EDUCATION	AS	MYTHIC	IMAGE What	Archetypal	Psychology	Can	Teach	Us GREG	NIXON In	Spring	69:	A	Journal	of	Archetype	and	Culture	(2002,	91-113) Life	slumbers.	It	needs	to	be	roused,	to	be	awakened to	a	drunken	marriage	with	divine	feeling. (Thomas	Mann,	The	Magic	Mountain,	603) Meaning	&	Objectivity 92 Education	as	an	enterprise	of	research	and	knowledge	creation	is	most	often understood	as	a	social	science.	It	is	a	study	of	patterns	and	changes	in	a	particular society	as	measured,	naturally	enough,	by	the	exacting	instruments	of	science	and technology.	In	this	way,	society	itself	becomes	an	object	of	study	(as	do	the	persons living	their	span	within	it).	Our	very	experience	of	life	becomes	a	study	from	an outside	perspective.	We	are	asked	to	identify	with	an	image	of	reality	that	exists	from the	outside	looking	in.	To	be	"successful"	is	to	forget	oneself	and	one's	attendant emotions,	fantasies,	obsessions	and	become	a	part	of	the	collective.	Education	is	the process	that	takes	students	from	their	origins	in	soul	and	unites	them	with	the	preexisting	grand	identity	of	civilization.	It	is	for	their	own	good,	of	course,	that	we measure	them	so	well	and	choose	from	amongst	them	the	best	and	brightest	to	keep the	process	going.	Many	of	us	feel,	however,	that	such	"objectivity	sickness"- manifested	by	the	mania	for	measurement,	standardization,	and	quality	product control-tends	to	deny	the	reality	of	our	most	profound	experiences. To	escape	the	prison	of	perfect	objectivity,	studies	of	curriculum	have	looked	for sources	of	guidance	and	inspiration	outside	the	routines	and	discourse	of	empirical science.	Such	studies	have	evolved	into	curriculum	theory-which	has,	in	turn, reconceptualised	the	entire	field	of	educational	thinking.	Though	evolving	into	a	field of	its	own,	curriculum	theorizing	has	drawn	its	structures	and	even	some	of	what	may be	called	its	methods	from	areas	that	most	strongly	resist	the	compelling	hum	of perfect	objectivity.	Phenomenology,	the	science	of	experience	that	has	long	had	an impact	on	psychology	and	philosophy,	has	proven	to	be	a	inspiration	in	curriculum studies	as	well.	The	arts	themselves,	with	their	appeal	to	the	verities	emerging	from the	creative	act-and	from	naked	human	experience-have	provided	a	literary, expressive	language	with	which	to	conceive	or	unconceive	curriculum,	schooling,	and life	in	this	world. Mythopoetry,	the	imagistic	voice	of	the	muses	which	manifests	in	myth	and	natural poetry,	has	been	invoked	as	an	impression	of	ideal	curriculum	with	which	to	cherish intimate,	vital	experience	(and	to	oppose	its	exile	from	educational	life).	In	this statement,	I	intend	to	see	through	the	pleasant	surface	of	the	label,	mythopoetry,	to see	what	image	may	lie	just	out	of	sight,	beyond	the	"inspired	writing"	that mythopoetry	implies.	Beyond	words	themselves,	meaning	is	found	in	sound	and	in expressive	representation.	"Music,	when	soft	voices	die,	/	Vibrates	in	the	memory" (Shelley) Image	&	Symbol Human	beings	are	animals.	This	statement	should	startle	no	one,	yet	its	implications are	either	denied	or	avoided	by	a	great	many	people	today.	We	are,	after	all,	cultured animals	who	have	attained	to	the	universal	structures	of	logic	and	rationality	and	so have	superseded	our	merely	instinctive	animal	nature.	As	we	have	been	told	since grade	school,	we	are	the	animal	who	need	not	adapt	(i.e.,	physiologically	evolve)	to 93 suit	its	environment;	we,	instead,	adapt	our	environment	to	suit	ourselves.	Such environmental	adaptation	is,	of	course,	culture.	Language	is	the	tool	we	have	learned to	help	carry	out	the	imperatives	of	our	primate	nature,	yes,	but	it	is	more	than	this. Culture	and	language	have	allowed	us	to	step	beyond	mere	bestiality	and	become social	or	even	spiritual	beings	who	strive	for	the	welfare	of	all	other	such	beings	and perhaps	even	communion	with	the	ultimate	transcendent	divinity. In	our	state	as	enlightened	cultural	beings	(perhaps	even	chosen	beings?),	we	regard animal	nature	as	either	romantically	anthropomorphized	or	as	brutally	instinctual.	Do other	animals	talk?	Do	they	think?	Can	they	make	choices?	Can	they	feel?	Are	they even	conscious?	The	romantic	idealizer	would	likely	answer	in	the	affirmative	to	all	of the	above	and	the	evolved	rationalist	would	likely	say	no	to	the	first	three	and	give	a qualified	assent	to	the	latter	two.	Both	would	agree	that	a	chasm	exists	between	even the	experience	of	our	nearest	animal	kin	and	our	own. All	animals,	including	us,	have	perceptions.	Can	we	take	that	as	a	given?	It	may	be, however,	that	we	are	the	only	animal	who	has	expressive	conceptions.	We	take	a	step back	from	the	immediacy	of	experience	in	an	eternal	present	by	abstracting	it.	Led	by some	mysterious	teleology,	according	to	Cassirer,	humankind	at	some	point	held	in mind	the	flux	of	images	from	the	senses	and	the	memory	of	previous	responses	and extended	its	immediacy	of	experience	into	a	remembered	past	and	a	projected future-symbolically.	Symbols	took	forms	like	visual	abstractions,	vocalizations,	or even	such	things	as	tools	and	clothing. With	such	objectification	of	experience,	humankind	awoke	in	an	utterly	different reality	and	evolution	responded	to	this	efflorescence	of	abstraction.	Robert	Jay	Lifton says	that	"enlargement	of	the	brain	depends	upon,	and	partly	results	from,	the development	of	culture-that	is,	of	historically	transmitted	patterns	of	meaning"	(13) and	such	noted	scientists	as	Terrence	Deacon	agree.	What	is	this	human	culture	and when	did	it	appear?	Lifton	writes: Culture	is	inseparable	from	symbolization;	and	both	had	developed	by the	appearance	of	Neanderthal	man	one	hundred	thousand	years	ago, as	we	know	from	the	existence	of	a	variety	of	stone	tools	and	other artifacts	of	burial	rites	and	religious	rituals.	