History
provides surprising perspectives that can be revelatory, even transformative,
if we distil timeless validity from temporal manifestation. The
history of Delphi is particularly fertile in this respect. It forces unfamiliar
thought and offers a kind of mental gymnastics that engages unused muscles of
the mind.
With
this in mind let us explore Delphi as a centre of healing. Greece had healing centres
dedicated to the god Asclepius in Epidaurus, Pergamum, on the island Kos, in
Athens, and in many other places.
The
Asclepian cure involved two steps. The first was catharsis; the ritual bathing
and purging that prepared the patient. The second was called incubation.
Applicants spent one night in the temple where a god or even Asclepius himself
would appear to them in a dream. They were either treated in the dream or given
advice on how to remedy their affliction
In
Delphi however, healing followed a different path. Here it had a dimension of
meaning we have entirely lost: In many cases the cure was rarely a cure for the
individual alone. It was salutary for the community, a potent stimulant for the
body social.
I
link the motto inscribed over the temple of Apollo, Know Thyself, to Heal thyself,
and this heal thyself to the healing
of others. Medicine was societal and politic; remedies were restorative for
whole communities.
Herodotus’
account of the founding of Kyrene is one of many tales that deals with healing
in and through community:
Grinus,
ruler of the island kingdom of Thera, came to Delphi to consult the oracle on
some matter. The Pythia, however, instead of answering Grinus’ questions,
replied with a totally unrelated advice: Found a city in Libya.
The
king, taken aback by the Pythia’s reply, retorted that he was too old and
infirm for such a precarious undertaking, and that they might be better
achieved by some of his young attendants, pointing to Battus in particular.
When the
delegation returned to Thera they disregarded the god’s advice. No one even
knew where Libya was (in the seventh century BC geography was a very local and
limited affair) and few had the stomach to sail into the unknown.
A long
drought descended on the island. The
oracle was consulted again, and the same advice was issued. Forced by increasing calamities the Therans
found a sailor from Crete who had once been driven by adversary winds to the
Island of Platea close to the Libyan coast. Led by him, a small and unwilling
crew of Therans set sail and established a settlement on Platea, just off the
Libyan coast. In time more ships were sent under the command of Battus.
The
settlement did not thrive. Battus went to Delphi to inquire why, after following
the god’s command, help was not forthcoming. Apollo spoke:
Knowest
thou Libya, whose shore
Your
feet have never touched
Better
than I?
Your
knowledge surprises me.
Battus
realised that they had settled close to, but not in Libya itself: they had not heeded
Apollo’s command and thus not secured his support. Battus quickly returned,
left the island behind and settled his men on the mainland. This time the
settlement thrived and eventually grew into the powerful city of Kyrene.
The
other version of the same story focuses on Battus, leader of the expedition,
and future King of Kyrene.
According to Herodotus, Battus was born to a
noble Theran and his servant concubine. Though a youth of great promise, he was
afflicted by a severe speech impediment. To cure his affliction he made a
pilgrimage to Delphi. The Pythia addressed him thus:
Battus,
you ask Apollo for a cure.
The God
however sends you to Libya,
a
country rich in sheep.
Found a
colony!
Battus
who had scanty private means and little political power saw no way to fulfil
the god’s command. Disappointed he returned to Thera only to encounter one
misfortune after another.
At the
same time the island suffered from a prolonged drought. The Therans asked
Delphi for help and were advised to dispatch a vessel with colonists under
Battus’s command to Libya. The stuttering youth became a leader and eventually
a king of the new colony.
Together
the stories make a whole. The tale of Battus shows how taking up his task in
the community healed his affliction. The tale told by the Therans illustrates
how the destiny of island community depended on Battus, the one individual
capable of bringing about colonial expansion. Delphi artfully orchestrated the
needs of both to bring about healing. Battus was remedial for Thera, Thera
salutary for Battus. The trade colony
helped Battus to become king and island community to move beyond complacency
and isolation.
Herodotus
never tells us if Battus eventually rid himself of his stuttering. However,
Pindar, in a poem made for Kyrenean festivities, speaks of
That Man
(Battus) from whom even roaring lions fled
When he
raised his voice from across the sea.’
