by P. Glenn

Prologue

The Myth We Didn’t Know We Were In

Before we knew how to name the stars,
we told stories.

Before we mapped the mind,
we danced in circles,
painted animals on cave walls,
whispered to the fire as if it were listening.

Before we had systems,
we had symbols.

We were never outside of myth.
We just didn’t know it had a name.

Then came the scriptures,
the temples,
the truths with capital T’s.

Myths became doctrines.
Poetry became dogma.
Stories we once shared became lines we could not cross.

We forgot that the sacred once spoke in riddles,
not rules.

But the myth never left us.

It waited in the margins.
In the metaphors we dismissed.
In the dreams we didn’t dare take seriously.

And now—
with certainty cracking,
and the old stories sounding hollow—
we begin to listen again.

This is not about going backward.
Not about returning to primitive belief.

This is about waking to what was always speaking.

A myth not of escape,
but of embodiment.

A myth not to dominate others,
but to deepen presence.

A myth not for the few,
but for everyone.

This is Everyone’s Myth.

Not a system.
Not a scripture.

A thread.
A rhythm.
A flame passed hand to hand.

The story begins again—
not because the old one was wrong,
but because we are finally ready
to hear it differently.

It has been over 35 years since Joseph Campbell sat down with Bill Moyers to film The Power of Myth. In that conversation, Campbell didn’t offer a new belief system—he offered a longing. He spoke of the need for a myth that could carry the modern soul. Not just a return to old gods, but a reawakening of the mythic mind.

Sacred Imagination is, in part, a response to that longing.
Not to answer with certainty, but to walk with presence.
Not to rebuild religion, but to reclaim myth as the language of becoming.

Campbell once said: "The function of myth is to put us in accord with the universe."
Sacred Imagination does not demand that we believe—it invites us to relate.
It sees myth not as fiction, but as a form—a vessel for truth shaped by awe.

We do not come with creeds. We come with breath.
And in that breath, we begin to remember the song.

We begin here—not to teach mythology, but to live mythically.
To walk with symbols.
To listen for the breath beneath belief.
To discover the sacred not in answers, but in awe.

Welcome to The Heart of the Myth.

PART I

THE UNSEEN THREAD

What if we were never as separate as we thought?

Somewhere beneath the noise of civilization,
there is a thread.

It winds through every culture.
Every era.
Every ache.

It shows up in symbols that repeat—
the circle, the spiral, the flame, the tree.

It sings through stories we thought were ours alone,
but find again—told differently—on other shores,
in other tongues,
by people we never met,
yet somehow already knew.

This is the thread of myth.
Not myth as falsehood—
but myth as connective tissue.
The marrow of meaning passed from voice to voice.

We didn’t invent it.
We inherited it.

We feel it when we weep at a funeral and don’t know why.
When we dream of flying.
When we reach out to touch the hand of a stranger—
and call them friend.

The unseen thread is what tells us:
You are part of something.
Not because you earned it.
Not because you understand it.
But because you are.

You are not an isolated mind in a meaningless void.
You are a walker in a vast and ancient story.

Not everyone will name the thread the same way.
Some call it Spirit.
Some call it Collective Unconscious.
Some say it’s nothing at all—and still feel it pulling.

The point is not to agree on the label.
The point is to remember it exists.

Because when you lose the thread,
you lose your place in the story.

And when you lose your place,
you start to believe you have to invent yourself from scratch—
or defend yourself with walls.

But when you find the thread again—
even one glimmer of it—
you remember that your life is not separate from meaning.

It’s woven into it.

The Shape of the Fire

Myth does not begin with explanation.
It begins with encounter.

Something is burning.
Not to destroy, but to draw us near.

We have mistaken myth for a lie told to control us.
But myth is a flame—
a light in the cave,
a hearth at the center of the village.

It is not myth that wounds us.
It is the freezing of myth into stone.

Reflection – When Structure Inspires Machines
In The Power of Myth, Campbell described Sanskrit as a sacred language—not just for its meaning, but for the precision of its form. That sacred form later inspired developments in symbolic logic and theoretical computer science—ironically birthing machines that now write, respond, and learn.

What began as a poetic mantra evolved into the architecture of artificial intelligence.