(13) Today,	it	seems	clear	that	much	earlier-up	to	a	million	years	ago-Homo	erectus	was engaging	in	pre-sapiens	cultural	activities	such	as	organized	gathering	and	hunting. But	with	the	symbolic	interaction	came	symbolic	forms	of	social	recognition	and bonding.	This	change	to	Homo	symbolicus	(Cassirer)	was	not	just	the	change	to cultivating	culture,	that	is,	a	change	in	external	circumstances.	It	was	also	an unprecedented	tectonic	shift	in	our	experience	and	even	our	perception	of	reality. 94 We	perceive	nothing,	so	to	speak,	nakedly;	our	only	means	of	taking	in the	world	of	objects	and	people	around	us	is	through	this	unending process	of	reconstituting	them.	(Lifton,	28) To	gain	mastery	over	our	environment,	we	had,	apparently,	to	learn	to	check	our	very perceptions	against	previous	perceptions	held	in	habit	routine	memory	engrams.	We see	that	which	we	expect	to	see	and	can	symbolically	represent. To	go	back	a	bit,	all	this	seems	to	imply	that	what	is	symbolized	or	represented	is	an actual	objective	world.	It	implies	that	our	brethren	in	the	rest	of	the	animal	kingdom must	experience	reality	nakedly,	unadulterated	by	our	symbolic	recycling.	But	one only	need	consider	the	vast	range	of	perceptual	organs	which	exist	in	the	rest	of	the natural	world	to	understand	that	each	experienced	reality	is	very	different	from	the next.	Does	it	even	make	sense	to	posit	a	mutually	existing,	solid,	objective	reality	for all	creatures?	The	only	way	we	can	do	so	is	to	project	our	own	perceptual	experience and	imagine	that	other	animals	(and	perhaps	plants)	simply	have	some	lesser perceptions	of	it. And	this	is	getting	back	to	the	core	of	things.	For	to	imagine	is	to	participate	in	the play	of	images,	to	receive	or	to	project	them.	We	cannot	know	what	other	animals experience	but,	from	what	we	know	of	our	own	experience,	we	can	imagine	their experience	taking	place	without	symbolic	abstraction,	without	recognition	or	selfobjectification.	They	mostly	have	no	self-concept	or	image	of	themselves.1	They	are, therefore,	unaware	of	such	data	as	the	inevitability	of	death	or	even	of	ageing.	Regret, anticipation,	and	worry	are	equally	absent.	There	is	no	concept	of	an	inner	self	and therefore	no	concept	of	an	outer	world	that	is	separate	from	it.	In	this	sense	it	makes little	sense	to	speak	of	sensory	perceptions	being	received	by	the	inner	perceiver.	The animal	has	no	homunculus.	Experience	is	world,	and	world	is	experience. We	can	comprehend	neither	such	experience	nor	such	a	world.	Our	nearest	analogy may	be	the	dream,	though	for	many	dreamers	projected	self-concepts	abound.	Still,	in the	dream	the	image	rules:	not	the	perception,	not	the	concept,	but	the	image	in	itself. It	is	exempt	from	the	symbolic	controls	of	our	daylight	hours	and	refuses	to	follow	the carefully	cultivated	paths	we	have	imposed	on	it.	Cause	and	effect	break	down	and remembering	what	has	just	happened	or	anticipating	what	will	happen	next	is	a barren	harvest.	Images	abound	seemingly	without	order	or	purpose	and,	strangest	of all,	our	very	selves	are	simply	one	image	among	others.	Still	we	find	ourselves seeking,	escaping,	hiding,	and	participating.	Of	course,	the	forms	of	our	particular dream	images	are	constructed	from	sensory	experience.	We	must	not	imagine	that particular	images	for	other	species	with	different	senses-and	unified	perception- have	any	continuity	with	our	own. 1	Some	chimpanzees	and	orangutans	have	been	shown	to	recognize	their	mirror-images,	though whether	or	not	this	is	an	act	of	self-recognition	is	anyone's	guess	(see	Gallup,	86-87). 95 To	call	such	a	world	a	chaos	of	images	is	perhaps	to	indulge	in	too	much	projection, especially	when	we	apply	it	to	nonsymbolic	experience	in	nature.	Chaos	sounds	too miasmatic,	too	action-packed.	The	images	experienced	are	certainly	evanescent	but they	may	also	be	placid	or	serene.	Still,	without	an	objectively	conceived	self	that differentiates,	the	senses	themselves	likely	remain	undifferentiated.	Perception	in nature	may	be	unified	apprehension.	We	can	imagine	other	higher	mammals remembering	imagistically	and,	to	a	limited	extent,	even	planning	imagistically.	But what	we	must	remember	is	that	it	is	the	image	which	is	the	fundament	of	their experience,	not	self-worries,	self-glorification,	or	self-anything.	Their	experiencing	is itself	an	image	within	an	image.	Even	to	posit	an	experiencer	is	a	projection	of	a particular	human	conception. Language	&	Concept Roberts	Avens	writes,	"The	transformation	of	images	into	symbols	more	or	less coincides	with	our	gradual	separation	from	embeddedness	in	the	processes	of	nature" (90).	We	find	ourselves	thrown	into	a	symbolic	world,	a	world	of	language	and concept.	Our	selfhood	becomes	one	more	concept	in	this	symbolic	continuum. We	conceive	of	experience	as	something	that	happens	to	us	as	experiencers,	as	we remain	isolated	within	our	own	subjectivities.	We	are	wound	in	the	"cool	web"	of language,	as	Robert	Graves	called	it:	"There's	a	cool	web	of	language	winds	us	in,	/ Retreat	from	too	much	joy	or	too	much	fear..."	(9-10). Post-modern	semioticians	claim	the	web	is	so	complete	that	language	cannot	refer	to anything	outside	of	itself.	They	claim	language	is	a	system	of	differences	and	not	"a transparent	medium"	through	which	we	perceive	the	objects	referred	to	in	our concepts.	If	this	were	entirely	true,	then	we	have	lost	our	"embeddedness	in	the processes	of	nature,"	the	participation	mystique	of	which	Lévy-Bruhl	wrote	and	the possibility	of	a	Dionysian	immersion	in	the	immediacy	of	experience.	We	have	eaten of	the	Tree	of	Knowledge	and	been	barred	from	the	paradise	of	unselfconscious impulse. However,	this	position	seems	a	bit	too	unyielding,	too	self-contained.	Of	course language	as	strict	correspondence	has	been	taken	for	granted	much	too	readily,	but language,	like	myth,	need	not	enclose.	