Re-published here from the Climate Fiction Writers League
Aug 06, 2024
The author of new adult fantasy novel I, Enoch recounts some of the underworld adventures that define our greatest mythologies.
The “underworld” has done as much as any other mythological convention to shape our understanding of ourselves and our place in the cosmos. There is nary a mythological tradition that hasn’t incorporated the notion of the underworld as something distant, forbidden, and yet oddly imbued with timeless knowledge and the source of wisdom. It feels, however, that the stars have won out. Our obsession with the galaxies – while understandable – has served in some ways to divorce us from the one and only planet that provides us with all we need to live and thrive.
In this time of planetary crisis, it seems fitting that we attempt to re-examine and re-imagine planet earth. Not just because we still understand so little about it. But because, perhaps, by redirecting our attention to its many hidden wonders, we will recapture that sense of awe and respect that for so long served to guide human intuition.
Strangely, the subterranean world that lies just beneath our feet remains as allusive and enigmatic as the distant planets. As a species, we rely on terra firma for our day-to-day survival. And yet, as an indication of the relative unimportance ascribed to it, only ten percent of NASA’s US$24.5 billion annual budget is spent on researching and exploring our planet vs. outer space. It begs the question: Are we drawn to the heavens at the expense of unpacking the mysteries of our own planet?
It was the question that drove me to think about our inner planet in a new way, and yet, with deference to many of the ideas and images advanced by the ancients. The underworld, I discovered, has a bad rap. Throughout history it has gone by many names. The Egyptians called it Duat, a place where souls would be judged based on their behavior in life. Zoroastrians called it Druj-demana, or “House of Lies.” The Chinese term is Diyu, which literally means “earth prison.” And of course, there is Hades from the Greek tradition and Hell as advanced by Christians.
While the names and details might vary from one culture to the next, there is no mistaking that the underworld - as cast by mythologists, philosophers and theologians - is a dark, dangerous and forbidden realm. How can it be that civilizations separated by time and geography somehow conjured such similar impressions, working them into local lore and graphing them onto the collective psyche?
The early 20th century psychologist, Carl Jung, argued that humans – regardless of time and place – have a kind of shared subliminal experience. He called it “the collective unconscious” - a common and universal set of symbols, or so-called “archetypes” that helped shape our common attitudes and impressions of the world.
For Jung, the underworld figured large. It represented our unconscious state best experienced through dreams. He famously wrote that "until you make your unconscious conscious, it will direct you and you will call it fate. The road to self-awareness, in other words, requires a journey through a metaphorical underworld.
It was an idea reinforced through thousands of years of mythological traditions. The scholar, Joseph Campbell, spent a lifetime documenting world mythologies that began with a call to adventure, required a trip through the underworld, and concluded with a return to the surface and to civilization with a “boon” – a gift of knowledge or insight. He called these cyclical adventures from the surface to the underworld, and back again, “a hero’s journey,” and many a great novel or feature film has modeled its plot lines against it.
And this brings me to my own personal encounter with the underworld. I’ve partaken of it physically through spelunking and cave diving. I’ve explored it clinically through the study of depth psychology. And I’ve imagined it allegorically, first in 2004 with the publication of an illustrated children’s book, Kayla & The Magical Tree, and most recently in the pending release of my first novel, I, Enoch (Book 1, The Deep Earth Chronicles). My spelunking days are over. But my metaphorical journey has just begun.
If Jung is right, and the underworld is simply a representation of our many fears, anxieties, and dark premonitions, and if the Eastern spiritual practices are correct in understanding that the human psyche requires both light and dark; good and evil, in order to evolve – or in Jungian-speak – self-actualize, is it possible that our failed exploration of subterranean earth is simply a symptom of our cultural reluctance to delve into realms that we have been told over centuries are fundamentally forbidden? What if the imagery of the underworld, as propagated by those in service of certain religious, political, or technological interests, have surreptitiously deterred us from further subterranean exploration?
