Wandering Roots: The Birth of Apollo and Artemis
The Mother of Legends on Being an Olympian Outcast
To some, it may seem strange that I should spend my retirement away from the heavens. Instead of residing in the cloud-capped towers of Mt. Olympus, ambling along gilded halls and stone floors smoothed by divine feet, I chose the rocky terrain of the isle of Delos. To me, it makes sense that this island nation is my forever home. Not because of the eternal sunny skies and sense of peace, which: true. But because of the refuge this place had provided me in my greatest hour of need.
I’d been driven here by the wrath of Hera, wife of Zeus—the father of my children. Despite her public veneer of championing women, Hera harbored a vendetta against me, and I found myself a pawn to the queen of the gods.
Of course, the question lingers in the air like a persistent fog, "Why consort with the married Zeus?" The answer is simple: you try and refuse him once you catch his gaze. It will break your spirit with his invading aura—hot like gusts from a crackling bonfire. Zeus believed the world’s natural order was to please him, and in many ways, as the king of the gods, it rearranged to do so.
I felt compelled to satisfy him once he noticed me in that way—his desire, a decree. I became a different person around him, finding myself slathering my voice in sugar and coyly asking things of him like, “When will you come to bed?”
Who was this woman that inhibited me? This person whose whole world, with him, was alight. Zeus embodied radiance: his skin shimmered like molten gold, his lambent eyes held the promise of eternity, and his ambrosial mane flashed bronze. Our union was intoxicating, and I pressed our bodies as close as I could during our dalliances. When he would leave, his essence lingered everywhere. He was embossed upon my vision, even upon my own skin.
Once he tired of me, however, I felt a sudden dimness settle between us. However gold he shined, it was all too easy to disappear into his shadow, a well so deep that it seemed to know no bounds. I suppose it’s the same feeling that drove Hera’s vengeance, at least back then. And even though I do not like her, I understand how it feels to languish in a shadow as profound as the void itself.
It’s hard to say how long after my fleeting affair that I became pregnant; I still do not grasp the mortal concept of counting divine days, but Zeus had already moved on from me by the time I was in labor. As the pains of wanting to expel divine offspring wracked my body, Hera stormed into my apartments and looked at me as if I were a nine-headed hydra. “Is it true?” she asked, words as sharp as obsidian. "Are you with child? My husband’s child"
“It is true,” I admitted. There was no point in lying.
“Then I banish you, Leto, and I decree that no land shall shelter you.”
I had not fooled myself with some false hope in telling her the truth; I knew I would still be punished—I only prayed that she would not bring harm to my babies, as other consorts to Zeus and their offspring had not been so lucky. Gratefully, I descended from Mt. Olympus that day with my family relatively unscathed.
When I neared the earth, I walked as a god, and the distance fell away beneath my feet. With each step, I felt ready to burst yet unable. Every place my foot landed shirked away from me, giving me no purchase. That did not stop the contractions which felt as if the heavens themselves were pressing down, bending me to the brink of existence. With each breath, I drew in the strength of the stars, laboring to find a place to bring forth life that shimmered with celestial fire. For the first time in my life, I felt human. At least, my body felt frail like theirs. Such patience they must have, I thought, as I wandered the world in pain, to drag themselves through life like this.
At the brink of despair, I discovered this nowhere island, unclaimed and isolated, floating detached from the world below. Yet even the spirit of Delos hesitated at first, receding ever so slightly once I came to his shore’s edge.
“I promise you glory in exchange for shelter,” I said. “That my son will make his temple here and always cherish you for being the location of his first place of worship.”
With little to lose, and much to gain, Delos acquiesced and admitted me to a cozy spot that was free from his usual rocky terrain. And I collapsed from a weariness in me so great that to go one step further would have been impossible.
This was it, I reasoned.
But despite my footing in the world and my divine strength, no matter how hard I pushed, I was up against the inertia of the cosmos itself. My body, a conduit for new gods, trembled under the weight of their nascent power, their presence within me as vast and insistent as the tides.
I cried out for Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth. She alone had the power to loosen my womb’s hold and bring my children into the world. While some other goddesses floated down to answer my pleas, Eileithyia remained steadfast. I cursed her at the time, but I did not know that Hera had detained her to make me suffer.
For nine endless days and nights, waves of crushing contractions gripped me, each more intense than the last. Fortunately, there are forces more powerful than the queen of gods. While Hera prolonged my suffering, she could not make it last forever. The Fates act upon the world to drive everything into their web. It is easier to obstruct the rising sun than to avoid the obstacles they set to serve them. And my children, future gods, could not be prevented, no matter how tightly Hera coiled herself around her desire for revenge like some sort of Anaconda.
Finally, Eileithyia slipped past Hera and joined me down on Delos. Once she arrived, the unbearable pressure peaked in a crescendo of crackling energy, and my daughter was born. Artemis arrived with eyes as pure and luminous as the moon and alabaster skin wrapped in the cool embrace of night. I knew I was having twins, but I did not realize how special their bond would be. Because after Artemis was born amidst a radiant burst of moonlight, she turned right around to help me deliver her younger brother.
And the birthing experience with my second child was a very idyllic experience. I mean, also laden with the overripe stink of ichor, but this time I had my daughter’s helping hands. In the first golden rays of dawn, Apollo emerged, a boy of brilliant luminescence. His very presence promised to chase away the darkness and cast light upon the shadowed secrets of the world—the pair of them two sides to the same coin.
Here on Delos, where the sea kisses rocky shores, I had watched Artemis and Apollo ascend. From the pain of banishment blossomed the mightiest of gods, my son’s light and my daughter’s shadow shining and casting long across Olympus—no, the world itself. And in their rise, I found my peace. Not in the heavens, but in a home where every sunset promises a rebirth, and every sunrise is a victory.
Living Between Places
I’m always fascinated by the elements that draw me into any myth I explore. The myth of the birth of Apollo and Artemis offers a classic glimpse into the tumultuous dynamics between Zeus and Hera: Zeus, the constant philanderer, and Hera, the scorned wife, redirecting her fury towards the women ensnared by her husband because she cannot challenge him directly.
While that drama unfolded, what actually resonated with me is the concept of shelter, the unexpected havens we find, probably because I'm currently on a three-month globetrotting adventure. Every week, my home shifts. And before this trip, I was nesting temporarily with my parents after moving countries.
Leto's quest in Greek mythology to find a safe place to birth her divine twins mirrors some measure of my own feelings of displacement. Although I'm not searching for a literal refuge to give birth, I identify with her transient sanctuary. Home for me has morphed into various temporary forms: friends' living rooms, Airbnb’s, and even the occasional airport lounge.
The word “home” is a complex term. The Ancient Greek term most often associated with it is “οἶκος” (oikos), which didn’t just mean a physical structure. It encompassed the entire household—including family, servants, and property. Socially, it was a foundational setting where children learned the customs that knit the fabric of the polis (city-state), reinforcing cultural norms and values.
How I see it, home is where we can become ourselves, and the connections in our lives that help us get there. Currently, in this nomadic period of my life, that safe space for me is a concept I must continually recreate. And it’s not always easy to do that in other peoples’ homes, temporary setups, or public spaces because they all have their own explicit and implicit rules. Yet, I am profoundly grateful to those who open their homes to me. By welcoming someone into our personal spaces and integrating them into the culture of our home, we touch upon the essence of humanity and its inherent magic. We become sisters and brothers without asking when there is somebody there to say, “my home is your home.”
Later homies,
Alvin
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