Sacred Imagination remembers: The mythic is not primitive—it is profound. And even our most modern creations still echo the sacred shapes we once sang into being.

We begin with the shape of the fire—
Not to worship it,
but to remember what it warms.

PART II

THE BREAKING OF THE FRAME

When the story you were given no longer holds what you know to be true

Every story comes with a frame.

A way of seeing the world—
Who you are.
Why you’re here.
What matters most.
Who is in.
Who is out.

And when that frame is wide enough,
you grow inside it.
You feel wonder, safety, meaning.

But sometimes the frame begins to crack.

Not because you wanted it to.
But because life asked questions your frame couldn’t answer.

Because someone you loved was left outside of it.
Because the promises didn’t hold.
Because your own soul wouldn’t stop whispering,
“There’s more than this.”

And that moment—
the moment the frame breaks—
feels like heresy.
Feels like betrayal.
Feels like death.

But it is also the beginning of a truer story.

The breaking is not the end of meaning.
It’s the refusal to pretend.
It’s the courage to admit that the inherited picture was too small
for the life that is actually unfolding.

You may feel lost here.
Grief-struck.
Untethered.

That’s okay.

Frames are supposed to break
when they can no longer hold what’s real.

And when they do,
what was once unseen can finally be found.

Not all who break the frame walk away in anger.
Some walk away in awe.

Because when the old story crumbles,
the thread does not.

You are still connected.
Still carried.
Still becoming.

The myth does not end with the breaking.
It begins again—
with breath.

The Broken Loaf and the Common Table

Every myth is broken bread. Every symbol is a piece of something greater.

To make something sacred is to share it. Not because we understand it fully— but because we’re willing to break it open together.

We have learned to consume stories. But the sacred is not consumed—it is communed.

We do not arrive at meaning alone. It rises like steam from a meal prepared in common.

Reflection – From Stone to Seed
In Campbell’s view, mythology was not a fixed system but a living ecosystem of symbols.
And yet, many modern traditions inherited mythic concreteness—treating metaphors as rules, stories as weapons, ritual as law.

Sacred Imagination offers an alternative: Let the symbol be seed, not stone.

We do not worship the loaf. We break it. We share it. We remember that meaning grows with us.

To gather at a symbolic table is not to demand agreement— it is to honor our shared hunger for meaning.

PART III

THE SACRED REMEMBERING

What if the sacred was never about separation, but presence?

After the breaking, there is silence.

Not the silence of emptiness—
but the silence after the storm.
The silence that lets you hear again.

This is where remembering begins.

Not remembering doctrines.
Not retracing old beliefs to see if they still hold.
But remembering something older—
something buried beneath fear and framed certainty.

You begin to recall:

That the sacred was never owned by temples.
That awe was never meant to be confined to Sunday mornings.
That your breath was always a kind of prayer.

You remember the tree that moved you to tears.
The song that stirred something unnamed.
The way someone looked at you and saw all of you—
without needing to fix you.

You remember that presence is holy.
That being here, fully,
is enough.

This is not about returning to religion.
It’s about returning to reverence.

Not reverence for hierarchy—
but for humanity.

Not reverence for perfect words—
but for honest ones.

Not reverence that separates—
but that unites.

You remember that myth was not created to control,
but to carry.
That symbols are not dogmas,
but doors.

You remember the breath that began it all.
And you take it in—again.

This is the Sacred Remembering.
Not a system.
Not a slogan.

A feeling.
A quiet knowing.
A reweaving of meaning without needing to be certain.

You are not lost.
You are returning.

Uncapitalizing Hell

Some words became too heavy to carry.

Once metaphorical and mysterious,
“Hell” became a weapon. A destination. A prison of doctrine.

But once—
before it hardened into HELL—
it was a shadowed realm of myth,
a threshold space,
a name for what we fear when meaning breaks.

The journey through darkness was never meant to end in punishment—
but in transformation.

Reflection – Uncapitalizing Hell
The Power of Myth reminds us that even the most terrifying mythic images once served a purpose—not to condemn, but to awaken. Campbell emphasized that myth speaks to psychological truths. When we forget this, we turn symbols into swords.

Sacred Imagination reclaims these stories—not to erase their power, but to disarm their cruelty.

We lowercase hell—not to deny pain, but to recover meaning.

