For Those No Longer Defined by Religious Belief—But Still Devoted to Meaning by P. Glenn Myth Maker & Companion

Everyone’s Myth is not a book of beliefs.
It’s not a map or a manual.
It’s not a doctrine, dogma, or system to follow.

It’s something quieter.
Something older.
A spiral made of story, symbol, and soul.

This is for those who’ve left the certainties behind—not out of bitterness, but honesty.
For those who’ve walked through fire, sat in silence, or stood at the edge of meaning and whispered, “Now what?”

You won’t find rules here.
You’ll find signs.
Not answers, but echoes.

And maybe—if the myth that once held you has collapsed—this will help you notice the one that never left.
The one still whispering in your breath, your questions, your longing.

This is your myth.
Your rhythm.
Your sacred return.

You don’t have to understand it.
You only have to walk with it.

To Those Who Walk Without a Map

You didn’t miss your myth.
It didn’t vanish.
It didn’t forget you.
But perhaps it stopped speaking in the language you were taught to listen for.
Maybe what you called truth broke in your hands.
Maybe belief wore thin.
Maybe silence became your only honest prayer.
Still - you kept walking.

This is not a book of beliefs.
It won’t tell you what to think.
It won’t rebuild the structure that collapsed.
It’s a companion.
A lantern, not a law.
A pocketful of signs for those who move through mystery
and long for something that burns clean and runs deep.

These pages won’t rush you.
Each one is a place to pause.
To feel your breath.
To name what still matters.
To notice the thread that’s been with you all along.

You don’t need to read this in order.
But know this:
There is an order - not one of logic, but of presence.
There is a rhythm - not of answers, but of echoes.
And there’s a myth - not far away, but already inside you.
Welcome.

The Structure Beneath the Spiral

This guide doesn’t build a belief system.
It offers a way to be held.

At the center of it all is a triad:
The Phoenix, the Sacred Flame/Compass, and the Labyrinth.
These are not answers.
They are the mythic ground beneath my steps.

• The Phoenix holds the mystery of transformation.
• The Flame/Compass holds the warmth and direction of shared meaning.
• The Labyrinth holds the process of becoming—slow, sacred, and nonlinear.

I call this triad the EM3 - not as a rule, but as a rhythm.
These three hold everything that follows. (The Everyone’s Myth emblem “EM3” is found at the bottom.)

The reflections in this guide - called tokens - are not chapters.
They are lived moments.
Facets of the soul’s movement through meaning, mortality, and mystery.
You don’t need to memorize them.
You don’t need to read them in order.
Just return to them when something stirs:
• When you are rising.
• When you are reorienting.
• When you are walking the long way through.

And when none of the tokens speak, return to the three that do not leave:
The Phoenix.
The Flame.
The Path.
You’re not lost.
You’re simply spiraling deeper.
Let this guide walk with you.

As Below, So Above

The path you walk beneath your feet
and the stars that shine above your head -
they are not rivals.
They are reflections.

Some say “as above, so below.”
Others whisper, “as below, so above.”
It doesn’t matter which came first.
The sacred has always spiraled both ways.

The Phoenix that rises from ash
also burns in the heart of stars.
The Labyrinth that turns beneath your soul
also shapes the orbits of the galaxies.
And the Flame you tend in your own quiet life
is kindled in suns that outlive empires.

This isn’t metaphor.
It’s meaning - mirrored.
The EM3 isn’t just myth for the earthbound.
It’s myth for the star-bound.

The compass in your hand
isn’t just terrestrial - it’s celestial.
It orients not by cardinal direction,
but by sacred resonance.

So walk with the symbols. (Or use them as templates to develop others that serve you better)
Tend the fire.
And when you look up,
know this:

The heavens are not watching you.
They are walking with you.

Part I Pathstones

21 Symbols for the Journey of Sacred Imagination

 “Step gently, speak kindly. The way will speak back.”

MYTH

Not a lie we outgrew, but a truth we’re still learning to listen to.

Myth isn’t what we tell children to keep them in line. It’s what we whisper to grown souls when the lines have all blurred.

