|| A REFLECTIOn
Dear Icarus,
Did we truly know the story of the boy who flew towards the sun?
I think it was back when I was still a kid — the very first time I read about the story of Icarus.
It was in one of those kiddie encyclopedias on the shelves — the ones with beautiful pictures. I remember reading one of them being about dinosaurs, another about tropical plants, and another one about machines.
And from that same shelf was a book about Greece.
It’s been years since then and I could barely recall much of what I read in that book. Was it about the country’s history? Architecture? Famous people? Mythology? All of the above?
I couldn’t say.
But what I do remember, was the story of Icarus.
The Story of Daedalus and Icarus
The Story of Icarus is a famous tragedy in Greek Mythology—a cautionary tale that warns others of the danger of excessive pride and recklessness.
Icarus with his father, Daedalus—the master craftsman who built the Labyrinth of Crete that trapped the Minotaur within its walls—were thrown into the very same place by King Minos under suspicion of leaking the labyrinth’s secrets to outsiders which led to Theseus (a hero from Athens) to slaying the Minotaur from right under their noses.
Choosing to escape, Daedalus built wings out of feathers held together by thread and beeswax. He told Icarus not to fly too low or the moisture will drag down his wings, nor fly too high or the sun will scorch his wings.
Daedalus told the boy to never stray from the path he mapped out for him and they soon took flight and escaped into the skies.
Icarus dutifully followed his father’s words, neither flying too low nor too high, and obediently followed behind his father for miles.
After some time, they were finally nearing their destination when Icarus suddenly disregarded his father’s words and flew higher and closer to the sun which instantly melted the wax holding the feathers together.
The feathers dropped one by one into the vast sea and soon, even the boy himself fell — his father’s name upon his lips but that too was swallowed by the dark blue sea.
Daedalus screamed Icarus’ name in anguish as he searched the waves until he finally saw feathers strewn across a nearby shore.
He buried his son in a tomb on that island which he named Icaria—after his son. As Daedalus mourned his loss, a partridge jeered at him from the sticks.
A Cautionary Tale
It was from this story that the famous idiom “never fly too close to the sun” came from.
The tragedy of a father who lost his son because of the son’s recklessness — who despite the father’s repeated warnings, during a moment of arrogance, chose to disregard them which led to the boy’s tragic death.
The Tragic Fall. The Fall of Icarus.
This was the focus of this tale—the dangers of excessive pride and hubris—that was told over and over again through centuries.
The Moment Before the Fall
Yet… strangely enough, this wasn’t the reason the story remained stuck in my mind even after so many years. It wasn’t about the fall… it was the moment before the fall.
“…the boy began to delight in his daring flight, and abandoning his guide, drawn by the desire for the heavens, soared higher.”
Back then, I remembered thinking, “Awesome.”
As a child, my vocabulary was obviously very lacking but that was exactly what I said in my head.
When Icarus fell into the sea, I remember not feeling sad.
On the contrary, I admired the boy who chose to soar into the skies because even if he did fall in the end… he still flew.
I suppose some small part of me was captivated by how Icarus soared at that moment. And until today, those feelings persisted and lurked in the back of my mind throughout the years.
In many stories, Icarian Characters — those who arrogantly thought of themselves to be greater than the ground beneath their feet with ambitions higher than the very heavens—all ended their stories in poetic despair.
Just a bit recently, I came across an interesting description of Icarus and other Icarian characters:
“It is not the treacherous flight—the risk-filled journey—that scares them, but the failure of never trying.”
- Cierra Tolentino, “The Myth of Icarus: Chasing the Sun”, History Cooperative
How foolish. So foolish.
Yet all the more enviable.
Foolish as they truly were, I couldn’t help but admire their spirit. To have that much courage for their own desires. The courage to dream and make that dream a reality.
Even if they should meet a tragic fate in the end, they have this astonishingly strong belief that as long as they believed that they lived their lives in the pursuit of such dreams, they will have no regrets.
Such a foolish and frustrating—yet all the more envying way to live.
To be free to choose how to live and how it would all come to an end.
I wonder if this is what true freedom really is. To have the freedom to choose and pursue how you wish to live your life and have a say in how it all ends.
Looking everywhere, most of us are flying following the path already mapped out for us—neither too low nor too high. The safest path.
That in and of itself is a very beautiful way to live. The ability to cherish the simple happiness of living and treasure those moments that come your way is a very powerful gift.
But the problem is, there are those who focus too much on trying to avoid flying too high, that they soon forget about the dangers lurking below.
The Dangers of Flying… Too Low
“Let me warn you, Icarus, to take the middle way, in case the moisture weighs down your wings, if you fly too low, or if you go too high, the sun scorches them.”
Flying too low is just as dangerous — if not more—as flying too high.
Look around you. Look at the people and look at their hearts. If that’s too difficult, then look at some parts of the internet.
Depression. Anxiety. Cynicism. Fear. Panic. Satire. Sadness. Frustration. Sorrow. Irony. Schadenfreude. Skepticism. Hate. Anger. Apathy —
Emptiness.