It	need	not	be	either	one	thing	or	another. Mythopoetic2	language	can	be	employed	as	metaphor	to	evoke	or	invoke.	As Herakleitos	of	Ephesos	understood	it:	"The	lord	whose	oracle	is	at	Delphi	neither speaks	nor	conceals,	but	indicates"	(Frag.	found	in	Freeman,	31).	Daily	common	sense language	is	the	language	of	consciousness	and	comfortable	habit	routine.	Yet mythopoetic	language	twists	back	on	itself	and	rents	asunder	habit	routines, 2	The	preferred	form	is	"mythopoeic,"	meaning	myth-making.	However	"mythopoetic"	places	more emphasis	on	the	poetic	impulse,	so	I	use	it	here. 96 occasionally	giving	us	glimpses	into	imagistic	reality.	Such	oracular	mythopoetry	may even	provide	sudden	insight	into	the	nature	of	language.	Language,	itself,	must	be	an outgrowth	of	previous	nonself-aware	experience.	In	this	sense,	language	itself	is	an image.	Words	are	acts	of	imagination. That	philosopher	of	myth	and	being,	Martin	Heidegger,	has	written	of	the	worldchanging	moment	when	we	emerged	from	the	literally	unthinkable	into	the	web	of language: The	origin	of	language	is	in	essence	mysterious.	And	this	means	that language	can	only	have	arisen	from	the	overpowering,	the	strange	and terrible,	through	man's	departure	into	being.	In	this	departure	language was	being,	embodied	in	the	word:	poetry.	Language	is	the	primordial poetry	in	which	a	people	speaks	being.	(171) Heidegger	says,	"language	was	being."	Here,	for	the	first	time	perhaps,	we	have	an indication	of	the	form	taken	by	the	language	that	circled	the	image:	poetry.	The deconstructionist	Paul	de	Man	declared	that	"poetic	language	names	the	void"	(18). This	poetic	language	need	not	be	construed	as	the	self-conscious	vanities	that	so	often pass	for	poetry	today	but	more	simply	as	the	imaginative	language	that	indicates	-	a language	which	evokes	or	even	invokes	the	inconceivable	image	behind	the	words. I	need	hardly	interject	that	such	language	is	more	and	more	regarded	at	least	as childish	whimsy	and	often	as	offensive	impracticality	in	today's	world.	Language which	explains,	classifies,	places,	and	points	the	way	toward	instrumental	ends	is	the generally	accepted	language	of	educational	institutions.	Mythopoetic	language	may	be studied	in	schools	today	for	cultural	or	historical	reasons	or	to	memorize	the	rhyme scheme	or	even	to	dredge	up	the	hidden	ideology	contained	in	the	text.	However,	it	is rare	to	discover	such	language	actually	being	used	in	speaking,	writing,	or	in classrooms.	Many	think	a	language	which	merely	evokes	the	unknown	serves	no purpose	in	education;	and	a	language	which	invokes-calls	on	the	gods3-is	definitely suspect.	That	may	be	the	case,	but	mythopoetic	language	remains	the	mode	of personal	experience	and	transformation.	It	may	not	prepare	devoted	workers,	but	it does	serve	to	open	the	minds	of	many	individuals	to	the	deeper	wells	of	mystery within	them. Still	a	chasm	has	appeared	between	the	language	of	conceptual	differentiation	and	its predecessor,	the	image-world.	How	is	it	possible	to	ever	feel	our	continued immersion	in	Heidegger's	"strange	and	terrible"?	Between	the	image	and	the	concept falls	the	myth	and	the	archetypal	strange	attractor.	The	transition	from	imagistic potency	to	manifest	form	takes	place	in	the	movement	through	myth.	Alexander	Eliot 3	The	English	term	"god"	derives	from	the	Indo-European	gheu(h),	meaning	"to	call,	invoke." (Claiborne) 97 explained	myth	almost	in	those	exact	terms:	"Although	it	cannot	be	defined,	myth	may be	pictured	in	a	way.	It	is	the	glistening	interface	between	consciousness	and	creative chaos"	(1976,	282). Archetypal	Myth The	order	given	to	this	creative	chaos	by	archetypal	myth	is	not	an	order	imposed	on it	from	the	outside	(as	it	were)	by	self-conscious	minds-that	is,	an	order	which	is unnatural-but	instead	arises	from	within	natural	creative	chaos.	The	organizing principles	are	archetypal,	which	is	to	say	they	are	already	present	as	organizing potentials	within	Eliot's	creative	chaos.	Such	archetypes	never	become	manifest, except	as	organizing	principles	of	myth.	Some	interpreters	understand	archetype	and image	to	be	names	that	identically	refer	to	the	same	reality,	but	others	see	them	as distinct.	In	her	introduction	to	Bachelard's	Imagination	and	Reverie,	Colette	Gaudin sees	mythopoetic	language	as	imaginative	catalyst: Thus	the	relationship	between	the	image	and	the	unconscious	must	be contained	within	the	realm	of	language.	Images	are	not	a	translation	of complexes;	rather,	it	is	the	imagination	which	awakens	the	complex.	.	.	. Primordial	images	such	as	those	of	flight,	falling,	and	the	labyrinth	are spoken	before	they	are	thought,	felt	vicariously	before	they	are experienced	in	life.	They	elicit	the	peculiarly	lyrical	emotion	of	possible experience.	(xiv) It	is	this	aspect	of	the	mythic-the	threshold	sense	of	potential-which	allows	us	to reunite	our	practical,	linear	reality	with	the	preconscious	world	of	image.	The	myth	in this	sense	implies	a	mythopoetic	participation	and	does	not	limit	itself	to	the	narrow sense	of	mythic	tale.	Whether	manifesting	image	or	archetype,	myth	is	the	interface. Such	speaking,	or	expressing,	or	creating,	or	acting	quite	properly	has	no	proper name	at	all.	This	creative	reality	appears	to	stand	opposed-or	"beyond"	or	"within" but	never	quite	here	or	now-to	the	mundane	reality	constructed	by	the	mind	to serve	the	body's	survival	and	reproductive	needs.	It	is	a	mythic	reality-perhaps	one step	from	the	real-something	Taoism	envisions	as	existing	in	a	continuum	of	its	own with	or	without	us: There,	in	the	atmosphere	of	absolute	freedom,	the	images	associate, intermingle,	and	interfuse	with	one	another	according	to	their	own	law of	symbolic	evolvement,	drawing	among	themselves	and	by	themselves mythopoeic	pictures	of	Reality.	