Being able to adapt, improvise and overcome with nothing but chewing gum wrapper, some string and basic science: lessons in improvisation from MacGyver.

Hello again, dear reader.

In early issue of the conversations we have been talking about being a "Badass" and there is nothing more tough guy or "Badass" then being able to improvise a solution for any number of situations that may arise. And every time I think about improvisation. I tend to think about when pop culture icon that has become the epitome of the word improvisation, and then his MacGyver MacGyver could improvise anything he could defuse a nuclear reactor with a chocolate bar he was so good. As a matter of fact that, is anime has become part of the American lexicon for a person's ability to adapt and improve it to "MacGyver. Something needs to succeed where others have failed, against all odds. So hopefully by the end of today's conversation, dear reader, you will have a better understanding of what it means to improvise, adapt and overcome...

MacGyver is stuck in the attic of a house. Bad guys are coming up the stairs and about to bust into the room. The only way out is through a window, but it’s a ways up, and angry Doberman Pinschers wait below. MacGyver searches through the attic and grabs a bottle of cleaning fluid, mothballs, a telescope, a pulley, a rope, and a metal rod. He hastily assembles a rocket-propelled harpoon from the seemingly random materials, which he then uses to create a zip line to a tree outside. Just as the bad guys breach the room, he glides away to safety.

Awesome, right? This was just one of the many improvised gadgets and explosives MacGyver created during the 7-year run of the television series that bore his name. The show was so successful and memorable, that despite being canceled in 1992, it remains one of the most recognizable touchstones of popular culture and has even entered our lexicon; to jury-rig something using only the materials you have on hand is to “MacGyver” it.

The “MacGruber” SNL parody, which improbably became a full-length film, has lent MacGyver a cheesier and more satirical air in recent times, but there’s still something about the character that strongly resonates. And that resonance actually goes a lot deeper than pop culture; it in fact points to an universal archetype of manliness, and a trait of masculinity that has been valued and celebrated across times and cultures: improvisation.

A Case Study in Masculine Improvisation: The Cretan Glendiots

To understand how and why the ability to improvise has, and continues to be, considered a particularly compelling and manly trait, let us travel to the island of Crete off the coast of Greece. It was here in the 1970s that anthropologist Michael Herzfeld studied the culture of masculinity in a small mountainous village he dubbed “Glendi” (the name was a pseudonym, to protect the confidentiality of its residents). The Glendiots were a pastoral people, and because of the remoteness and hardscrabble nature of their village, had retained much of the traditional code of manhood that marked cultures around the world for thousands of years. The men had a reputation as strong, independent, outlaw-types, and stealing sheep from neighboring villages’ flocks was a central part of demonstrating their manhood; the practice was not considered by them to be immoral, but rather a way to build alliances (there’s a lot to unpack on this subject, and as the culture of shepherds as a whole, especially contrasted with that of farmers, is such a fascinating topic, we’ll cover it in full down the line).

It is in fact a Glendiot idiom that gave to us the distinction between being a “good man” and “being good at being a man.” And part of earning the latter distinction was mastering the art of improvisation. Women assuredly improvised too, but more often practiced this skill within the privacy of the household. Men were expected to demonstrate their adeptness in the public arena, so that others could judge their prowess. Such demonstrations were made through sheep raiding, dancing and singing contests, drinking and toasting, telling jokes, showing hospitality to guests, and playing cards. In such things, Herzfeld writes in The Poetics of Manhood, it wasn’t enough simply to do the minimum and stick with the basics; to show you were good at being a man, you had to invest your actions with “flair and distinctiveness” and achieve:

“performative excellence, the ability to foreground manhood by deeds that strikingly ‘speak for themselves.’ Actions that occur at a conventional pace are not noticeable; everyone works hard, most adult males dance elegantly enough, any shepherd can steal a sheep on some occasion or other. What counts…is a sense of shifting the ordinary and everyday context where the very change of context itself serves to invest it with sudden significance. Thus, instead of showing what men do, Glendiots focus their attention on how the act is performed.”

