not Icarus who fell, but Icarus who flew
I first heard the story of Icarus in 8th grade, an ostensibly cautionary tale about a boy who flew too high. My English teacher (and I think mostly everyone else) framed the story into a moralized tale of arrogance and excessive pride, where Icarus' hubris led to his ultimate demise.
I recall this story frequently. I'm not sure why it always quivered an eruption of indescribable emotions within me when I was young. I thought of Icarus and felt a perplexing fusion of sadness, anger, and bewilderment to how misconstrued he was. When I hear Icarus, I think of the suffocation of being imprisoned, stuck in a tower with his father. But I also think of the joy of flying, the intoxication by altitude and recklessness with delight - a bird out of a cage.
In the poetry circle I regularly attend, we went over Sexton's To a Friend Whose Work has Come to Triumph. I'm sure that's where I rediscovered my love for this myth, in a surprisingly new light however: A cautionary tale into a celebration of risk. He was a someone who dared fly higher than anyone on that island had gone before his waxed wings gave out.
I think of spectacular failure over safe obedience, of trying instead of hiding. I think of It must be worth it taking the risk - just keep flying higher, higher, higher. I also think of how my English teacher focused on his inevitable demise, then I think of the moments right before - the ones where he was still rising, still weightless amidst a blue sky, still entirely breathless and alive. Admire his wings! Sexton wrote. Who cares that he fell back to the sea?