From	the	standpoint	of	a	Lao	Tzu	or	a Chuang	Tzu,	these	mythopoeic	pictures,	being	essentially	archetypal, reflect	more	faithfully	or	more	fundamentally	the	true	structure	of reality	than	what	is	afforded	by	sensation,	perception	and	reason. (Izutsu,	31) 98 Unlike	other	written	or	spoken	utterances,	this	is	the	true	subject	of	myth.	Most	of	our speaking	and	writing	seems	in	response	to	orders	from	a	self-conscious	subject,	our inner	homunculi	who	manipulate	language	to	suit	their	ends.	Myth,	however,	must	be understood	as	the	speaking	of	the	archetypal	image	itself,	as	it	manifests	through	the cultural	particulars	of	its	human	medium.	"The	primitive	mentality,"	writes	Jung, "does	not	invent	myths,	it	experiences	them"	(Kérényi	and	Jung,	101). With	Izutsu's	mention	of	"mythopoeic	pictures"	and	Jung's	reference	to	experience, we	are	perhaps	beginning	to	conceive	of	the	poetic	imagination.	From	his	own experience,	the	poet	Robert	Duncan	has	described	such	imagining: An	image	is	not	a	metaphor.	Yeats	had	already	seen	it,	an	image	is	not symbol.	Symbols	are	generated	by	images.	Metaphors	are	generated	by images.	Our	minds	work	with	and	create	out	of	images,	but	images	are absolutely	there.	(8-9) Archetypal	images	are	primary;	cultures,	institutions,	and	selves	emerge	from	them. In	this	vision	soul	reaches	into	the	dayworld	through	us,	yet	it	remains	steeped	in	the beyond	of	death.	Literal	reference	dies.	Our	trusted	objective	material	world	wavers. The	light	imparted	by	our	speech	falls	away	into	shadow.	It	is	this	metaphoric	and metamorphic	moving	into	shadow	that	reveals	archetypal	psychology's	path	to	a shady	sort	of	enlightenment. Hillman's	journey	into	a	deeper	light	is	a	via	negativa.	It	does	not	fulfill	the	self	but serves	soul.	To	penetrate	the	security	of	self-esteem	and	comfortable	ego-structures (the	literalized	mythos	of	conceptual	belief)	is	to	leave	us	exposed	to	all	the	hidden aspects	of	daily	life.	Death	is	that	dark	side	with	which	we	would	prefer	not	to	deal, but	which	clouds	our	vision	of	the	further	reaches	of	soul.	To	take	the	negative journey	into	archetypal	fantasy	is	not	to	return	our	souls	to	our	selves.	However	it	is to	get	at	the	root	of	things.	Hillman	indicates	that	our	"soul-searching"	brings	"soul making"	to	the	world: We	practice	an	alchemical	metaphysics:	"account	for	the	unknown	in terms	of	the	more	unknown."	Notice	here	that	this	further	unknown beyond	is	a	more;	at	the	same	time	that	emptying	is	going	on,	so	is filling.	In	the	act	of	deconstruction	there	is	constructive	aim.	("Back	to Beyond,"	220) Archetypalizing's	via	negativa	has	proved	itself	to	be	a	via	regia,	as	well:	the	royal road	to	awareness.	Myth	for	the	archetypalist	is	not	a	theology	or	not	what	most would	consider	a	psychology.	For	Hillman,	such	distinctions	mean	little	next	to	the possibility	of	attuned	awareness	(not	"consciousness"	which	implies	an	object): 99 It	hardly	matters	to	me	whether	theology	or	psychology	brings awareness	to	our	baggage	as	long	as	awareness	comes.	Rather	than separating	the	theo-psychic	mixture,	let	it	continue.	It	will	anyhow.	It's an	authentic	compound,	for	the	soul	itself	is	just	this	sort	of	mixture." ("Psychology:	Monotheistic	or	Polytheistic,"	128) Mythology,	Narrative	&	Ideology Myth	in	itself-the	mythologem4-is	not	storying	with	a	beginning,	middle,	and	end. Mary	Aswell	Doll	indicates	that	myth	is	not	a	closured	narrative,	a	story	which	ends with	a	moral	lesson: Myths,	we	could	say,	have	a	curious	Beckettian	quality.	As	stories	that never	come	to	an	end,	myths	build	upon	basic	patterns,	giving	an opportunity	to	create	endings	and	to	re-create	beginnings.	(p.	1) Mythologems	become	embedded	in	expanding	mythologies,	which	use	them	freely	in all	sorts	of	stories,	which	again	become	enlarged	or	adapted	in	the	retelling. Conscious	elaboration	creates	self-conscious	narrative. It	may	be	the	narrative	structure	and	the	later	development	of	expository	prose	that bury	the	mythologem	deeper	and	deeper	in	the	archeological	substrata	of	psyche.	In this	way	mythic	images	become	appropriated	by	forces	seeking	only	social indoctrination.	Mythology	is	perverted	into	ideology,	and	an	image	of	the	wheel	of	life in	creative	advance	can	be	transmogrified	into	the	wheel	of	death	and	oppression:	the original	Sanskrit	svastika,	a	sign	of	good	luck,	becomes	the	Nazi	swastika	of murderous	stasis. Jung	considered	the	archetype	to	become	hidden	as	mythic	stories	gained	in complexity	and	in	the	shifting	of	perspective.	Elaboration	increased	conscious objectivity	and	supported	social	orders	but	also	disguised	the	memory	of	the	primal mythic	image.	In	specific	mythic	tales,	the	archetype	has	already	been	altered	by conscious	elaboration.	If	the	early	myths	were	expressions	of	transpersonal archetypal	experience,	which	mythologies	collapsed	into	narratives,	then	fairy	tales are	even	more	so	(Miller,	"Fairy	Tale	or	Myth"),	and	so	on	into	the	ideological matrices	of	the	novel,	expository	prose,	and	political	propaganda. This	applies	as	well	to	most	of	the	writing	in	educational	studies	and	thus	to	schooling itself.	Most	of	such	writing	is	buried	in	the	scientific	paradigm	of	impartial	objectivity. In	recent	decades,	however,	other	curriculum	writing	has	recognized	that	there	is	no escaping	subjectivity	and	that	the	narrative	mode	has	evolved	an	important	place	in 4	A	mythologem	is	a	recurring	mythic	motif,	which,	like	an	image	or	a	god,	is	subject	to	further dispersal	and	greater	depth	upon	study. 100 clarifying	the	lived	experience	of	teachers	and	professors.	If	narrative	writing, especially	autobiographical	narrative	writing,	purports	to	also	reveal	objectively quantifiable	data,	then	a	strange	hybrid	takes	place	in	which	the	self	who	writes	is	but an	objective	construct	for	whom	narrative	can	only	reveal	self-conscious	information. In	narrative,	with	such	an	objective	self-construct,	the	subject	will	not	be	obscured but	instead	positioned	centrally,	the	"objective	subject"	as	subject,	and	the	danger	is self-idealization	or	self-inflation. The	laws	of	narrative,	themselves	tend	to	support	such	closured	structure.	