As is the dynamic of all male groups, Glendiot men both competed as individuals to achieve status within their village, and banded together to compete for status with other villages. Demonstrating one’s ability to improvise was one of the surest routes to achieving high standing as individuals and as a group. Honored was the man who didn’t seem as if he had planned out every move of a successful action ahead of time, and appeared to “have ‘chanced’ (etikhene) upon the flock he raids, the verse he suddenly thought up, the food he is able to serve his unexpected guests.” To the Glendiots, Herzfeld observes, “flexibility and an ability to make the best of any situation are key components in the definition of the true man.”

Why would this be so? Why would the ability to improvise be considered such a valuable and honored trait amongst the Glendiots, and other cultures as well? There are several reasons.

Why Improvisation Is a Valuable and Manly Trait

Offers an advantage in battles, of all kinds.

“The qualities that make a good soldier are, in large part, the qualities that make a good hunter. Most important of all is the ability to shift for one’s self, the mixture of hardihood and resourcefulness which enables a man to tramp all day in the right direction, and, when night comes, to make the best of whatever opportunities for shelter and warmth may be at hand. Skill in the use of the rifle is another trait; quickness in seeing game, another; ability to take advantage of cover, yet another; while patience, endurance, keenness of observation, resolution, good nerves, and instant readiness in an emergency, are all indispensable.” –Theodore Roosevelt, Outdoor Pastimes of the American Hunter

In every kind of competition, the man who can improvise has an edge. You can train all you want, and make the most thorough of plans, but you can never predict with certainty all the moves your opponent will make (including the wrenches thrown by Mother Nature). As the military maxim goes: “No plan survives contact with the enemy.” Or as Mike Tyson memorably said: “Everyone’s got a plan ‘til they get punched in the mouth.”

The ability to adapt to changing circumstances is key in winning any battle, including those of the non-physical variety. For example, the Glendiots had singing contests where men traded improvised verses back and forth. Those who crafted a clever new idiom, or used a familiar one in a fresh context, garnered the respect of their fellow villagers. Predictability was considered a flaw, and it was an insult to imply that one’s opponent was a hack who didn’t have the cojones and ingenuity to play with convention and create something original, clever, and effective.

The same dynamic exists in everything from debating contests to rap battles to musical “duels.” Jazz has always been considered a distinctly masculine genre of music because of its emphasis on competition and improvisation; piano players in 1920s New York, for example, would often muster for rousing back-and-forth “battles,” with each man trotting out his best stuff in late-night cutting sessions. To come out on top, you had to have a readiness with the notes, and an ability to riff on whatever was happening.

The competitive nature of contests of all kinds brings up another manly virtue of improvisation: embracing risk. To improvise takes courage — you have to step in the arena and hope that whatever you need will come to you in the moment, accepting that, if it doesn’t, you will royally fail.

Enhances the ability to adapt to challenging circumstances and uncertainty.

It is not so surprising that the Glendiots, who lived a rugged, hardscrabble life, would “applaud in word and deed: the serendipitous response to hardship and poverty, the ability to turn the meager gifts of chance to advantage.” The man who can make the most of whatever he’s got is going to be better able to fulfill his central roles as a man, and be the superior protector and provider. We respect the guerilla warrior who is able to take on forces that have much more equipment, weapons, and money — who is able to create inventive ways to trap and weaken a far greater foe. We imbue much more heroism into the David than the Goliath. Likewise, we have more respect for the man who can catch a fish with an improvised spear or dissemble a cell phone and use it to survive in the wild, than one who’s got a backpack full of high-tech gear.

The reason we respect those with the ability to improvise weapons and gadgets is that we know life is incredibly uncertain. We may be living in luxury now, but might one day be struggling through a harsh environment. In such a situation, the resourceful man — the man who is able to “make the most of whatever chance offers” — is the man we want on our team, and that we hope to be ourselves. He’s the guy who will get us through.

The ability to improvise speaks not only to a tangible skill for jury-rigging, but also to a tough, flexible, resilient mindset. A man who has confidence that he can find a way out of a challenging circumstance, even when prospects are grim, is someone far less likely to break down in the heat of crisis.