Enter the scientists and explorers. As early as the 17th century and the dawning of the age of Enlightenment, and not long after the publication of Isaac Newton’s ground-breaking Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, that other questions arose surrounding the nature of the planet. Gravity, magnetism, earth’s rotation, and the composition of the planet gradually began to capture the scientific imagination.
In 1692, Edmond Halley (of comet fame), offered up to the Royal Society of London a theory that suggested that earth might not only be hollow, but also inhabited. By observing the variations in the earth’s magnetic poles, he conjectured that our subterranean world was not simply a molten core encased by thousands of kilometers of rocks, silicates, and oxides, but in fact a series of independent concentric spheres all rotating one within the other on a north-south axis. The core, he postulated, was “illuminated by its own source of light that allowed for the flourishing of life.”
His theories were roundly criticized and it’s a wonder that Halley risked his reputation on such a far-fetched hypothesis, particularly after achieving fame from the mapping of the trajectory of the large comet that bears his name. And yet, he apparently never lost faith in the idea. In 1736, at the age of 80, and just five years before his death, courtesy of The Royal Society, Halley sat for his final portrait. Clutched in his hand and tilted to be visible to the viewer, is a drawing of Hollow Earth (see image)
Although Halley and subsequent researchers have failed to convince their scientific cohort of the possibilities of an unexplored and potentially inhabitable inner planet, he provided the world of science fiction with a new sub-genre of subterranean literature, the most famous, of which is Jules Verne’s 1864 release of Journey to the Center of the Earth. Scores of novelists have followed, charting their own imaginary path to the underworld, and more often than not, detailing a realm infested with horrors; a place abhorrent to humans. Through the centuries, these dystopian adventures have made for good reading. What is missing are the stories that speak to the subtle mysteries of the planet, the lost realms, and unsullied inner landscapes of beauty…Utopian outtakes!
Whatever secrets inner earth holds for us, Robert Macfarlane, author of The Underland: A Deep Time Journey, said it best when he wrote: “The underland is vital to the material structures of contemporary existence, as well as to our memories, myths and metaphors. It is a terrain with which we daily reckon and by which we are daily shaped. Yet,” he notes, “we are disinclined to recognize the underland’s presence in our lives, or to admit its disturbing forms to our imaginations” (p. 12). Why is that?
Now, I believe, is time for a re-visioning of our planet and all its inner workings. Science will continue to probe the depths in search of answers. Novelists, meanwhile, will search for meaning. By whatever means, our planet is ripe for the knowing. There will always be those who would steer us clear of her mysteries. But lest we forget, there is hope in all things hidden.
Read I, Enoch now.
Steve Stine is a modern-day mythologist, who tells his stories via the written word. His love affair with nature—which has not only guided his work, but also informed his life—began as a child. Indeed, I, Enoch is an imaginal compendium that draws upon the author’s ongoing experiences as a student of the great outdoors, depth psychology, Eastern traditions, and world mythologies. A firm believer in the necessity of balancing the scientific with the metaphysical, he equally believes that story-based narrative can aid humanity in achieving its full potential.
Solutions Spotlight
Today we share an extract from the adult sci-fi novel I, Enoch, where Steve Stine talks about philosophical perspectives on climate change.
The “underworld” has done as much as any other mythological convention to shape our understanding of ourselves and our place in the cosmos. There is nary a mythological tradition that hasn’t incorporated the notion of the underworld as something distant, forbidden, and yet oddly imbued with timeless knowledge and the source of wisdom. It feels, however, that the stars have won out. Our obsession with the galaxies – while understandable – has served in some ways to divorce us from the one and only planet that provides us with all we need to live and thrive. In this time of planetary crisis, it seems fitting that we attempt to re-examine and re-imagine planet earth. Not just because we still understand so little about it. But because, perhaps, by redirecting our attention to its many hidden wonders, we will recapture that sense of awe and respect that for so long served to guide human intuition.
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