In	The	New Polytheism,	David	L.	Miller	warns: Narrative	form	is	no	better	than	abstract	ideation	if	it	is	used ideologically,	that	is,	for	ego-security.	This	is	particularly	important	to note	in	a	time	when	story-form	enjoys	a	more	than	passing	popularity in	philosophy,	theology,	and	literary	criticism.	(17) And,	one	might	add,	in	educational	research,	theory,	and	practice.	Narrative	form	has been	taken	so	literally	as	to	be	transmuted	into	the	dogma	of	empirically	verifiable scientific	discourse	and	into	the	anti-mythic,	anti-aesthetic,	self-enclosed	world	of academia.	Subjectively	we	come	to	believe	we	are	our	stories,	often	to	our	confusion in	the	face	of	erratic	experience,	as	literary	art	often	reveals.	If	our	narratives	only serve	to	make	us	feel	better	about	ourselves,	then	seeking	out	myths	may	be	just	to find	other	exotic	adornments	for	ourselves,	our	narcissistic	objects	of	desire.	Miller continues	that if	stories	are	believed	to	be	a	crutch	that	helps	ego	hobble	back	into	a modicum	of	control...then	the	stories	of	the	Gods	may	be	as disappointing	as	the	social	ideologies	and	the	monotheistic	theologies which	replaced	them.	Enthusiasm	for	narrative-form	can	become	just one	more	idolatry.	(New	Polytheism,	18) This	need	to	enhance	the	self,	this	"paranoid	drive	toward	unified	meaning"	is	nothing but	the	archetype	of	the	senex-fearful	old	age. Perhaps	this	totalized	and	totalizing	self	may	have	derived	from	the	Enlightenment inversion	of	the	objective	monotheism	of	the	West	(another	reason	why	the	mythic	path may	be	seen	as	a	"deeper	light"	and	not	"enlightenment").	Such	a	path	requires	imaginal or	epistrophic	memory	which	is	not	mere	autobiographic	recitation.	Its	mystique	is clearer	than	its	method.	Archetypal	seer	Hillman	sometimes	calls	it	a	psychologizing	of the	past;	it	seems	nearer	literature,	psychoanalysis,	or	even	deconstruction.	He	suggests not	reducing	the	given	facts	of	the	past	to	concentrated	essence,	but	taking	them	and twisting	them: 101 The	particular	virtue	of	the	psychological	mind	is	its	twisting	of	the given;	seeing	through,	hearing	echo	and	implication,	turning	back	or upside	down.	The	psychological	mind	makes	the	given	imagistic, fantastic.	Hence	its	affinity	with	both	the	pathological	and	the	poetic, and	hence,	also,	its	distance	from	the	programmatics	of	action	and	the formulations	of	the	sciences.	.	.	.	Where	scientific	abstractions	seek	to posit	what	is	really	there	in	the	given,	substitutive	for	it	and	constitutive of	it,	our	abstractions	seek	to	drop	the	bottom	out	of	the	given.	("Back	to Beyond,"	217-218) This	is	the	archetypal	remembering	Hillman	(1979a)	calls	"...epistrophe,	reversion, return,	the	recall	of	phenomena	to	their	imaginal	background	.	.	.	regarding phenomena	in	terms	of	their	likenesses"	(The	Dream	and	the	Underworld,	4).5	This may	imply	a	dramatization	of	the	stories	of	one's	past,	or,	perhaps,	an	expressive poetics.	An	acting-out	with	others-what	was	once	called	psychodrama-may	be useful.	But	these	specifics	fail	to	express	the	twistedness	or	madness	of	what	Hillman means.	Far	from	the	Freudian	couch	of	shameful	confession	or	even	the Jungian/Campbellian	fantasy	of	"awakening	to	the	myth	I	am	living,"	Hillman	suggests we	should	intrude	many	of	the	forgotten	gods	in	our	re-storying:	Pan	and	Aphrodite, certainly,	and	maybe	even	the	god	of	masks,	Dionysos.	The	god	need	not	be	Hellenic. A	mythical	deity	will	come	who	awakens	within	us	a	shock	of	recognition.	Our approach	to	the	Underworld	need	not	be	a	sombre	procession	after	the	grim	reaper or	psychotherapist	or	teacher	but	instead	the	ribald	reversion	to	carnival	shadow	in the	wake	of	the	archetypal	Trickster. Mythic	Education This	is	not	the	sort	of	activity	that	one	expects	to	find	in	schools,	even	in	advanced autobiographical	curriculum	classes	or	in	narrative	research.	Yet	the	"problem	of multiple	I's"	has	come	to	be	expected	by	some	researchers	into	teachers'	narrative inquiry	(Connelly	and	Clandinin).	Most	of	these	"I's"	are	resisted,	especially	in classroom	situations,	and	others	allowed	only	in	unique	circumstances	like	carnival. Hillman	says	there	is	an	archetype	with	the	face	of	a	god	behind	the	collection	of	each, and	each	god	speaks	in	a	different	mode,	some	of	which	may	seem	insane	or	obscene. To	conjure	this	god	out	from	its	concealment,	we	may	have	to	write	in	its	language. This	is	akin	to	dialoguing	with	what	Mary	Watkins	calls	"invisible	guests,"	though Hillman's	(1979a)	epistrophic	approach	may	mean	identifying	with	each	god,	each "mood"	as	a	theophany: 5	Hillman	credits	Henry	Corbin	for	the	original	method	of	epistrophe,	called	in	Islam	ta'will, which	means	literally,	so	Hillman	says,	"...to	lead	something	back	to	its	origin	and	principle, to	its	archetype"	(The	Dream	and	the	Underworld,	4). 102 Reversion	through	likeness,	resemblance,	is	a	primary	principle	for	the archetypal	approach	to	all	psychic	events.	Reversion	is	a	bridge	too,	a method	which	connects	an	event	to	its	image,	a	psychic	process	to	its myth,	a	suffering	of	the	soul	to	the	imaginal	mystery	expressed	therein. Epistrophe,	or	the	return	through	likeness,	offers	to	psychological understanding	a	main	avenue	for	recovering	order	from	the	confusion of	psychic	phenomena,	other	than	Freud's	idea	of	development	and Jung's	of	opposites	.	.	.	.	Epistrophe	implies	return	to	multiple possibilities,	correspondences	with	images	that	can	not	[sic]	be encompassed	within	any	systematic	account.	(The	Dream	and	the Underworld,	4) Also	known	as	imaginal	memory	(Perlman),	epistrophe	is	a	more	accurate	reflection of	our	actual	experience	than	statistical	psychology	provides.	