So too, improvisation doesn’t just help in combat or survival situations. A man who can find new ways to stretch a budget, repair something without buying an expensive part or calling in a professional, figure out a way to defuse a tense dispute between friends, think of a comforting word to say to a distraught relative, or come up with an alternative date when the one he plans go awry, carries a lot of value.

For these reasons, Glendiot men actually welcome challenges, and “rejoice in the very uncertainty of their lives, since it is this that gives them the chance to demonstrate their improvisational skills.” And it’s true: there can be something uniquely satisfying about making something out of seemingly nothing — more so than if you had a ton of options and materials to work with. It feels good to know you have a bit of the MacGyver in you — that come what may, you are always prepared.

Sharpens the ability to seize an unexpected opportunity.

Improvisation isn’t only valuable as a defensive skill that allows you to effectively react to challenging circumstances. Being resourceful and able to think on your feet also allows you to be proactive in grasping positive opportunities. The Glendiots believed that “the greatest achievements are those that entail seizing some quite unexpected chance.”

Let’s say your boss calls on you to make an impromptu presentation to an important client. Could you ace it? Or a woman unexpectedly responds to your advances and wants to go somewhere to hang out. Could you figure out what to do next?

When Theodore Roosevelt was president, an autographed copy of the poem “Opportunity” by John James Ingalls was said to be the only thing besides a portrait to hang in his executive office in the White House. It sums up the importance of being able to seize the chances that suddenly appear, and just as quickly disappear, from our lives:

Master of human destinies am I!
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace—soon or late
I knock unbidden once at every gate!

If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe,
Seek me in vain, and uselessly implore.
I answer not, and I return no more!

Creates a tool that can quickly shut down a naysayer and/or resolve conflict without violence.

Herzfeld found that being able to offer a clever, improvised quip or insult had the perhaps counterintuitive ability “to restrain physical violence.” This was because responding to a verbal insult “with knife or fist would demean the assailant by suggesting that he was incapable of responding with some witty line of his own.” In other words, if you insult an opponent in a really clever way, it limits his options as to how to retaliate. He could still sock you, but lashing out physically shows he can’t reply with an equally witty retort, which dishonors him in the eyes of his audience. He must remain silent, and take his verbal licking.

Even if violence is unlikely to occur in a dispute, a sharp, witty quip can quickly shut down a heckler or critic, leaving him speechless. Winston Churchill, for example, was a master of this art!

Thus, being able to throw out a really clever put-down can sometimes end an argument and vanquish a foe without it coming to blows. This makes improvisation an especially valuable tool for the weaker, less formidable man, and indeed, men who haven’t been blessed with physical prowess have often honed their humor and wit into a potent weapon.

Tailored communication = greater effectiveness.

Have you ever gotten an email where you can tell the writer was just sending the same template to multiple people, and simply changing a few details like your name? Or have you attended concerts from the same artist in multiple cities, and heard them give the exact same shoutouts and banter to the audience? In these instances you probably felt like the sender/artist was less sincere, and it weakened your affinity for them.

Humans prefer communication that seems spontaneous — that’s tailored to the specific circumstances of the time and the audience. Someone who uses the same speech, pick-up lines, jokes, sales pitch, etc. in every situation, often finds that their banter falls flat because it doesn’t best fit the exigencies of the moment. A man who has the core elements of what he wants to say in mind, but then tailors his message to the changing circumstances, is the far more effective communicator.

Creates a memorable, impressive reputation.

The abilities gained by a man who masters improvisation don’t just pay off in the effective actions he is able to perform, but the reputation those actions create for him.

Classically, honor meant having a reputation worthy of admiration and respect. It was earned by winning kudos from one’s fellow men. Achieving such a reputation is useful, because it makes other men want to be your friend and ally, instead of having you as their enemy. And it acts as a deterrent to attacks, as a man with a reputation for strength, skill, and ingenuity is not someone others want to mess with.

