all the water and spits it out to form monsoon clouds that break and flood the land. The sisters begin to perform songs and dances in order to divert the waters. But the serpent swallows them and their offspring whole, raising himself into the sky to escape the deluge. In the heavens, he is admonished by his ancestors and they tell Wititj that he should not have swallowed all members of the same family. The great snake becomes ill and crashes to the ground, leaving a labyrinthine imprint in the earth, whereupon he spits out the women and children. Wagilag men who have followed them, learn of the songs and dance rituals performed by the women to halt the flooding and these are enacted during the monsoon season to ensure the continuation of nature’s cycles.
In Arnhem Land, the giant python Wititj was said to be responsible for the cycle of the seasons.
Goddess Worship
The links between the labyrinth symbol and goddess worship – the means through which early people expressed their love and respect for Mother Earth – are strong. The meander pattern (see here), from which the Classical seven-circuit labyrinth may be derived, has been found on bird goddess figurines dating back to c. 18000-15000B.C. by Lake Baical in the Ukraine. Additionally, rituals engaged in across Scandinavia (where the largest concentration of labyrinths from antiquity can be found) involved males competing with each other to see who can reach the female in the center first. These games, conducted most frequently in eleven-circuit labyrinths, were very different from the formulaic rituals of the seven-circuit Troy Towns. Indeed, there is a suggested link between the number 7 and male energy and the connection between the number II and female energy (see here).
Bird goddess figurines from the Ukraine showing characteristic meander patterns.
Within the eleven-circuit stone labyrinths that proliferate throughout Finland and Sweden the goal of negotiating the labyrinth involved rescuing a young woman at the center. At Kopmanholm, to the north-east of Stockholm in Sweden, there is