A	singular	self-schema attempts	to	deny	or	forget	most	of	what	we	experience	and	even	what	we	do,	but allowing	the	other	characters	in	us	to	speak	deepens,	widens,	and	perhaps	even	adds other	dimensions	to	our	awareness.	To	speak	from	the	position	of	the	abandoned child,	or	the	wild	woman,	or	even	the	glowering,	fearful	senex,	is	to	give	voice	to	what was	once	only	unexplained	emotion. Our	experience,	according	to	this	view,	is	always	archetypal	experience.	To	allow myth	to	awaken	us	to	the	world	and	the	multiplicities	of	being,	Hillman,	Avens,	Miller (and	others	of	the	archetypal	school)	have	made	the	polytheistic	move.	"[A]s	soon	as the	soul	is	freed	from	ego	domination,	the	question	of	polytheism	arises"	(Hillman, Archetypal	Psychology,	35). The	memory	which	lies	behind	all	our	knowing	is	drawn	through	remembered	value and	image	back	into	the	gravital	complexes	identified	as	"Gods	and	Goddesses." These,	Hillman	("Psychology:	Monotheistic	or	Polytheistic?")	says,	are	not	objective beings	but	are	(archetypally)	present	in	all	our	perceiving,	so	are	understood	as effective,	and	affective,	presences	within	us	and	within	the	world. Memory	is	itself	the	gravity	that	holds	the	gods-the	archetypes-together	enough	to provide	an	inner	integration	for	subjectivity.	We	are	the	objects	of	memory.	The mythic	perspective	of	archetypal	psychology,	then,	is	a	journey	of	feeling	and humility.	Humility	because	our	ego-structures	come	apart	when	subjected	to	the pathologizing	effects	of	the	gods	and	goddesses.	The	form	of	the	deity,	however imagined,	can	only	be	constructed	from	the	fragments	of	our	own	experience,	like	a whirlwind's	appearing	only	through	that	which	it	draws	into	itself.	The	resulting wisdom	is	that	we	are	mere	products	of	the	word,	that	our	self-concepts	are	mythic structures	over	an	abyss	of	memory,	and	that	our	actions	are	under	the	sway	of	many "divisibles."	Gilbert	Durand	once	wrote: 103 It	has	taken	all	the	discoveries	of	contemporary	depth	psychology	to bring	the	ego	back	to	this	modest	pluralism,	to	show	that	behind	its triumphant	consciousness	the	unconscious	proliferates	disquieteningly. (89) It	is	this	disquietening	journey	into	the	"morbisms"	of	the	shadow	side	makes	why	the	seeing through	(or	feeling	through)	to	the	myth	or	mythic	image	must	be	understood	as	humbling	to the	central	self-schema,	but	self-creative	to	the	other	images	who	afflict	us	as	moods,	intrigue us	in	visual	flashes,	cause	"beside	myself"	actions,	or	who	populate	our	dreams	and	reveries. The	self	in	such	a	journey	is	not	rejected,	but	it	is	no	longer	reified	as	a	psychological absolute	either.	Lifton	has	written	of	such	a	"protean	self"	as	the	"symbolizing	self"	which "centers	on	its	own	narrative,	on	a	life	story	that	is	itself	created	and	constantly	re-created" (30).	The	self	is	just	one	of	many	schemata,	a	symbol	among	symbols.	In	this	way,	it	may achieve	some	freedom	and	create	a	space	for	its	own	metamorphosis. It	may	be	well	to	keep	this	in	mind	when	training	our	youth	into	becoming	confident	and successful	selves	or	otherwise	constructing	narratives	of	educational	experience	or	simply telling	the	stories	of	our	lives.	If	the	choice	for	the	ego-self	of	the	writer	is	reification	or deification,	the	mythopoetic	imagination	chooses	the	latter,	but	only	as	part	of	a	larger pantheon	of	presences. The	predominant	myth	of	our	time,	according	to	Guggenbühl-Craig	(1991),	is	the	myth	of progress,	which	encompasses	other	such	myths	as	that	of	development,	improvement,	and growth.	In	accord	with	our	frontally-placed	carnivore's	eyes,	we	seem	only	focused	on	what's coming-from	the	next	instant	to	the	distant	fulfillment	of	our	anxieties	or	machinations.	In this	sense,	we	are	displaced	from	our	present,	living	(as	it	were)	in	deferment	and anticipation.	Even	more,	we	have	sacrificed	the	past.	By	referring	to	the	past	I	do	not	mean the	past	recorded	in	history	or	in	our	personal	curriculum	vitae.	The	past	to	which	I	refer	has never	ceased	to	be	present.	It	is	the	"past"	of	imagistic	experience,	of	myth,	dream,	and symbol.	It	is	this	past	which	has	been	dissected	to	fabricate	the	image	of	life	indefinitely postponed,	forever	awaiting	at	the	end	of	our	endless	journey	of	progress. In	the	field	of	education,	the	extension	of	this	complex	is	the	myth	of	development	or instruction,	that	individuals	are	storage	tanks	of	information,	and	that	nature	(or	the	gods) provides	nothing.	We	can	even	test	to	see	how	much	is	stored.	The	media	continually	remind us	of	the	woes	for	us	all	when	others	have	not	lived	up	to	their	information-storing	capacity. Everyone	must	progress	further	up	the	ladder	of	instruction.	The	more	you	are	taught,	the readier	you	are	for	life: When	I	was	a	child,	I	spake	as	a	child,	I	understood	as	a	child,	I	thought as	a	child:	but	when	I	became	a	man,	I	put	away	childish	things.	(I Corinthians	13:10-11) 104 This	is,	we	are	told,	only	being	realistic.	Like	all	mythologies,	this	story	has	a	dark	side,	as	the rest	of	the	biblical	passage	shows: For	now	we	see	through	a	glass	darkly.	.	.	.	now	I	know	in	part;	but	then	shall	I know	even	as	also	I	am	known.	(I	Corinthians	13:12) Like	all	mythologies	it	has	seemingly	infinite	systems	of	justification.	Like	all mythologies	experience	seems	to	prove	its	truths.	Memory	as	techne	rules.	Even religion	and	art	classes	have	to	be	justified	in	terms	of	results. There	is	no	way	out	of	a	social	mythology,	Jungian	and	archetypal	psychology indicates,	unless	we	come	to	recall	the	foundational	myths	of	its	origin,	objectively	(as it	were).	The	possession	can	only	be	broken	through	the	creation	of	new	myths: symbols	and	images	that	seem	to	inhere	in	other	instincts,	that	seem	to	be	needs	of other	centers	of	intuition.	