This
passage allures to the transformation, a healing, be it literal or metaphoric,
which had made the stutterer into a king whose voice was heard and heeded.
A
Kyrenian folktale tells the similar tale:
Battus
when walking by himself on the outskirts of Kyrene, was confronted by a lion.
In his terror the king cried out violently. The beast fled and Battus never
stuttered again.
Though
this may be more story than history, it alludes to the greater medicine making
that Delphi was capable of. The historic
account of Herodotus, the poetic treatment of Pindar and the Kyrenian folktale
all orbit around the same meaning: the meaning from which Delphi manifested by
means of Pythia and priest.
Healing through Future
Healing
through community, however, is only one aspect of these tales: another concerns
the causes of illness and stagnation. Today we heal by either addressing the
symptom or by eliminating the cause. Both have their place. Dealing with
symptoms is sufficient in a case of broken bones. If a seasoned smoker has lung
problems curing the symptoms alone will not suffice. The cause needs to be
eliminated to provide permanent relief.
All
this makes sense and was of course part of the Delphic process also. But there
is an element in the medicine making at Delphic that exceeds our notion of
cause and effect, illness and health. An element, that rightly understood, can
shed new light on what medicine could be, and that in turn, can help us
understand the oracular tradition.
The
medicine made in Delphi also addresses a cause. The cause however is not in the
past. The lung problem of the smoker comes from years of smoking. This cannot
be said about the drought in Thera or the speech impediments of Battus. Here
the cause is in the future.
The
causes here were capacities not applied, opportunities not taken, and destinies
not lived. The oracular remedies were tailored to unfold potentials. Note that
there is nothing general about the advice. Advice was applicable to one person
and is not suitable for another, and the directions given to one community
would have been definitely out of place in the next. The advice to establish a
trade colony in Libya pertained to the Therans and to them alone. Only Battus
had the capacities needed for the task. Healing here was the unfolding of
destiny, the realisation of potential. The remedy was highly specific as it
cured the drought. But it is also broadly beneficial as it linked isolated
islanders with the world, invigorated economy and increased commerce.
We
can understand such advice by studying contemporary means of divination. For
oracles have all but died out. They have changed in appearance, but not in
appeal. Even today we cannot do without them. The moment we start planning our
future we turn Pythia by default. There is always a Delphi, and if not in
ourselves then in our friends, mentors, counsellors, psychologists. We seek
advice and often find it through the right book at the right time, by way of
workshops and in the ritual of retreats.
Today,
as of yore, we consult the future in times of crisis. Or, to be more precise,
when a crisis is beyond our ken and solutions are out of sight. This happens
when there is no precedent, when what we know is not enough, when the dimension
of a problem exceeds our ability to deal with it.
The
feeling of stagnation offers a typical scenario: the unease with the status
quo, the sense of being stuck and dissatisfied, mildly or severely depressed.
Some of these states, of course, have a cause in the past. But others do
not. We have such feelings not because
something has happened to us, but because nothing is happening. We suffer
because everything has remained the same. We feel stuck with who we are and
flat because we have not risen to any occasion.
If
we examine such feelings further we may find that their intensity is
proportional to the distance between who we are and who we could be. It may well be that many forms of depression
have their origin in this distance, caused by unrealised futures and not by
traumatic pasts (sometimes, of course, by both). Then we must consult our
interior Delphi, or find it in a conversation with a friend, a meeting with a
life coach, a workshop. The solution here is in the future. A job that
challenges us to unfold our full potential, a capacity that engages more of
ourselves, a task that takes us further, an art that is waiting to teach us
more about ourselves, insights that rekindle our interest in life, or a change
of place that changes everything.
Such
futures are not found by searching the past. The task is to spin new threads
and not untie old knots. Like the citizens of Thera, and Battus himself, we
have to find what we, and only we, can do. And like them we have to be ready
for change, open to unfamiliar advice and unheard of ideas to blow new wind
into our doldrums. We must be open to opportunities that heal us from the harm
of not being who we are meant to be.
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