Today we will explore Greek mythology. We are all familiar with gods and goddesses from Greek mythology. For example, everyone remembers Achilles, the God of tendonitis. We all know Poseidon as well. Poseidon, God of the oceans, rivers and irrigation systems, directed a movie about his adventures called The Poseidon Adventure. It starred Ernest Borgnine and many other top-notch Hollywood actors. Years ago my barber looked exactly like Ernest Borgnine, but that is a story for another blog entry.
Today we will focus on the myth of Apollo and Daphne. As the story goes, Apollo, the God of the sun, insulted Eros (a.k.a. Cupid) by teasing him about his bow and arrow.
"Ha, Eros!" Apollo chided, "What have you to doeth with thine arrows that you shooteth? Thou shalt surely misseth all thy targets. " (Many people don't realize that Greek Gods spoke an Old English dialect).
"Chide me not!" Eros retorted, "for as thou chidest me, I shalt smite thee rightly with mine own feathered darts!"
In the midst of all the chiding, along came Daphne, the wood nymph. She seemed to float into the scene as she approached in her new toga (it was made from contour sheets). In the Greek world, Daphne's beauty was legendary and knew no season. So great was her beauty that when men beheld her countenance they would weep and rent their hair and gouge out their eyeballs, knowing they could never hold her or possess her or take her out for a date.
Eros, still stinging from Apollo's rebuke, noted that Apollo began panting like a labrador as Daphne entered the glade where they stood. Apollo was rightly smitten by the goddess before him, and he fell to his knees, overcome with the inability to fulfill the lust which reduced his burning heart to embers. He babbled like an idiot.
Eros, never missing an opportunity to exact revenge, removed two arrows from his quiver. One was gold, and the other was lead. (He also had some regular arrows as he was planning to go pheasant hunting with Socrates later that day). The gold arrow instilled love in he whose heart it pierced, whereas the lead arrow would instill abhorrence. With a wry smile gracing his impish face, Eros shot the gold arrow into Apollo, and he shot the lead arrow into Daphne.
This is where the story gets really interesting. Eros left for his periodontal appointment, but that's not the interesting part. Apollo stood, smoothed out his toga, and told Daphne, "I lovest thou from the depths of my soul and the temple of my loins. What sayest thou? Wilt thou accompaniest me for baclava? My treat!"
Daphne, flushing with venomous hatred and repulsion, made a face as if she had eaten an undercooked dolma, then turned and ran, her ears hot and red and pounding with each beat of her heart. So fast did she run that her toga fluttered and snapped like a sail around her porcelain yet supple torso. Her feet barely grazed the forest floor as she leapt over fallen logs and creek beds and ran up and down mountains. Like a beautious flash of whiteness and loveliness, she sprinted through the Greek countryside for the better part of the afternoon.
Daphne did not tire, and soon she was certain she had outrun her newfound adversary. She glanced over her shoulder. "EEEK!" she shrieked, as if she had come face-to-face with Medusa. It was Apollo! He was running effortlessly a few feet behind. Worse yet, he smiled mischievously as he casually popped olives into his mouth. His lips glistened in the sun, his sun, from the olive oil which now dripped down his chin. Daphne serpentined between trees, attempting to gain her advantage.
"Oh you-hoo! You-hoo! Daphne," Apollo chided, "spurn not my advances. Retreat thou into this nearby grove for some ungodly kanoodling!" He spat out an olive pit and skipped like a giddy schoolboy as he chased his prey.
My god, Daphne thought, this lovesick, pit-spitting rogue will have his way with me. I care neither for man nor the fixed routine of wifely duties, yet that may come to pass.
"Father," she called out, looking up at the sky. "Help me! Help me! Change my form or command the earth to swallow me up!" Daphne's father, Peneus, a river god, heard his daughter's cry from the heavenly realm where he was playing Scrabble with the other gods. Peneus stood, cracked his knuckles then peered over the fringe of his cloud down toward Earth. "Daphne, my daughter, my seedling, change thy form!" Peneus stormed as he pointed his finger toward Earth. Zeus was nearby wearing an apron as he prepared a snack tray. "Peneus," he said, "I likest thy style! High five!"