It rises in firelight, speaks through dreams, and carries the burden of meaning when facts fall short. Myth doesn't hand us answers—it invites us into a dance with the unknown.

Where reason maps the stars, myth names the longing that placed them there.

Offering: When facts fail, let story walk beside you. Ask: What is this moment trying to teach me—through symbol, not certainty?

PATH

You are not lost. You are simply somewhere you’ve never been before.

There is no universal map. No one trail marked ‘true.’ The path shows itself as we walk, shaped by our feet and our breath.

To walk the sacred path doesn’t mean to know. It means to listen - to the soil, the silence, the stirrings inside. Sometimes presence is a better guide than any plan.

You are not failing when you wander. You are becoming.

Offering: When you’re unsure, take one honest step. Let presence be your compass, not approval.

IMAGINATION

The sacred eye behind your eyes - the place where inner and outer worlds meet.

Imagination is not the opposite of truth - it’s the echo of it. It's how the soul reaches through the visible to touch what cannot be held.

We’re told to grow out of it. But sacred imagination asks us to grow into it. It revives dry bones, paints worlds inside us, and sees with the eyes of myth.

Imagination is not escape. It’s return.

Offering: Before judging a thought as fantasy, ask: What might this image be pointing to? Let wonder have its say.

BREATH

The quietest miracle we carry.

Before words, before wounds, before the first ‘why’ - there was breath. We entered this world on its rhythm, and we will leave through it too.

Breath is what remains when all else is stripped away. It requires no belief, only permission. Each inhale is an unspoken belonging. Each exhale, a letting go.

To return to breath is to return to the place before fear.

Offering: When overwhelmed, return to breath. Let it be your prayer, your anchor, your rhythm of return.

FIRE

What destroys can also reveal.

Fire isn’t always a punishment. It’s also purification, transformation, transfiguration. It burns, yes - but it also lights the way.

Myth has always known this: the burning bush that speaks, the ashes that birth a phoenix, the hearth that holds the village. Sacred fire clears, not to erase, but to renew.

It’s not cruelty. It’s change.

Offering: When something ends, don’t fear the flame. Ask what is being offered—not just what is being taken.

 THRESHOLD

The place where something ends—and something else becomes possible.

Thresholds are holy interruptions. They ask you to stop - not to stall, but to listen.

You’re not here by accident. Something ended, yes - but not everything. Thresholds are invitations dressed as disorientation. They are moments when the soul catches its breath between stories.

To cross a threshold is to say yes to becoming.

Offering: Mark the threshold. A breath. A stone. A whisper. Whatever helps you name it - and then walk through, when you're ready.

WOUND

What breaks the surface may open the soul.

The wound isn’t the story’s end. It’s where the story speaks loudest - if we’ll listen.

To be wounded is to be touched by life in its rawest form. These aren't signs of failure; they’re sacred marks of having dared, of having loved.

Let the wound teach you - not who you should’ve been, but who you still are.

Offering: Don’t rush to close the wound. Ask what it’s asking of you. Sit with it like a sacred teacher, not a shameful flaw.

GIFT

Not everything sacred comes wrapped in beauty.

Some gifts arrive in disguise: wrapped in grief, cloaked in silence, hidden inside endings.

We were taught to seek only what glitters. But the deepest gifts ask more than our delight - they ask for our transformation. The sacred hides in plain sight, often in places we’re tempted to overlook.

To receive what’s hard without turning away - that’s a gift, too.

Offering: Ask: What is life offering me now, even in this? And what might I offer back, even gently?

NAME

You are not your roles, your past, or your silence. You are more than you’ve been called.

Names carry power. Some bind. Some bless. The truest ones often rise slowly, not from labels, but from lived truth.

Sacred imagination lets you grow beyond what others have named you. Your essence cannot be reduced to a role. Beneath every identity is a living name only your soul knows.

Let it rise—not loud, but lasting.

Offering: Speak kindly to yourself, even in secret. Let new names emerge without needing to explain them.

 WONDER

Not an answer, but a doorway.

Wonder breaks in when we stop trying to control the moment. It doesn't arrive through effort, but through openness.

It startles us into presence. It widens the soul. Wonder isn’t naïve - it’s deeply alive. The world isn’t flat, and neither are you.