In Greek and Cretan culture, a man’s reputation, his whole identity, was staked on the actions he took. As Herzfeld writes, “Insofar as he can foreground the quality of his ‘doing,’ Glendiots are able to appreciate what he ‘is.’” Doing deeds that demonstrated improvisation was an especially effective way to build an honorable reputation, because such actions surprise, impress, and even shock others, and are thus very memorable. Improvised action effectively served notice to a man’s audience or opponent of the skill, ingenuity, and quick-thinking he was capable of. As Herzfeld writes, in all competitive domains, “a man’s every action must proclaim itself a further proof of his manhood. An action that fails to point up its own excellence is like the proverbial tree falling in an empty forest.”

The Bread Helmet: Memorable masculine improvisation at its finest, if not its most functional.

Impressing an audience wasn’t just about pride, but turning an improvised escapade into a story that one’s peers would tell and re-tell — one that would burnish his reputation far and wide. “Remember that time when that dude made a rocket-propelled harpoon out of a telescope and moth balls?” Once such a story got around, competitors would think twice about challenging that man. Not to mention, the ladies would be pretty intrigued (if not by the gadgetry, then definitely by the mullet).

Think about the famous quips of Winston Churchill that still get passed around today. When Herzfeld shared some with the Glendiots, they were so impressed and tickled by Churchill’s improvisational wit, they would make the anthropologist repeat the stories over and over again.

Imbues life with meaning.

If no one was around to witness your impressively improvised feat, you had to be able to tell the story in a memorable way yourself — another skill that involved the mastery of improvisation! In Glendi, men were judged not only on the action, but how well they spun a narrative about it. In turn, the act itself and the subsequent story folded back on each other, as Herzfeld explains:

“If the narratives reproduce the quality of raiding, moreover, it is also true that the raids in turn possess some of the expressive properties of narrative. Glendiot idiom recognizes this in the use of istoria, ‘tale,’ for any exciting event, be it interpersonal violence or adventure in the foothills. ‘We’ll have ‘tales’’ means that serious quarrels are anticipated. But the term is particularly apposite for animal raids…As the shepherd with whom I began this chapter recalled: ‘I remember the first time I went on such a tale.’”

Glendiots believed that an embrace of improvisation, the relishing of the chance to be resourceful and take advantage of serendipity, made “an adventure out of every encounter.” They also felt it added simasia or meaning to life.

Glendiots regarded life “as a barren stretch of time, a blank page on which the genuine poet of his own manhood must write as an engaging an account as he can.” The more one is able to improvise things like humor, better ways to spend one’s time, and how to pull off an exciting escapade, “the more successful the transcendence of the mundane existence and the more pleasing aesthetically the resulting memory.” For this reason, Glendiots believed that “The ability to play with conventions in aesthetically intriguing ways, and above all to seize opportunity from unpromising materials, is what generates simasia in particular contexts.”

Part of why improvisation creates meaning is that in bending “fickle chance to the actor’s own ends and the comfort of his guests” he reveals “an infinite swath of possibilities.” Improvisation takes words and materials out of their ordinary context, and puts them into a new one; “I never would have thought an egg could have been used to fix a radiator!” The audience of such an act not only sees the improvised object in a new light, but it inspires them to look at everything else from a different perspective as well; what other interesting opportunities might be hiding in the seemingly mundane?

Another part of the meaning improvisation imparts to life, is the way is puts a man in the role of competitor with death itself. In Greek symbolism, Herzfeld explains, “Death is a talented thief” who steals you away from mortality. This is not just meant literally, as in final, physical death, but also in the slow, everyday crushing of one’s spirit and joy. To fight back, to take the unpromising, meager materials given to you by circumstance, and turn them into something meaningful and successful that rises above the ordinary and adds something to your life, and to the lives of others, is then in Glendiot idiom to “seize a bad hour from death.”

Think about the most memorable experiences of your life. Were they not often the times where things went awry or the going was tough, but you managed to make the most of it anyway? “Death” had conspired to rob you of having a good time and a meaningful experience, and had you given in, he would have won. You would have lost those hours or years forever. But through improvising a plan B, you snatched them back from Death’s wilting touch.