Everyone looks so full of emotions… and yet empty at the same time.
There were no longings and no strong desires. Perhaps there were, but many of them chose to stifle and bury them out of fear of being burned.
And so they willed those who chose to fly… to burn. To prove that they did the right thing. That they made the right choice in abandoning their hopes and their desires.
Just being able to live through each day was enough. What are dreams? What are desires? We don’t need them. Being able to eat is enough. Being able to survive.
They chose to stifle the desire to reach the heavens and bury the longing to soar into the skies — out of fear of flying too close to the sun.
But as they continue to stifle and bury these wishes time and time again, preoccupied with the fear of flying too high, they fail to notice that their wings were already skimming the water’s surface.
The moisture had begun to dampen their wings and cause their spirits to grow heavier and wearier.
Suffocating where there is no water; souls sinking just below the surface.
Their wings grew heavier and heavier and the burden became too much for them to bear until finally—they stop.
Choosing instead to be swallowed by the vast blue sea—they stop flying.
Without even the chance to soar. Forever.
Now tell me.
How is this any different?
By choosing to avoid one tragedy, we land ourselves in another one—and we can’t even romanticize it.
Just tragedy in its purest form. No flying before the fall. No reaching for the sun. Nothing.
Just despair that slowly sinks into your bones and gnaws at your soul. Just fear that cripples your wings and whittles away at your spirit.
You quickly try to flap your wings and fly higher but it was already too late.
The heaviness had already started to soak into your bones and chip away at everything piece by piece until there was nothing left but an empty shell.
The irony!
They tried. They tried to fly the safe path mapped out before them. They stifled their wishes and their desires. They stifled their Icarus within the deep recesses of their minds and tried. They truly did.
But it was much too heavy.
It was suffocating. The feeling of drowning above water. The feeling of sinking deeper and deeper yet unable to struggle—a part of them even starts to question why they should even struggle to begin with, to let it all just end.
The despair… the creeping emptiness… was terrifying. Much more terrifying than plummeting and burning to the ground.
When Icarus fell, he was but a boy who barely passed his tenth spring. A mere child.
And for a moment, he dreamed and longed for the sky. He soared… and was struck down by the sun’s rays; his story told and retold as the tragedy of an arrogant and reckless boy.
Dear Icarus…
Foolish child,
Why did you—in that moment—suddenly soar towards the sun? You followed Daedalus, your father, dutifully for miles from Crete to Samos. What did you see in that moment that led you to suddenly fly above your father and abandon the path mapped before you?
Ambitious as they say you were, why were you uninterested in your father’s craft? Your father who was known as the master craftsman acknowledged by Athens and Crete and blessed by the Goddess.
Ambitious as they say you were, why didn’t you learn under your father?
You loved and admired your father so, that the King of Minos you held in disregard. And as you fell, Daedalus’ name was the last upon your lips before it was swallowed by the sea.
Why did you die as nothing more but the foolish boy who played and “hindered” his father’s work?
“His son, Icarus, stood next to him, and, not realizing that he was handling things that would endanger him, caught laughingly at the down that blew in the passing breeze, and softened the yellow bees’-wax with his thumb, and, in his play, hindered his father’s marvelous work.”
A child. A mere foolish child.
Did you perhaps know about how your father killed Talus—your cousin?
“Daedalus was jealous, and hurled the boy headlong from Minerva’s sacred citadel, claiming that he had fallen.”
Did you perhaps know how your father loathed those who were better than him and so you stifled your desire to become the man you admired—a renowned craftsman like your father?
Hiding your desires behind faraway dreams of marrying and becoming a hero. A fool’s mask for the boy who loved his father.
Stifled and buried, young dreams chained in the deepest recesses of a young heart.
Until you saw it.
You saw the sun. And you saw yourself soaring into the heavens.
Like Talus, your cousin, and how he turned into a bird and soared into the sky — his life spared from your father’s envy and wrath.
“But Minerva, who favors those with quick minds, caught him, and turned him into the partridge, masking him with feathers in mid-air.”
An act fueled by a momentary desire acted upon a fatigued child’s mind from miles of flight.
You soared… and was instantly struck down by the sun.
You left your dear father to bury your lifeless body in a tomb with naught but a partridge for company who jeered at the old man’s loss.
“As he was consigning his unfortunate son to the grave, a noisy partridge poked its head out from a muddy ditch, and, called, cackling joyfully, with whirring wings.”
The Icarus Within Our Hearts
Sometimes, I think.
Perhaps… we were never meant to stifle the reckless Icarus in our hearts.
Perhaps we just had to find a way to make his wings as strong as steel so they could never be burned by the sun.
Perhaps little Icarus just needed some time to grow and shed his juvenile recklessness and become stronger and smarter so he could soar higher and closer to the heavens.
Perhaps all along… we needed our Icarus.
I don’t have the answer. And perhaps the answer is a little bit different for all of us.
But sometimes, I wonder what the world would look like if everyone had the freedom to chase after every innocent childhood dream—our true hopes and our true desires.
P.S. All the passages are from Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”
