Just Myrto (15 page)

I felt genuine sympathy for the man who finally understood that he had brought this sorrow upon himself through his own foolish pride.

By the time the festival of Dionysus arrived, Lamprocles had decided that Korinna should accompany us to see
Oedipus at Colonus.
Thousands upon thousands of people poured into the theatre, a semicircular arena built into a natural hollow of the hillside in the Acropolis. From the top of the grassy slopes we could look out over the stage and catch a glimpse of the Aegean Sea. Men dressed as billy goats had already moved the large wooden statue of
Dionysus from the temple to the place in the theatre where it would remain throughout the festival.

Wine flowed freely and the aroma of freshly charred beef lingered in the air. Our bellies were full of meat from the cattle sacrificed in honor of Dionysus. Socrates led us down into the very middle of the theatre where we found room for the four of us to sit on one of the wooden planks. Lamprocles insisted that Korinna and I sit together in the middle with Socrates on my left and Lamprocles on her right. The crowd buzzed with excitement until the drone of a double-piped aulos settled like a cloud upon us.

Two actors, one wearing the mask of Oedipus and one wearing the mask of Antigone took the stage. Their bodies, clad in long, brightly colored costumes, moved slowly and with great precision. When the chorus finally entered, the fifteen men resembled a single giant octopus with many heads and arms, all moving simultaneously, but with rather awkward coordination.

Korinna gripped my hand as the chorus chanted for Oedipus and Antigone not to enter the sacred grove outside Colonus:
“Turn around! Come back! You have gone too far!”

During one of Oedipus' elaborate apologies for his atrocious crimes and exile from Thebes, Socrates slipped his arm around my waist and drew me closer to him. I studied my husband for a moment before returning my attention to the stage. Sitting there with Socrates, I began to see Oedipus in a new light. In the end Oedipus always defended his own actions as honorably intended, claiming he killed his father in self-defense and blaming the city of Thebes for offering his mother to him as a wife.

The chorus wailed, bemoaning life and glorifying death,
“Not to be born is the condition that surpasses all others. But once man is born, the next best thing is to return with utmost haste to where he has come from.”

Indeed, I had the sense that if Oedipus somehow had it all to do over again, he would do nothing differently. Even as death drew near, Oedipus blessed his daughters for standing by him and cursed his sons for banishing him to a strange land. Both his blessings and his curses brought suffering and death.

The crowd around us seemed drawn together in the fear of impending doom, yet I felt strangely separate. Korinna and Lamprocles appeared completely mesmerized. When I turned to Socrates, he smiled. “It's a tragedy, you know,” he whispered in my ear.

I nodded. “Haven't we all suffered enough tragedy in our own lives?”

“Suffering naturally seeks companionship,” he whispered back.

“I find the whole elaborate production much more troubling than natural,” I confessed.

“Perhaps you would better enjoy a comedy,” replied Socrates. “It's the same collective foolishness, but without the pretense of public virtue.”

I shook my head. “I think I prefer reading books.”

Socrates nodded. “Reading is good. Especially when it leads to contemplation and dialogue.”

As we journeyed home that evening, Socrates and I walked behind Lamprocles and Korinna listening to them discuss the lives of Oedipus, Antigone and Creon. They extolled Antigone's devotion to her family and her respect for the gods. They decried Creon's stubbornness and shortsightedness. They remained quite baffled by Oedipus and his fate, well-persuaded that he suffered his deeds more than he committed them.

A
FTER THE
FESTIVAL
of Dionysus, Lamprocles and I began studying the other book of Theano entitled
The One.
Her words spoke directly to my soul inspiring the purest sense of awe I had ever experienced. She wrote that the genesis of all life, light and dark, male and female, is one. There is only one and the perceived absence of one, which is an openness full of potential also known as nothing. The energy of life pulsates like our own heartbeat. The one contracts, then opens to refill, contracts, and opens again.