“A well-lived life,” the Glendiots thus say, “is a life of well-stolen moments, each one unique.”

Life lessons from the great Norse God Odin: the wisdom that can be gained from Norse mythology

Hello again, dear reader.

Yesterday we discussed life lessons that can be learned from Ernest Hemingway's the old Man and the Sea. So for today's conversation, I thought we would discuss life lessons that can be taken from the great Norse God Odin, Odin has been adapted into many myths and legends in literature in TV and movies. Most famously, he is supposedly the inspiration for J.R.R. Tolkien's Gandalf the Grey in the Lord of the rings hobbit stories. He is always portrayed as a very wise individual that offers great wisdom to his people. So I thought maybe we should share in some of that wisdom, dear reader. So I have compiled a brief history of Odin as well for you. Legends, but most importantly, the lessons for life that could be taken from his stories.... No. I will




When one hears the word “Viking,” it almost instantly conjures images of brawny warriors wielding fierce swords, riding in waves of long ships to pillage and plunder unsuspecting villages. It’s an accurate image, though not a complete one.
The Vikings, more than almost any other people that actually lived in history, have taken on a mythological reputation. This is likely because we simply know so little about the Norsemen — literally, “men of the North.” Most of the writings from their time period were written by Christians, who were one of the main targets of Norsemen raids. As the monks and other historians weren’t keen on fondly remembering the Vikings, they didn’t give them much space in their records.

Consequently, few detailed accounts exist of this Northern Germanic people. What we do know is for the centuries roughly spanning 700-1100 AD, the Norse emigrated all over Europe, literally and figuratively spreading their seed throughout Ireland, England, France, Germany, and even Greenland and Canada’s Eastern shores; if you have Northern European ancestors, there’s a good chance you have some Viking in you. As to our knowledge of Viking culture, we are largely limited to reports of their martial endeavors, conveyed in vague descriptions like “the Northmen at this time fell on Frisia with their usual surprise attack,” and, “the Northmen got to Clermont where they slew Stephen, son of Hugh, and a few of his men, and then returned unpunished to their ships.” As author Anders Winroth notes in The Age of the Vikings, our only surviving descriptions are “the Vikings show up, ravage, and kill many if not all.”
This dearth of historical information has turned the Norsemen into a pure symbol of the warrior archetype, and raised their standing to that of near gods. They didn’t see themselves in that regard, however. The Vikings had their own pantheon of revered deities, as well as accompanying stories of the role these gods and goddesses played in creating the world, spurring mortals’ heroic deeds, wreaking destruction, and catalyzing renewal.
While figures like Thor, Loki, and Odin are making an appearance in pop culture (and will only continue to do so based on Marvel’s tendency to make sequel after sequel) the old myths behind those figures are even more interesting than the films they star in. On the big screen, all we see are Thor’s heroic deeds of strength, likening him to a Norse version of Hercules. And of other Norse figures, we get almost no information at all.
To the Viking people, these gods provided the very breath of life; they served as models for manhood to Norse warriors. No matter the religion you practice (or none at all), all men can learn from the Norsemen’s myths, just as we can learn from those of Rome and Greece (Got Thumos?). Over the course of a few monthly articles, we’ll explore the Viking worldview and gods, which were different and more complex than their classical counterparts. In some ways, this makes the Norse gods more relatable to us mortals than the likes of Zeus or Hercules (even though he was partially mortal himself).
Today, we’re going to look specifically at Odin. He’s the chief god in Norse mythology — the Allfather. I found his story and the myths surrounding him to be utterly captivating, and he provides an excellent study for today’s man.