Let awe crack the shell you didn’t know was there.

Offering: When you don’t know what to do—look up. Look in. Look longer. Let wonder interrupt the ordinary.

LIGHT

Not everything revealed is comfortable - but all light is holy.

Light doesn’t always feel gentle. Sometimes it exposes what we’d rather leave hidden. But light, in its sacred form, is never cruel. It reveals to heal.

It shows us what is, not to shame - but to free. Myth understands this: the illuminating flash, the moment of sight, the unveiling of what’s been inside all along.

When the light comes, don’t cover your eyes. It’s not judgment - it’s a gift.

Offering: When light finds you, don’t flinch. Ask: What is this showing me - and what is it freeing me to see differently?

PRESENCE

You don’t have to go somewhere else to find something sacred.

Presence is what remains when the striving stops. It’s not the mountaintop - it’s the breath in the valley, the stillness between tasks, the heartbeat under the noise.

You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to prove worthy of it. Presence simply waits - like a friend who never left, only needed to be noticed.

The sacred doesn’t demand performance. It invites attention.

Offering: Return to where you are. Put your hand on your chest. Breathe. That’s the altar. That’s enough.

SHADOW

Not the enemy of light, but its shape.

Shadow isn’t a mistake - it’s part of the shape light makes when it touches something real.

What we hide does not disappear. It waits, asking not to be punished, but to be seen. Sacred Imagination calls us to sit with the shadow - not to glorify it, but to understand it.

Your shadow is not shame. It’s an invitation to wholeness.

Offering: When the shadow appears, don’t run. Trace its outline. Ask what it’s trying to protect - and what it might reveal.

VOICE

The sound of your becoming.

Voice is more than sound - it’s the shaping of self in language, tone, and silence.

Some were told to be quiet. Some forgot their song. But your voice waits, even in the hush. It’s not found by force - it’s found by listening to your own soul long enough to speak.

And sometimes, the whisper is the bravest part.

Offering: Speak, even if your voice trembles. Whisper, if that’s all you have. Truth doesn't need volume—it needs presence.

EARTH

What holds you when everything else falls away.

Earth is not a backdrop to our story - it’s part of the story. A sacred participant. A witness. A mother.

She remembers us even when we forget ourselves. She carries the weight, receives the tears, and makes room for roots to hold again.

To kneel is not weakness—it’s recognition.

Offering: When you forget who you are, kneel. Place your palm on soil, stone, bark, or root. The world remembers you.

TIME

Not a line, but a rhythm.

Time in myth doesn’t tick - it sings. It flows in spirals and circles, pulses and pauses.

Sacred time cannot be rushed. It waits for readiness, honors cycles, and makes space for unfolding. There is time enough to become.

Your becoming is not late. It’s in rhythm.

Offering: Don’t measure today. Dwell in it. Let one moment be enough.

HOME

Not a place, but a belonging.

Home isn’t where you began - it’s where you return and feel received. It may be a place, but often it’s a presence, a memory, a knowing.

Sometimes home is found after exile. Sometimes it’s built from scratch. But it always welcomes what is real.

You’re not too much for the place that knows you.

Offering: Let “home” be something you carry. And become.

HOPE

Not certainty. Not strategy. Just light that refuses to die.

Hope isn’t blind. It sees clearly - and still chooses to sing. It’s the ember that survives the storm, the thread that doesn’t snap.

Sacred hope isn’t about outcomes. It’s about holding space for something more. Not because you’re sure - but because you’re alive.

Hope breathes when you can’t. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Offering: When you’re tempted to numb, instead: notice. Let something small stir wonder again. That’s hope. That’s holy.

RELEASE

Not all loss is failure. Some letting go is sacred.

There are things we must carry. But there are also things we were never meant to clutch so tightly.

Letting go is not a weakness. It’s trust. It says: I no longer need to force what is finished. Sacred imagination honors the holy in the hands that open.

What falls may not be gone forever. But for now, let it go.

Offering: Ask: What am I holding too tightly? Loosen. Breathe. Let it fall if it must. Not all shedding is sorrow.

