Special Episode - July 4 The Flame She Still Holds

The Flame She Still Holds

This isn’t a protest.
It’s not a patriotic salute.
It’s not a political stance or a call to arms.
It’s something quieter.
Something older.
A mythic remembering.

The Flame She Still Holds

A weathered figure sits in quiet ruin.

Crowned in ancient rays and robed in cracked stone,
she resembles the one we once called Liberty.
But this is no polished statue of national pride.

She is older than any empire that claimed her,
and more sorrowful than any anthem that sang her name.

Her torch—long fractured—is lowered,
its flame no longer blazing for others to follow.

Yet in her other hand,
resting gently on her lap,
a small flame still burns.

It is not a flame of conquest.
It is not the fire of revolution or defense.

It is the ember of meaning—
the quiet pulse of a symbol we forgot how to read.

She does not demand worship.
She does not offer judgment.

She simply waits.
To be remembered.
To be reimagined.
To be honored—
not as icon or idol—
but as invitation.

This is Liberty as myth.
Not as weapon.
Not as monument.

She is broken, yes—
but still holding fire.

The Flame You Forgot

We once crowned her with light
and called her Liberty.

We built her high,
turned her into a symbol,
a statue,
a promise.

She stood in harbors,
printed on currency,
burned into our national myth.

But somewhere along the way…
we forgot what she was.

We turned her into a monument.
Then into a mascot.

We used her to justify wars.
We raised her as a banner
for freedoms we didn’t fully extend.

We worshiped her.
Then we hollowed her out.

Now, when she appears,
it’s mostly in steel or stone—
cold, untouchable, iconic.

But she was never meant to be made of metal.

She was myth.
She was breath.
She was a fire we were meant to carry.

Look again.

Not to the polished torch
or the slogans etched into pedestals—
but to the broken figure seated in silence.

She wears the crown, yes…
but it’s cracked.

Her torch has fallen,
worn with time.

And yet—
in her hand…

a single ember still burns.

Not for spectacle.
Not for conquest.

But for meaning.
For memory.
For those who still remember how to listen.

This isn’t patriotism.
It isn’t protest.

It’s mythic reckoning.

It’s the quiet rediscovery
of a goddess we turned into a slogan.

It’s the Sacred Imagination whispering:

You forgot the flame.
But it didn’t forget you.

You don’t need to rebuild the statue.
You don’t need to wave her like a flag.

Just sit with her.
Notice the ember.

And remember what liberty was really meant to be:

Not possession.
Not pride.

But presence.
A sacred symbol.
A companion on the path.

A flame that still waits to be carried forward—
not for power…

but for meaning.