Odin’s Origins

Among the many Viking deities who inhabit Asgard, the fortress of the gods, Odin plays the role of Chieftain. But he is not the Creator, nor the first god to come into existence. To understand Odin’s place amongst the Viking deities, we first need to briefly look at the Norse creation story.
Before humanity existed and even before sky or ground or wind, there existed a gaping abyss known as Ginnungagap. At one end of the gap flamed elemental fire and at the other end blew elemental ice. The cold and the heat met in the gap, and the drops formed a frost ogre named Ymir. As frost continued to melt in the gap, a cow emerged named Audhumbla. She fed Ymir with her milk, and she was in turn nourished by salt licks that formed in the ice. As Audhumbla licked away, she uncovered Buri, the first of the Norse gods. Buri had a son named Bor, who with the giantess Bestla had three sons: Odin, along with his brothers Vili and Ve. The three brothers killed Ymir and constructed the world with his corpse. The frost ogre’s blood became the seas and lakes, his flesh the earth, and his bones the mountains.
After assembling the world, Bor’s three sons also created the first humans, Ask (the man) and Embla (the woman). Odin had the most important task, imbuing the first people with spirit and life, while Vili and Ve gave the power of movement and the capability of understanding, as well as clothing and names. Because of Odin’s role in creating the Norse universe, he became known as the Giver of Life.
While this origin myth lives on, it’s possible that the deity is based on an actual man. Snorri Sturluson, a 13th century Icelandic historian, believes Odin was a famous warrior who led his people out of Troy and into Scandinavia. His greatness was such that he ascended to the status of a god, and became worshiped as one. His myth continued to grow, especially among Germanic peoples, and he eventually usurped Tyr as the chief god, both in myth and in religious practice and worship. If this is true or not, we’ll never know, but either way his mythological status has been cemented.

However Odin’s apotheosis came about, he is typically depicted as a white-haired, bearded old man, and often resembles Zeus or the Christian God in artistic renderings. The noticeable difference? Odin has but one eye (we’ll get to that story in detail later), and is most often flanked by an assortment of creatures, namely his ravens and his eight-legged horse.
Odin’s other main companion is his wife, a goddess named Frigg. We don’t have too many important myths about her, but because of her matronage, Frigg was given a day of the week, which to this day is known as Friday. Odin sired many children, the most important of whom for our purposes are Thor and Baldur (we’ll discuss them later in this Norse series). Eventually, Odin is killed by the great wolf Fenrir during Ragnarok (the Norse apocalypse and subsequent recreation).

Lessons from the Myths of Odin

One key difference between most current, monotheistic religious systems and the polytheistic ones of old, is the flawed nature of the latter’s gods. The Norse gods weren’t 100% “good” like the Christian Jesus or Islamic Allah. They more or less had certain desirable characteristics, but in many ways mirrored the humans who worshiped them in their faults and oddities. Odin was no exception.
He is perhaps the most complex god in all of mythology. He’s the Allfather, but also a bit of a wandering, magical shaman. In fact, J.R.R. Tolkien imagined the now-revered Gandalf as being an “Odinic wanderer” (among many other Norse influences in The Lord of the Rings). So when you picture Odin, imagine many of Gandalf’s qualities: wise, discerning, inspiring, fierce; but also quite mysterious and prone to doing things not easily explained.
Odin, like many other chieftain gods, displays characteristics that Viking culture deemed most important and worthy of emulation. Let’s take a look at those traits, the myths behind them, and what modern men can learn from the Viking Allfather.

The Relentless Pursuit of Wisdom

Odin is not an omniscient god; in fact, his chief characteristic is that he’s always seeking wisdom, even at great personal cost, as we’ll next see.
The most famous of Odin’s myths is how he lost his eye in seeking greater knowledge and discernment. The story goes that Odin visited a certain well — the Well of Urd — because he knew its waters contained wisdom. When Odin arrived, he asked Mimir, the shadowy, wise being who guarded the well’s depths, for a drink. Mimir knew the tremendous value of such a gift, however. Instead of giving a drink from the waters straightaway, he first required Odin to sacrifice an eye. Whether given easily or after an agonizing internal debate we don’t know, but Odin gored out an eye, and in return Mimir allowed him to quench his deep thirst. Odin lived the rest of his life with a single eye, but much wisdom.
One interpretation of this myth notes that Odin exchanges worldly vision (his eye) for internal vision (wisdom). While he didn’t give up his worldly sight entirely, he realized that in some cases, wisdom and discernment propel us further towards our goals than what’s on the surface. I rather appreciate this insight, and it correlates well with what Brett wrote about situational awareness a couple weeks ago (I highly recommend you read that article). Visual observation is certainly important in being aware and present, but what’s more important is orienting yourself to what you’re seeing, which can’t be done without the help of knowledge, foresight, and wisdom.
Another famed tale that communicates Odin’s relentless pursuit of knowledge is his discovery of the runes. In our modern understanding, runes are simply ancient forms of writing, but in the Viking age, they were far more than that, and held the secrets to wisdom and the very meaning of life. Let’s take a quick look at the tale:

At the center of the Norse universe is the great tree called Yggdrasil (pronounced ig-druh-sill), which grows from the fathomless depths of the Well of Urd — the same well mentioned above. (Asgard, the gods’ fortress, is held within the upper branches of this great tree; it’s a biggen.) In a complicated bit of magic, three powerful and shrewd maidens called Norns carve runes into the tree’s trunk, which dictate the destiny of all the Norse worlds (there are nine worlds — most of them invisible to the human eye — in which different creatures reside; Midgard is the realm of the humans while Asgard, as just noted above, is the gods’ dwelling place). As you can imagine, understanding the runes would be quite desirable. From Asgard, Odin could see the Norns’ activity, but couldn’t discern the mysterious carvings. He envied this knowledge mightily, and decided to take on the task of finding the runes’ meaning.

Knowing the runes only revealed themselves to those who were worthy, Odin hanged himself on the tree, pierced himself with a spear, and denied any sustenance or help from other gods. Odin peered upon the runes with an intense focus, and after teetering on the balance beam between life and death for nine days and nine nights — and perhaps even dying a little bit — Odin beheld their secrets. In spite of his pain and exhaustion, he then let out a great, beastly yell. After this, he became the great god he is known as, and wielded a number of magical powers.
In one source for this story, the Havamal, Odin says he was “given to Odin, myself to myself.” He sacrificed himself, for the sake of himself. Part of him had to die so another part could gain wisdom and understanding. It’s analogous to our more modern concept that the child is father to the man. In order to progress, small parts of us need to die every now and then to allow new shoots of wisdom to grow in their place.
The lesson from both of these tales is that gaining wisdom often comes with sacrifice. In our modern age, it seems people have come to believe that if something is hard, or sacrificial, it’s not worth doing. Odin, and his Viking followers, believed in just the opposite. If something is worth having, it absolutely requires sacrifice, and it’s always worth it, no matter how great the cost.
When it comes to wisdom, hopefully you don’t have to lose an eye, but certainly you should be willing to place time, energy, attention, and even money on the altar of your goal. Read difficult and dense books, seek challenging experiences that will push you outside your comfort zone, swallow your pride — perhaps the hardest sacrifice of all — and put yourself out there to find a mentor. Consider the sacrifices to be investments in your wisdom in the long run. It will be well worth it.

Poetry, the Gift of the Gods

Odin often spoke in poems, and was credited with giving poetry to humanity. This happened when he stole and consumed the Mead of Poetry, which unsurprisingly required a great deal of effort and sacrifice. Beyond just poetry as we think of it today, this mead was truly a source of knowledge and inspiration — it even came to be nicknamed “the stirrer of inspiration.” Drinking the mead not only gave knowledge and words to the mind, but the ability to inspire and persuade and arrange those words in meaningful ways.
The story is fairly lengthy, so I can’t give all the backstory, but you’ll get the gist of it:
In the Norse pantheon, there exists two groups of gods, the Aesir and the Vanir. The Aesir were the primary gods — Odin, Thor, Baldur, etc. The Vanir, on the other hand, were secondary gods whom we don’t have many myths about. Usually, the two groups got along, but not always. During one particular skirmish, they sealed a truce by spitting into a vat. Their spit then formed a being named Kvasir, who became yet another eminently wise creature who wandered the earth giving counsel. He not only possessed wisdom, but dispensed advice freely to those who asked.