All that ever was, all that is now and all that there ever will be exists within the pulsating energy: O1O1O1O1O1. The one encompasses all being, and the openness encompasses all potential for becoming. As Lamprocles read, I placed my hands over my heart and closed my eyes, feeling my own heartbeat. My ears filled with the dark mystery of rushing blood, and my eyes beheld a new inner light. I felt the breath of the universe within me.

Theano told of those who traveled far to the East and returned with an image of the one as a circle and the source of becoming within. This powerful symbol of light and darkness, male and female, being and becoming appears as a circle with a river winding through the center. On each side of the river exists a single large droplet of water, one white and one black. In the center of the
white droplet is planted the seed of darkness, and in the center of the black droplet is planted the seed of light.

The travelers demonstrated for Theano and other Pythagoreans the dance of the sun's light and the earth's shadow that created this image. They erected a pole measuring slightly less than two and one-half meters perpendicular to the earth's surface and recorded the shadow images over the course of a year. The shortest shadow occurred on summer solstice and formed the tip of the black droplet and the source of the river dividing the droplets. The longest shadow occurred on winter solstice and formed the tip of the white droplet and the mouth of the river flowing into the surrounding circle.

The travelers called the darkness yin and the light yang. Yin is born at summer solstice, and yang is born at winter solstice. Together yin and yang represent the unity and equality of light and darkness, male and female, coexisting in balance and harmony. This is the order and pattern of the universe, the path to prosperity and flourishing. Neither yin nor yang is superior; neither exists apart from the other. Any attempt at hierarchy or domination disrupts the natural flow creating disaster and destruction.

“Lamprocles,” I asked, “do you suppose that it is the domination of men that has caused continuous war and the plague?”

Lamprocles shook his head. “It does not stand to reason,” he replied. “States go to war over land and resources.”

“Or a woman, such as Helen of Troy,” I added.

“Yes,” said Lamprocles, “but recall that the Amazon women also fought in the Trojan War.”

“A nation of women warriors is still a nation without balance between men and women,” I replied. “Do you suppose that there
exists anywhere a state where men and women live together in perfect balance?”

“Maybe that is what the Pythagoreans intend,” said Lamprocles. “Still, their society is so secretive and mysterious that it is hard to say.”

“This book we're reading does not feel like the words of a man or the words of a woman,” I told him. “It feels like a greater truth. It feels like wisdom.”

“I don't know,” Lamprocles said. “It's just so different than the mathematical calculations and geometrical proofs that I've always associated with Pythagoras.”

“It's also quite different from the hygiene and medicine we studied in the midwifery book,” I agreed. “Does the fact that this is different make it untrue?” I asked.

“I don't know if it's true or not, because I don't know how to test it,” said Lamprocles. “I can work the mathematical calculations myself, and we were able to follow the instructions and advice of the midwifery book when Sophroniscus was born. I just don't know what to do with this or where to start.”

“We could erect a pole and record the shadows and see if we find the same image of yin and yang described by the travelers,” I offered.

Lamprocles studied a sketch of the shadow images in the book. “The pattern of shadows around the pole makes sense. And the swirling line dividing the light from the shadow appears very natural to me—similar to the swirl in a seashell or a ram's horn.” Lamprocles picked up a stick and drew a circle in the dirt. He drew a series of O's and 1's; then he started drawing yin and yang within each open circle.

“It's like the river of Heraclitus surrounded by the being of Parmenides,” I said. “Together they are the genesis.”

Lamprocles dropped the stick and stared at his scratchings in the earth. After a long while he looked at me, eyes full of wonder. “It is, isn't it?” he pondered. “Still, if I spend a year recording the shadows and produce the same image, how does that make the rest of it true?”

“And even if your recordings produce a different image, would that destroy the underlying principles represented by the symbol?” I asked.

Lamprocles sighed. “If it's true, it's true regardless of whether I can prove it.”

“And if it's not true?” I asked.