SILENCE

When there are no words, the soul still speaks.

Silence doesn’t mean absence. It often means depth. It’s where we learn to listen again - beyond noise, beyond narration.

Sacred silence isn’t blankness. It’s presence in its rawest form. And in it, meaning ripens.

Let it be still - not because nothing’s happening, but because something sacred is.

Offering: When no insight comes, be still. Let the silence speak. Let it echo what your words can’t carry yet.

RETURN

You are not going backwards. You are spiraling deeper.

We revisit old ground not to repeat - but to remember, reclaim, renew. What once hurt might now speak. What once broke might now bloom.

Sacred return is not regression - it’s revelation. The mythic path doesn’t mock where you’ve been. It makes it meaningful.

You return not to be who you were - but to become who you are.

Offering: Don’t fear the old path reappearing. Ask: What does it look like now that I am different? You’re not starting over - you’re becoming whole.

*The Ember Guide   

Sacred Imagination in One Flame

*The Ember Guide
Sacred Imagination in One Flame*

(This section has been added to Everyone’s Myth as a gentle reminder that, at its essence, there’s a “heart-sized” pocket companion offered here. You will notice some repetition. I’m allowing the larger EM3 to become an Ember. Positioned between Parts I and II, this guide distills the path into a single, soulful flame. It also breathes as a Companion Ember—available as a standalone PDF via The Ember Guide button below.)

To the One Who Still Walks

You didn’t leave because you stopped caring.
You left because you still did.

You didn’t walk away from meaning.
You walked away from what stopped meaning anything.

This isn’t a map.
It’s a warmth.
A signal fire in the night
for those who no longer belong to certainty,
but still long to belong to something sacred.

You don’t need to believe to be welcome here.
You only need to breathe.

What This Is Not

• It’s not a religion.

• It’s not a reaction.

• It’s not a new age escape.

• It’s not an argument waiting to happen.

• It’s not a promise that nothing will hurt.

• It’s not a theory to defend.

What It Is

• A poetic return to presence.

• A way of seeing with symbol, story, and soul.

• A path not paved - but practiced.

• A rhythm of reflection that honors what still matters.

• A flame you carry, not a fire you must prove.

• A myth that rises, not to explain—but to invite.

The Pulse of Sacred Imagination Ember

We live by presence, not performance.
By symbol, not supremacy.
By wonder, not weaponry.

I trust that myth still breathes.
That stories are more than stories.
That the sacred isn’t confined to heaven,
but hidden in the human.

I honor the path, even when it spirals.
I walk with questions, not against them.
I carry silence without shame.

I believe that meaning can be made -
even after belief has broken.
I believe that fire still burns -
even when the altar is gone.

This is not escape.
This is return.

The Compass (EM3) Ember

Three that walk with us

The Phoenix

What ends isn’t gone.
It’s transforming.
Let your ash speak of life—not failure.

The Labyrinth

The way isn’t straight.
But it leads you still.
Trust the long turning, even when lost.

The Flame

This is the warmth that finds you.
In story, in care, in meaning shared.
Tend it, and it will tend you.