Once upon a time Kvasir was invited to the home of two dwarves, Fjalar and Galar. When he arrived, the dwarves killed him and made a mead with his blood. This elixir contained within it Kvasir’s ability to provide wisdom, as well as inspiration. Anyone who drank it would be conferred these gifts.
Eventually, the dwarves got themselves into further trouble, and were forced to give the mead to a giant named Suttung, who hid it beneath a mountain. Odin knew the mead’s general movements, but couldn’t figure out access to the mountain. Seeing as how Odin desired wisdom and knowledge above all else, he unsurprisingly set his sights on doing whatever it took to find and drink the mead.
Odin’s first step was to go to the farm of Baugi, who was Suttung’s brother. He disguised himself as a farmhand, and dispatched the nine servants who were already there (in a clever bit of trickery he got them to all kill each other). Odin approached Baugi and offered to do the work of those nine men, and in return he wanted a drink from the mead. Baugi had no control over the elixir, but he promised to help Odin acquire it should he indeed be able to complete the work.

Odin did so, and he and Baugi trotted off to meet Suttung, who angrily denied them access to the mead. So, Odin and Baugi attempted to venture into the heart of the mountain themselves. After Baugi drilled a hole into the rock, Odin shapeshifted into a snake and crawled through into an inner chamber. Once inside, he shapeshifted once again into a young man and was greeted by a fair maiden-guardian named Gunnlod. As the guardian, she had to grant him permission, and they struck a deal in which Odin would get three sips after sleeping with Gunnlod three nights. Odin obliged, consumed three whole vats (rather than three sips), and flew off to Asgard in the shape of an eagle, where he then regurgitated some of the mead so he could dispense it to others at will.
Odin previously had knowledge and insight, but now added to that the gift of dispensing it in meaningful and motivating forms.
It’s a wonderful thing to have vision and insight, but if you can’t share it others, and convince them to take action, you’re powerless to affect the world. The potency of wisdom’s power is predicated on cultivating charisma and mastering rhetoric. Think of a man like Winston Churchill; he had a vision of where his beloved England needed to go to win the war, but his efficacy as a leader came down to his ability to change and inspire his countrymen’s hearts through his radio broadcasts and Parliamentary speeches. Pure wisdom is like electricity, and rhetoric the conduit which channels that current into effective power.

Conclusion: Odin the Breath of Life

While Odin is sometimes seen as a war god, that title belongs to Tyr in Norse mythology. Odin doesn’t often take part in battles himself, and we don’t have many war myths about him. He’s more about providing the vim and vigor warriors need to vanquish their foes. One writer from the year 1080 writes that Odin “imparts to man strength against his enemies.”
There’s an old Norse poem from The Poetic Edda that identifies Odin as “ond” — the breath of life. He provided the first humans in Norse mythology — Ask and Embla — with their animating force. It’s through his magical powers and bestowing of spirit that humanity strives to better itself, to flourish, and to rid stagnation from its existence.
While the comparison isn’t perfect, it seems like Odin to the Norsemen is what thumos was to the Greeks. Wisdom, passion, and inspiration are his domain, and as we’ve seen, he sacrificed much to attain those traits.
And Odin expected humans to do the same. The Norse culture, like many ancient ones, wasn’t a democracy, but a meritocracy. You had to work for your blessings from Odin; they weren’t just handed down freely. In tale after tale, men had to literally and metaphorically bleed themselves in order to attain their aims and transform into warriors — the only type of man who had a chance at accompanying the Allfather to Valhalla.
As we’ve seen over and over on the Art of Manliness, characteristics like passion and vigor are not necessarily inherent within us. It’s through action and work that we build up these properties and form the foundations of who we are. Follow the example of Odin and relentlessly pursue wisdom, even sacrificing time, energy, money, etc. to obtain it. Study not just for the sake of knowledge, but to be able to convey that knowledge to others; come to learn the intersection of information and expression. Let the great, bearded, one-eyed Chieftain serve as one of your invisible counselors; he’ll advise you in perhaps mysterious ways, but also always towards fierce inspiration and wisdom.