“Then it's even harder to prove a negative,” Lamprocles responded. He began to brush away the images he'd drawn in the dirt.

“Does it really matter whether or not you can prove it if you believe in your heart that it's true?” I asked.

“The only way to persuade others is by proof,” he insisted.

“But I believe it, even without your proof,” I said. I carefully rolled up the papyrus and placed it securely in Lamprocles' satchel.

Lamprocles brushed the dust from his tunic and stood. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you believe it?”

The way he stood over me suddenly made me feel inferior. I rose to my feet to look him squarely in the face. I realized for the first time that he was actually quite a bit taller than I these days. Still, standing on my own two feet before him, I felt every bit his equal. In many ways we were different as night and day, but no different in human value.

“I believe it because it feels true to me,” I said simply.

“But how can you persuade someone else that you are right and he is wrong?” asked Lamprocles.

“I do not wish to persuade anyone of anything,” I said. I handed Lamprocles his satchel.

“Well, I do!” exclaimed Lamprocles. He slung the satchel over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips. “What's the point of being right if you can't prove it?”

“Maybe the point isn't about who is right and who is wrong,” I suggested. “Maybe the point is that today I feel a deeper sense of truth than I did yesterday. As I continue to think and grow, my understanding will continue to change as well. Maybe it's more about seeking wisdom than being right.”

Lamprocles threw up his hands in exasperation. “Every time I think I'm really getting it, you say something like that and all of my thoughts just go up in flames!”

I smiled and nodded. “And every time I think I am beginning to really know something, I am reminded that someone older and wiser and much more experienced than I understands that he knows nothing.”

“Right,” Lamprocles sighed. “What do I know?”

T
HAT
EVENING AS
we ate, Lamprocles and I discussed our reading with Socrates.

“The symbol of the yin and the yang intrigues me,” said Socrates. “In fact, it reminds me of a book by Democritus called
Little Cosmology.”
He broke off a large piece of bread and passed it to Lamprocles.

“I've heard of Democritus, but I didn't think anyone took him seriously,” replied Lamprocles. He also tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and placed it in a small dish of olive oil. “Even Plato said that the papyrus he writes upon is more valuable for burning than for reading.” He passed the bread to Xanthippe, who kept the greater share and placed the remaining portion between us.

“Perhaps,” replied Socrates, “but Democritus attempted to resolve Parmenides' being and Heraclitus' becoming by conceiving of an eternal, indivisible particle called the atom.” Socrates poured some wine in a bowl for me and filled both of our glasses before passing the jar to Lamprocles.

“What exactly is an atom?” I asked as I broke my bread into small pieces and dropped them into the bowl of wine to soften.

“According to Democritus, it's exactly what its name suggests: something that is ‘uncuttable.' Atoms are like little, eternal,
unchanging beings that combine to form larger, visible objects,” explained Socrates.

“But what happens when the object ceases to exist?” Lamprocles asked.

“The atoms disperse,” replied Socrates. “They simply move on to combine with other atoms and form other objects.”

“What about fire?” I asked. “Can fire destroy atoms?”

“Not according to Democritus,” said Socrates.

I held up a piece of softened bread. “So this wine and this bread are both made of atoms?”

Socrates nodded. “If Democritus is to be believed, they are indeed.”

“So the wine begins to disperse the bread atoms and wine atoms by mixing them together,” Lamprocles hypothesized. “Then Myrto uses her teeth to chew the bread into even smaller pieces, mixing them with saliva and swallowing them where the juices in the stomach break them down even further?”

“And inside my body, some atoms join with my blood and circulate through my body providing nourishment, while others pass through as waste?” I asked.

“Waste!” Xanthippe grunted. “If you don't mind, I'd like to eat my meal without analyzing the holy crap out of it!”

Socrates and Lamprocles both laughed. I remained silent, consumed by the enigma of atoms and immune to Xanthippe's cutting remarks.

“What about wind and water?” asked Lamprocles. “Can they be made of atoms, too?”