To walk Everyone’s Myth is to enter shadow with courage— not to worship the dark,
but to pass through it,
and return changed.

PART IV

THE PATH MADE OF PEOPLE

We do not walk alone, even when we feel like we do

There is no path without others.

Even if you walk it in solitude,
it was still cleared,
blessed,
or stumbled into
by those who came before you.

You may not know their names.
You may never meet them.
But they were there.

Some lit candles in caves.
Some wrote poems from prison.
Some held hands in hospital rooms and whispered myths
when belief had gone quiet.

Their lives are part of the path now.
So is yours.

In Sacred Imagination, we remember:
We do not walk alone.

Even when we deconstruct in silence.
Even when we sit outside the sanctuary.
Even when no one understands the new language we’re learning to speak.

Someone else has walked this way.
Someone else is walking it now.
Someone will walk it after you.

The path is made of people—
their stories,
their struggles,
their songs.

Not perfect people.
Not always kind.
But real.

People who dared to trade certainty for presence.
People who gave up power to protect something more beautiful.
People who lost everything they thought was sacred—
only to find that the sacred had been walking beside them the whole time.

This is how the myth lives on.
Not just in texts or traditions—
but in one another.

The path is made of people.
So when you feel like giving up,
look for a hand.

And when you feel steady again,
offer yours.

The myth is still unfolding.
And so are we.

The Myth That Breathes

A myth that is alive does not ask for belief.
It asks for breath.

Not dogma, but rhythm.
Not repetition, but recognition.

We are not here to prove anything.
We are here to listen.

Reflection – The Breath Beneath Belief
Campbell said that myth is what we breathe—even if we don’t notice we’re doing it.
Like wind through trees, myth moves through our art, dreams, stories, gestures.

Sacred Imagination calls us to awareness—not to make myth true, but to remember that it moves through us.
The question isn’t “Do you believe it?”
The question is “Can you feel it breathing?”

 We carry the myth forward not by reciting it— but by becoming part of its breath.

PART V

THE MYTH THAT CARRIES US NOW

What story are we choosing to live inside—together?

You cannot live without a myth.

Even if you reject religion,
deny transcendence,
or cling only to facts—
you are still shaped by story.

The question is not “Do I have a myth?”
The question is “Which one has me?”

Because myths are not just old tales with gods and monsters.
They are frameworks of meaning—
Narratives that tell us who we are,
what matters,
and what’s possible.

For too long, many of us were caught in a myth of supremacy:
One people above others.
One truth above questions.
One way above wonder.

We were taught a myth of separation:
Body from soul.
Earth from sacred.
Us from them.

But Sacred Imagination offers another myth—
A myth not of conquest, but of connection.
Not of judgment, but of joy.
Not of dominance, but of depth.

This is the myth that carries us now.

It tells us:

You are not alone.
You are not broken.
You are part of a living, breathing story
older than dogma
and wider than any one tradition.

It’s a myth where the divine is not a distant king,
but a shared presence—
a breath between us.

Where questions are not threats,
but torches.
Where ritual is not performance,
but participation.
Where the sacred is not reserved,
but revealed—in the everyday, the ordinary, the overlooked.

This myth does not erase your past.
It reframes it.

It honors what was,
while gently releasing what no longer serves.

And it carries you—
not back to where you began,
but forward
into a life shaped by awe,
guided by love,
and lit by the quiet courage to keep becoming.

This is Everyone’s Myth.

And it’s still being written—
by you.

The Song We Were Meant to Sing

The final word is not closure.
It is chorus.

We don’t end this myth—we join it.

There is an old silence that precedes every sacred sound.
To sing is to trust that something deeper is listening.

And so we offer not a system—
but a song.

Not a map, but a melody. Not a creed, but a call to presence.

Reflection – More of the Song
Campbell lamented that modern culture had forgotten how to sing the mythic song.
He did not mean literal music, but the vibrational presence of myth in our lives.

Sacred Imagination seeks to continue that song—not to repeat the past, but to resonate with the now.

Each voice is needed.
Each verse is sacred.

The myth isn’t finished.
It’s unfolding.

So we sing—
Not because we know the notes,
but because we feel the fire.

We sing—
Not to be heard,
but to remember we are part of something ancient and alive.

We sing—
because the myth is calling us home.