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…