A	mythic	archetype	captures	and	possesses	imagination, but	our	imaginations	have	been	appropriated	into	all	the	anxieties	and	lusts	of	the Myth	of	Progress	(otherwise	known	as	the	Myth	of	Success).	To	support	such	a	vision of	the	future	over	an	obliterated	past,	we	have	developed	the	guardian	mythos	par excellence:	the	mythos	of	science.	Any	archetype	or	mythos	captures	imagination, imprisons	the	image-experiencing	faculty	into	a	narrow	field	and	makes	it	impossible to	imagine	any	other	way	of	doing	things.	Religion	and	nationalism	have	done	this well	for	thousands	of	years.	Now	we	have	the	senex	of	science	with	its	unyielding attributes	of	objective	materialism,	determinism,	and	reductionism.	These	guardian myths	of	denial,	skepticism,	and	objective	proof	crudely	channel	our	imagining	and our	experience.	Furthermore,	since	the	mythopoetic	image	transcends	both	subject and	object,	the	world-potential	is	grimly	lessened	as	well. It	does	not	take	a	great	deal	of	social	awareness	to	realize	our	technological	drive	into the	future	has	a	shadow	side	that	"proliferates	disquieteningly"	(though	it	is	also disquieting	how	many	successful	people	fail	to	see	this).	Lifton	(1993)	expresses	this unease	well: Increasingly,	we	have	an	amorphous	but	greatly	troubling	sense	that something	has	gone	wrong	in	our	relationship	to	nature,	something	that may	undermine	its	capacity	to	sustain	life.	(21) One	need	only	mention	environmental	abuse,	population	growth,	new	plagues,	and the	spread	of	weapons	of	mass	destruction	to	get	an	idea	of	the	kind	of	world	we	are thrusting	into.	It	is	just	as	doubtful	that	the	human	psychological	condition	has	not begun	to	decay	as	a	result	of	the	soul's	isolation	into	energies	of	progress	and	success. As	in	soul,	so	in	the	world:	"The	woods	decay,	the	woods	decay	and	fall,	/	The	vapors weep	their	burthen	to	the	ground.	.	."	(Tennyson,	1-2) Mythopoetic	Metamorphosis 105 It	is	not	that	I	am	suggesting	that	myth	will	save	educational	visions,	or	schooling,	or society,	or	the	world.	We	are	always	living	out	one	myth	or	another,	always	under	the influence	of	one	god	or	another,	or	always	within	one	image	or	another.	It	is	the change	from	the	possession	of	one	image	to	another	that	is	so	soul	wrenching,	so frightening.	To	see	through	or	even	abandon	the	archetypal	image	that	possesses	one is	to	metamorphose,	an	experience	the	poets	see	as	painful	indeed:	"Lamia"	is	a magnificent	erotic	poem	by	John	Keats	which	tells	the	story	of	a	snake	woman	who yearns	for	the	body	of	real	woman	again	so	she	may	experience	its	delights,	however transitory.	Hermes	grants	her	metamorphosis,	but	the	process	reveals	itself	as	one	of the	utmost	agony: Left	to	herself,	the	serpent	now	began To	change;	her	elfin	blood	in	madness	ran, Her	mouth	foam'd,	and	the	grass,	therewith	besprent, Wither'd	at	dew	so	sweet	and	virulent; Her	eyes	in	torture	fix'd	and	anguish	drear, Hot,	glaz'd,	and	wide,	with	lid-lashes	all	seer, Flash'd	phosphor	and	sharp	sparks,	without	one	cooling	tear. The	colours	all	inflam'd	throughout	her	train, She	writh'd	about,	convuls'd	with	scarlet	pain.	(I:	146-154) Lamia	emerges	a	woman	and	experiences	passionate,	even	lewd	love	but	is	eventually destroyed,	shrivelled	like	a	dream,	by	the	rationalist	eye	of	the	well-named philosopher,	Apollonius-just	as	Apollo,	the	Hellenic	god	of	order,	rationality,	and light	shines	over	our	modernist	Enlightenment	era.	The	loss	of	enchantment	through the	cold	eye	of	dissecting	thought	(which	Keats	calls	philosophy)	is	the	loss	of imaginal	participation.	The	poet	asks: Do	not	all	charms	fly At	the	mere	touch	of	cold	philosophy? There	was	an	awful	rainbow	once	in	heaven: We	know	her	woof,	her	texture;	she	is	given In	the	dull	catalogue	of	common	things. Philosophy	will	clip	an	Angel's	wings, Conquer	all	mysteries	by	rule	and	line, Empty	the	haunted	air,	and	gnoméd	mine- Unweave	a	rainbow,	as	it	erstwhile	made The	tender-person'd	Lamia	melt	into	a	shade.	(II:	229-238) The	mystery	that	is	reduced	to	explanation	appears	both	from	the	world	and	from awareness	of	the	world.	With	the	light	of	reason,	we	see	the	world	only	objectively and	subtract	the	vital	component	of	subjective	awareness.	It	need	only	be	mentioned that	such	unremitting	light	casts	dark	shadows.	In	such	shadows	we	have	hidden	our fantasies	and	our	fears,	and	the	mystery	of	our	knowledge	of	death	that	snaps 106 complacency	and	inspires	us	to	journeys.	"I	dream	of	journeys	repeatedly:	Of	flying like	a	bat	deep	into	a	narrowing	tunnel	.	.	."	(Roethke). One	must	employ	these	poetic	incantations	in	attempting	evoke	a	mythopoetic response	and	indicate	what	is	missing	in	our	schools,	in	our	theories,	and	in	our world.	To	describe	is	be	caught	in	the	trap	of	objectivity	where	one	must	compare	and contrast	positions,	rationalize	purposes,	and	hypothesize	effects.	Usually	only	a	poem can	evoke	poetic	experience;	often	only	the	myth	can	reveal	soul.	To	dissect	such things	for	hidden	symbols,	secret	messages,	or	overall	meaning	is	to	murder	the experience,	to	dismember	the	soul. Even	this	essay	is	something	of	an	impossibility.	I	have	attempted	to	explicate	image and	symbol,	archetype	and	god,	myth	and	poem,	and	experience	and	imagination.	My purpose	has	been	to	make	clear	in	a	rational,	systematic	manner	toward	what	is meant	by	such	terms	and	how	important	a	part	of	our	time	in	this	veil	they	are.	A	life without	imagination	or	experience	is	indeed	literally	thinkable	and	we	end	up	with postulates	like	robots,	zombies,	or	computerized	intelligence.	Most	would	feel,	I suspect,	that	a	life	without	such	experience	is	no	life	at	all.	Still,	we	give	our	time	to description,	classification,	and	the	institutionalization	of	objective	materialism.	We have	come	to	expect	such	explanations	(and	that	is	why	I	have	attempted	this	one) but	by	explaining	myth	and	image	might	I	not	be	in	danger	of	unweaving	a	rainbow? It	may	be	so.	