The 21 Pathstones

1. MYTH
When facts fail, let story walk beside you.

2. PATH
When you’re unsure, take one honest step. Let presence be your compass.

3. IMAGINATION
Let wonder have its say before dismissing what you see within.

4. BREATH
Return to your breath when all else feels too much.

5. FIRE
Ask what is being offered - not only what is being taken.

6. THRESHOLD
Mark the moment. Then cross, when you're ready.

7. WOUND
Sit with your wound as a sacred teacher, not a shameful flaw.

8. GIFT
Even hard things can be offerings. Receive, and gently give.

9. NAME
Speak kindly to yourself. Let new names rise in their own time.

10. WONDER
Let wonder interrupt the ordinary.

11. LIGHT
Ask: What is this showing me—and freeing me to see differently?

12. PRESENCE
Put your hand on your chest. That’s the altar. That’s enough.

13. SHADOW
Trace its outline. Let it show you what it's trying to protect.

14. VOICE
Speak—even if only in a whisper. Presence matters more than volume.

15. EARTH
Kneel. Touch the soil. The world remembers you.

16. TIME
Let one moment be enough. There is time enough to become.

17. HOME
Carry belonging within you. Become a place that welcomes truth.

18. HOPE
Let something small stir wonder again. That’s hope. That’s holy.

19. RELEASE
Loosen your grip. Not all shedding is sorrow.

20. SILENCE
Let the silence echo what your words cannot yet carry.

21. RETURN
Ask: What does the old path look like now that I am different?

The Language We're Healing Ember

A Condensed Lexicon of Reimagined Words

You don’t have to use these words.
But if you’ve been hurt by them -
you might be ready to hear them again, differently.

This is not a glossary.
It’s a gentle return.

Sin
Not shame. Not damnation.
Just disconnection.
From self. From others. From meaning.
It’s not a label. It’s a longing to come home.

Salvation
Not escape.
But return.
A rescue from nothingness.
A rejoining to what still matters.

Grace
Not a loophole.
A letting go.
A breath you didn’t earn but are still given.

Hell
Not a dungeon.
A metaphor for distance, for estrangement.
And even there - love looks for you.

Heaven
Not just a place beyond.
But the peace that visits you now.
When you’re seen. When you belong.

Glory
Not divine ego.
But the shimmer of sacredness in dust,
in kindness, in courage, in the ordinary made radiant.

To the One Who Still Looks Up Ember

Before we drew gods into books, we traced them in the sky.
We named their rise in the east and their death in the west.
We didn’t just observe - we participated.
The stars weren’t background. They were being.

You’re not just beneath the stars.
You’re among them.

Benediction Ember

Let this companion light be enough for now.
Not a map, but a spark.
Not a system, but a remembering.
May these tokens burn gently in your pocket.
May they warm you on the long nights,
And remind you -
You’re still becoming.
And you’re not alone.

Part II The Compass That Finds You

Before you chose your path, something was already walking with you.
This is the mythic presence that holds the circle even when you wander.

Three That Walk With Us

Before story.
Before structure.
There are symbols that walk with us—not to control the journey, but to companion it.
They rise again and again.
In suffering and in wonder.
In confusion and in clarity.

This is not a system.
It’s a soul-triad.
A compass that doesn’t bark orders - but warms the hand that holds it.
These three have walked with me.
They may walk with you.
Let them speak before the next turn.

EM3: Interpretive Companion

These three - The Phoenix, The Labyrinth, and The Sacred Flame - aren’t just symbols. They’re invitations.
Not to believe something, but to live into something. (The symbol sits at the bottom of the page.)

The Phoenix reminds us that death is not the end of the story.
Not just physical death, but the deaths of certainty, of identity, of dreams.
It speaks of renewal through fire - not to destroy, but to transform.
When you fall apart, the Phoenix says, you are not done.
You are becoming.

The Labyrinth reminds us that the path is never straight.
There are twists, setbacks, long silences.
But unlike a maze, a labyrinth has one way in and one way out.
It teaches patience, presence, and trust in the journey.
When you feel lost, the Labyrinth says, keep walking. You’re still on the way.

The Sacred Flame reminds us that meaning isn’t abstract.
It burns in the hearth, the story circle, the act of care.
It’s the warmth of a life lived with intention.
When the world goes cold, the Sacred Flame says, tend me—so you can tend the world.

Some carry a cross.
Some wear a thread.
I carry these three - not as armor, but as companions.
If they resonate, let them walk with you.
If they don’t, find your own.
But don’t walk without a compass.
Because this life—
This mystery—
Will take you deeper than directions can follow.
But the soul remembers the way.

Part III Echoes & Embers

The myth doesn’t end. It echoes.
These aren’t chapters.
They’re sparks.
Fragments.
Moments that return when the fire is low,
and something still glows in the dark.

Not everything needs to be named.
But some things do.
Not because they finish the myth -
but because they remind us it’s still alive.

These are not instructions.
They’re invitations.
Offered like stones around a fire.
Not in order. Not for everyone.
But maybe - one is for you.

The Hunter and the Walker

Two brothers.
One waits in silence with the bow.
One walks with open hands.
They meet in the woods - not to speak truth,
but to see it, alive in different forms.

