by P. Glenn

Myth Gazer & Companion

To the One Who Still Looks Up

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.

Somewhere, we forgot.
We traded the turning heavens for glowing screens and artificial time.
We no longer sail by night.
We calculate. We scroll. We call the sky empty.

But the ancients knew better.
They didn’t worship the stars.
They read them.
They watched for eclipse, for fire, for omen—
not to control the cosmos,
but to remember their place within it.

I’m not here to rebuild their systems.
But I’m here to recover their gaze.

So if you still find yourself looking up—
not out of curiosity, but out of longing—
this mirror is for you.

Not a telescope. Not a theology.
A mirror.

Not all myths are carved into stone.
Some are painted in light.
Some flicker just above the horizon,
waiting to be seen - not explained.

This is not a science book.
It’s not a history of the stars.
It’s a mirror held skyward.
And sometimes, when we look long enough,
the stars look back.

What you’ll find here isn’t doctrine or data.
It’s reflection - mythic, cosmic, human.
It’s what happens when Sacred Imagination lifts its face toward the heavens
and whispers, “What are you trying to show us?”

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

Where Are the Moon and the Stars?

There was a season - dark and heavy - when the sky itself seemed irrelevant.

The stress was suffocating. Vocation in question. Rumors swirling. Livelihood on the line. I was pacing back and forth in the driveway, staring down at the concrete, lost in a mental storm that felt impermeable. My heart was overcast. I hadn’t noticed the sky was too.

Then I felt it - a small hand, slipping into mine.
My daughter had come out to check on me.
She said nothing at first. Just walked beside me.

And then, out of nowhere, she looked up into the blackness and asked:

“Daddy, where is the moon? Where are the stars?”

I stopped. I hadn’t looked up once.
The sky was hidden. My situation felt the same.

But something broke open in me. I knelt beside her and said,

“They’re still there.
When the sky clears - when the clouds are gone - you’ll see them.”

And in that moment, something inside me believed it too.

The light was never gone.
Only hidden.
Everything was going to be okay.

As Above, So Below

The Phoenix that rises from ash
also burns in the heart of stars.
The Flame you tend in your own quiet life
is kindled in suns that outlive empires.

This isn’t just metaphor.
It’s meaning - mirrored.
You’re not just walking under the stars.
You’re walking with them. (note: symbol at bottom of page)

The Path of the Sun

Before we had clocks, we had light.
Before we named hours, we followed the sun.

Each day, it rose like a promise and died like a truth we could not stop.
But it didn’t vanish - it traveled.
It journeyed through the underworld, entered the body of the goddess,
and was born again in the east.

They carved this into stone. They painted it on tomb ceilings.
Not to explain the sun - but to explain us.
What dies returns.
What disappears may still be journeying.
What leaves the sky may still burn below.

The solar barque that carried Ra through night
wasn’t a metaphor for them - it was meaning made movement.
And every sunrise wasn’t routine - it was rebirth.
Hard-earned. Hard-won.
The return of hope through the womb of darkness.

They didn’t take light for granted.
They knew it could be swallowed.
They honored it by remembering that it could leave.

So now - when your own light dims,
when clarity dies, when presence vanishes into shadow - remember the path of the sun.

It doesn’t rise because we command it.
It rises because it returns.

And that is enough to begin again.

The Moon’s Descent

She does not blaze like the sun.
She does not burn or command.
She listens. She reflects.
She disappears - regularly.

But the ancients didn’t call that weakness.
They called it rhythm.
They saw in her waxing and waning
the truth of every soul that pulses between fullness and emptiness.

She was Inanna descending.
She was Isis gathering the torn pieces.
She was the wound and the balm, the ebb and the hush.

And when she vanished, they didn’t panic.
They waited.
Because the moon returns - not through force,
but through cycle.
She teaches us that what feels like absence
may simply be transformation, hidden from view.

She governs tides and bleeding.
She’s the patron of weepers and wanderers.
She does not ask you to shine - only to stay faithful to your phases.

When grief covers you,
when you forget how to glow,
when you feel half-gone or only a sliver of yourself - she is with you.

She reminds us:
to wane is not to die.
It’s to rest. To retreat. To ready the next fullness.

The Silent Stars

They do not speak. Not in syllables, not in thunder. But they burn.

Long after their fires have gone cold, they send out light
like memory that refuses to forget.

The ancients read them like glyphs.
Constellations weren’t decorations - they were messages.
Stories. Maps. Warnings.
Blessings that only appeared at the right time of year.

The stars held the gods. The heroes. The monsters. The lovers.
They kept the stories anchored in the night sky so we wouldn’t forget ourselves.

But they never shouted. They waited to be noticed.
They required stillness. Darkness. Time.
They still do.

Today we’ve drowned them in artificial light.
Our cities buzz too loud to hear their silence.
But when we find a dark field, a still moment - the stars return.

They’re not gone. Just waiting.
Not absent. Just overlooked.

The silent stars teach us that not all truth needs to be loud.
Not all meaning needs a signal.
Some things are holy because they endure

The Eclipse

The sky is not broken. But something is happening.

The light we trust - the sun that always rises, always warms - suddenly dims.
Not with clouds. But with intention.

A perfect, impossible alignment. A shadow cast across the source.

The ancients didn’t panic. Not always. They prepared.
They sang. They fasted. They watched.

Because they understood: this wasn’t chaos. This was convergence.

An eclipse was a moment when something larger passed between them and what they thought was certain.
It wasn’t evil. It was invitation.

To stop. To look up (carefully). To remember that even the brightest truth
can be eclipsed - and will return again.

In myth, this was the swallowing of gods,
the descent into underworlds, the dragon devouring the sun,
the breath of night pulled over day.

But in silence, it was also this:
A reminder that we are not in control.
A gesture that says, Light is a gift, not a guarantee.

And when it fades,
what matters most isn’t your fear - but your willingness to watch without flinching.

So when your own light is blocked,
when something passes through your life that darkens what once was whole - let the eclipse be your guide.

It’s not the end.
It’s an interruption.
It’s a teaching shadow.

It means alignment is happening.
And on the other side, you will see again.

The Return of the Light

The eclipse passed. The darkness receded.
The stars, once seen at noon, fade again into their hidden choir.

And then - quietly - light returns.

Not with fanfare. Not with trumpet. But with permission.

The sun reemerges, not as a command, but as a gift received again.

The ancients didn’t take this for granted.
They saw the return of the light as grace.
As reassurance that the rhythm still holds.
That shadow may visit - but it doesn’t stay.

And what came back was never quite the same.
It was familiar, yes - but now… earned.
Now it was light that had passed through shadow.
Light that had survived a silence.
Light that had been gone and returned.

Maybe this is why resurrection stories are so powerful -
not because we need to be convinced they’re possible,
but because something in us already knows:

The light comes back.
After betrayal.
After nightfall.
After endings.

And when it does,
you don’t return unchanged.

You walk out of the eclipse
carrying a softness you didn’t have before,
a reverence that only shadow can teach.

So welcome the light - not as certainty, but as the gift it has always been.

And if you ever forget, just wait.
The sun knows the way back.