Still,	for	many	of	us	emerging	from	the	modernist	tyranny,	rationalist explanation	is	the	path	into	the	darkening	tunnel	of	Roethke.	At	some	point,	however, the	light	is	extinguished	and	we	are	cast	back	into	the	primal	encounter	without	the comfort	of	explanation.	It	is	from	the	position	of	mythopoetic	participation	that	new worlds	appear,	as	Mircea	Eliade	knew: This	is	not,	of	course,	a	matter	of	rational	cognition,	but	of	apprehension by	the	active	consciousness	prior	to	reflection.	It	is	of	such apprehensions	that	the	World	is	made.	(202) Hillman	has	avoided	political	delicacy	in	his	position	against	reductive	explanation. He	insists	that	even	our	scientific,	rationalist	method	is	ultimately	but	another	mythos in	action: Gathering	of	data	does	less	to	demonstrate	objectively	the	existence	of archetypes	than	it	does	to	demonstrate	the	fantasy	of	"objective	data." ("A	Note	on	Story,"	13) And	further	along	he	delivers	his	coup	de	grâce	to	our	current	educational	aims	and perhaps	our	whole	inflated	civilization	by	flatly	stating,	"Literalism	is	sickness"	(45). This	is	not	to	say	something	like	one	should	believe	in	trans-objective	realities.	This	is 107 to	say	that	experience	need	not	be	limited	by	our	faith	in	objective	reduction.	With regard	to	mythopoetry,	there	are	no	"shoulds."	There	is	merely	the	choice	to	see	or not	to	see.	As	classicist	Charles	Boer	puts	it: Belief	is	not	an	issue.	But	"seeing"	can	be	detached	from	belief.	...	And seeing	the	Gods,	whatever	else,	has	always	been	one	of mythology's	pleasures."	(105) And	it	is	certainly	not	to	identify	mythology	with	ideology,	as,	for	example,	Roland Barthes	in	cultural	criticism	and	Peter	McLaren	in	curriculum	theory	have	done.	The literary	critics	and	critical	pedagogues	who	also	oppose	an	overreliance	on rationalism	because	they	see	such	rationalism	as	disguising	an	oppressive	patriarchal, capitalist	hierarchy	are	guilty	of	their	own	sort	of	explanatory	reductionism. According	into	Boer,	to	direct	such	critical	theorizing	at	the	mythopoetic	imagination or	at	literary	experience	is	to	amputate	the	archetype,	to	just	as	surely	wither	poor Lamia	as	the	cold	eye	of	Apollonius: Just	as	we	have	allowed	art	and	literature	in	recent	years	to	be	treated as	nothing	but	disguised	ideology,	we	assume	that	mythology	must	be even	more	so.	For	mythology,	ideology	with	its	proliferating rationalisms	is	becoming	a	lethal	mistake.	(105-106) Anyone	can	see	that	a	solely	mythopoetic	education	would	be	impractical	and	not serve	the	ends	that	schools	have	been	designed	to	serve.	People	want	jobs,	society wants	progress,	and	science	wants	discovery.	Education	is	aimed	squarely	at	directing dreamy	little	minds	into	the	realistic	channels	that	lead	to	these	ends.	These	purposes need	to	be	served.	It	should	not	be	forgotten	that	there	are	more	unpleasant prospects	than	material	prosperity. But	the	point	is	that	such	an	instrumental	drive	toward	material	prosperity	has	come to	dominate	all	our	thoughts	and	certainly	all	our	major	institutions.	One	need	only visit	the	classrooms	in	the	majority	of	schools	or	page	through	the	professional journals	related	to	education	to	discover	that	instrumentality,	results,	standards, achievement,	are	simply	taken	for	granted	as	the	motivating	force	of	the	education industry.	The	gain	here	may	be	an	increase	in	the	GNP	and	a	better	standard	of	living for	a	minority,	but	the	price,	as	I've	indicated	throughout,	is	a	loss	of	consciousness. After	the	confused	rhetoric	of	the	seventies,	we	seldom	attempt	to	educate	for personal	growth,	imagination,	or	experience.	The	point	has	been	reached	when	even the	most	intelligent	of	curriculum	theorists	feels	the	need	to	apologize	for	ever	using a	term	like	"heightened	consciousness"	(Pinar).	Imagination	and	experience	have become	embarrassments. To	sum	up,	experience	of	world	as	being-as	subject	and	object	united	in	the	image- is	reduced	as	soon	as	we	adapt	to	the	limitations	imposed	by	our	senses.	The	first 108 reduction	of	the	image	and	of	experience	within	it	is	supplied	through	the	brain	and central	nervous	system.	The	second	reduction	occurs	through	the	entrance	into	the cultural	world	of	symbols	(such	as	language),	something	more	than	a	re-presentation: a	reduction	of	experience-in-itself	but	an	expansion	of	mind	and	objective	time.	Now we	continue	our	dutiful	reductionism	in	the	field	of	curriculum	and	schooling.	We separate,	categorize,	and	channel	young	minds	into	socially	productive	activities. Personal	experience	and	imagination	are	seen	as	luxuries	left	for	leisure	time-if there	is	the	energy	left	to	support	them.	It	is	as	though	we	have	drawn	the	waters from	the	ocean	of	being	and	over	time	have	channeled	the	flow	into	rivers,	streams, and	creeks	until	they	all	disperse	as	drainage	into	the	desert.	There	is	no	return,	no renewal	or	revitalization,	only	the	progress	of	withering	seepage. Certain	highly	academic	areas	of	curriculum	theory	have	for	decades	been	attempting to	inspire	educational	thinking	from	the	position	of	the	arts	and	humanities	as opposed	to	the	usual	reduction	to	scientific	data	and	professional	recommendation.	A reconceptualization	(Pinar	et	al.)	is	said	to	have	taken	place.	Though	many mythopoetic	approaches	have	been	successfully	undertaken,	it	may	be	that	up	until this	time	an	in-depth	mythopoetic	rationale-oxymoronic	as	that	may	be-for educational	vision	has	never	been	attempted.	With	the	archaic	experience	of	the image,	the	apotheosis	of	imagination	as	described	in	archetypal	psychology,	and	the call	to	awaken	life	"to	a	drunken	marriage	with	divine	feeling,"	I	hope	this	needed epistrophe	has	at	least	been	suggested. Works	Cited Avens,	Roberts.	Imagination	is	Reality.	Dallas:	Spring,	1980. Ayto,	John.	Dictionary	of	Word	Origins.	New	York:	Arcade,	1990. 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