Meanwhile, back on planet Earth, Apollo grabbed hold of Daphne's toga with a surge of triumph and a tsunami in his nether regions. He could not restrain himself any more than Cyclops could wink. Apollo ripped off Daphne's toga and for a solitary, rapturous moment, he gazed upon her alabaster nakedness and silky, heaving form. Amidst the tumultuousness of his half-crazed mind he could muster only one coherent thought: "I wonder if she's wearing lip gloss!"
But wait! Godly trickery was at work, and even the power of Eros' lethal arrows faltered. Daphne's pace slowed. She stiffened; her gait became wooden. Apollo released Daphne as he noted the sudden hardening of her supple flesh. Overcome with horror and emotional detumescence, he fell backward like a steamed grape leaf, gasping in fits as the scene unfolded.
Daphne looked skyward and raised her willowy arms. Just as branches with tiny buds sprouted from each of her fingertips, viney roots erupted from her feet and spread outward, eventually burrowing into the mossy earth. Her expression was resolute and knowing, and she nodded subtly and looked heavenword and mouthed the words, "Thank you, father. Thank you for hearing me. I know I interrupted your Scrabble game."
The setting sun seemed to be peering over Apollo's shoulder, frozen in space and time, as Daphne's transformation continued, her legs fusing into a trunk, her breasts becoming burls, her skin furrowing with bark-like delineations, her hair blowing upward and forming a canopy of sprigs, her face withering and finally disappearing, disappearing forever into the leaves which had freed themselves from their buds.
The sun set, and Apollo had fallen unconscious. The crepuscular wind blew gently, like a mother's breath cooing over her baby, and Daphne's leaves quaked and rustled with newfound joy and freedom. All night long she swayed and held her branches aloft, blissfully experiencing the sappy pulsations within her bark and the rings which spread outward from the core of her trunk. She nestled her roots deep into the loamy earth; it felt like her walks in the wet sand along the seashore. She sensed the night air entering and exiting her myriad leaves like sighs. Somehow the entirety of these sensations was familiar (she was a wood nymph afterall), and she understood this was her new destiny.
Morning came. Apollo awoke. He stared at the tree before him. Was it an aspen? A birch? A dogwood or an alder? He rubbed his eyes. Suddenly the events from the night before tumbled into his mind in quick succession. He approached the tree and touched the smooth, papery bark. He noted the green, silvery leaves shimmering in the morning sun. He sat. He wondered. He understood this was his new destiny. He would sit in the shade of this tree and lovingly tend it like a gardener tended his rosebushes. He would make wreathes from its fallen leaves in Autumn, and keep vigil in the Spring, waiting for the moment when the new leaves erupted from their buds. His head was quiet, and he relished the unfathomable contentedness which now coursed through his veins.
"Thank you, Eros," Apollo whispered, "You knew what you were doing all along."
That, I can assure you, dear reader, is exactly how it all happened. I have acquired some additional information. Experts in Greek mythology have determined that Daphne transformed into an aspen, otherwise known as Populus tremulus, such as the ones pictured here:
These wondrous beauties, also know as quaking aspen, frequent the Sierra Nevada at elevations of 6,000-9,000 feet and tend to congregate around rivers. They love moisture and the communal shade which their leafy canopies engender. There is a grove of aspen on the shores of Lake Tahoe near Taylor Creek, where salmon hatch and salmon return to die:
Quaking aspen do not grow well at sea level. As such, those who dwell near the ocean must find a related alternative if they are to enjoy the aspen. I suggest the white birch; it grows well at sea level and is similar to the aspen, a cousin of sorts. The leaves are almost indistinguishable from those of the aspen:
Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the Neapolitan sculptor, also understood that Daphne had transformed into an aspen. He captured the moment in a perfect block of pure Carrera marble in 1625: In the close-up view one can appreciate the aspen leaves sprouting from Daphne's fingertips:
On a final note, if you inspect the sculpture closely, you can see that Daphne is, indeed, wearing lip gloss.