One knows the trail of blood.
The other follows the breath of story.
Both kneel, differently.
Both reverent.
Offering: Difference is not division. Let your brother’s way be his own. And yours - be sacred, too.

Uncapitalizing Hell

Hell used to whisper.
A place beneath the myth
where pain could be named
but not weaponized.

Now it shouts in all caps.
A doctrine, not a descent.
A place wielded, not wept.

But what if hell is not
a sentence, but a symbol?
Not the enemy of love,
but the mirror of loss?
Offering: Don’t erase hell. Redeem it. Let it speak again - this time, softly.

The Flame Stays Lit

You didn’t find all the answers.
You weren’t meant to.

You found signs.
You found breath.
You found something still burning
in the ash of everything you lost.

If you carry anything from here -
let it be warmth.
Let it be wonder.
Let it be the sound of your own steps
and the whisper of myth beside you.

Don’t close this book.
Just carry it differently now.

Not in your hand -
but in the way you walk.

The Fire Between the Ages

A Mythic Reflection on Collapse and Renewal

I.                    Prologue: What Carries Us

There are times in human history that do not fade - they fracture.

The Earth bears witness to them. And not only in memory or myth - but in the very land beneath our feet.

Cratered. Scarred. Broken. Silent.

Yet life persists.

When the rivers return, when the forests regrow, when the rain sings again, it’s not just biology that returns. It’s hope in green form. It’s the covering.

I call this the Living Veil.

It’s not denial. It’s renewal. A sacred rhythm that whispers: You were wounded, but you are not only your wound.

II.                  The Living Veil Theory

This isn’t just a geological musing. It’s a mythic intuition:
That the sea and the green are not decorations on a stable planet. They are the restorative breath of a world that carries trauma in its bones.

Remove the veil, and we see the craters. We see collapse. Extinction. Reset. But life doesn’t erase the scars. It cradles them.

So it is with human meaning. Remove the myth, the metaphor, the story that brings breath to the psyche - and we become moonlike. Haunted. Cold. Fragmented.

But with the Living Veil of Sacred Imagination, we do not deny collapse. We walk through it with symbolic sustenance.

III.                Echoes of a Reset

Sites like Göbekli Tepe and Karahan Tepe hint at something beyond our timelines: not a linear rise of civilization, but a memory of something prior. A rhythm interrupted. A fire restarted.

Myth carried us when language was still learning.

Ritual sustained us when harvests had failed.

Symbols sang to us when nothing else remained.

The old academic story said civilization began after agriculture. But these sacred sites whisper otherwise:

Maybe story was the first structure. Maybe meaning came before grain.

And when catastrophe came - as it always has - maybe myth was what we kept.

IV.               What This Means for Sacred Imagination

• The Earth bears trauma - and it heals through rhythm: flood and bloom, quake and regrowth.

• Myth is the flora of the psyche: a symbolic covering over ancient internal craters.

• If the Earth looks like the Moon when stripped, perhaps:

• We look like despair when stripped of meaning.

• And meaning - like soil - is regenerative, mythic, and reborn through time.

V.                 The Path Forward

Sacred Imagination doesn’t seek to resurrect ancient temples. It seeks to listen to the voices beneath them.

I’m not starting a new myth to replace the old. I’m acknowledging that meaning must be renewed, like rivers, like rain.

Because without it? We become dry ground. We become the Moon.

But with it - with breath, with symbol, with presence? We walk again with fire.

Not the fire of conquest. The fire that warms. The fire that calls. The fire that carries us.

This is the fire between the ages. And it still burns.

VI.               A Poetic Hypothesis:

The Living Veil Theory

“If the oceans were drained and the forests stripped away,
the Earth would reveal itself not as a paradise lost -
but as a battered elder, cratered like the moon,
holding the memory of countless collapses beneath its green cloak.”

This poetic theory doesn’t claim geology as its primary concern.
It suggests something more spiritual, more mythic:
That renewal is what keeps memory from becoming despair.
That the living world - the sea, the soil, the vine—
aren’t just ecosystems…
They’re sacred coverings over ancient trauma.