The Greenwood Outlaw: "Robin Hood" part 1

In this first of a two-part retelling, New American Mythos returns to the rougher roots of the Robin Hood legend—before the polish of princes and stage-plays. Set in the shadowy greenwood of early ballads, this episode follows a sharp, morally bracing outlaw who defies corrupt sheriffs, tricks the law with wit, and seeks not rebellion but a justice beyond the reach of kings. With tones of hunger, prayer, and pride, it asks what kind of man emerges when law and righteousness part ways, and whether the forest makes saints or simply sharpens sinners.

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*We tell America’s old stories with the warmth of firelight and the weight of unanswered questions.*

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Transcript

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Welcome to New American Mythos, where old stories are kindled like firelight, and we gather round to remember the tales that shaped us. Tonight we step into the Greenwood, into one of the best known legends in the whole Western canon. And because it's so well known, it's also been overknown, polished by centuries, softened by stage lights, cleaned up for children's books, and draped in romance until the forest feels like a theme park. But our promise this season, especially here, is to go back. For these next two episodes, we're building our retelling from the early Robin Hood tradition, when the ballads still had dirt under their fingernails. Robin Hood and the Monk, with its earliest surviving text dated around 1450 AD, and other early ballad material, like Robin Hood and the Potter, which was a 15th-century story. These are not the later Robin as secret nobleman tales. This is Robin before the shine, rougher, funnier, darker, and more morally bracing. And that matters for New American Mythos, because our show isn't here to treat myths like decorations. We treat them like inheritance, like old tools, still sharp, still able to tell the truth. In these early tellings, Robin isn't a lord. He's a yeoman, which was a free man of the middle ranks, somewhere between peasantry and gentry. Often a landholder, sometimes a forester or retainer, ordinary, armed, capable, and not easily pushed around. He's the sort of man who lives close enough to the soil to understand hunger, and close enough to the bowstring to understand force. And when the law grows crooked, when sheriffs and abbots become parasites, stories like this ask the hard question: what does justice look like when the courts stop delivering it? That question doesn't belong only to medieval England. It belongs to every frontier people who ever lived at the edge of power, where order exists, but it doesn't always exist for you. It's part of the American imagination, too, the stubborn sense that law should answer to righteousness, and that authority, when it rots, must be resisted, not worshipped. So tonight we begin part one, the Greenwood Outlaw. Come with me to a morning in May, a restless soul, a bell that still calls an outlaw to prayer, and a friendship that will be tested until it bleeds. Robin Hood Part one. May came softly to the shires, and the world looked gentle enough to deceive a man. Leaves unrolled along the hedgerows like green banners, rain darkened the earth, then passed. Rivers ran full and clean, and the fields smelled of turned soil and new growth. If you stood in the open country, you might have thought the land was at peace. But peace is not the same thing as order. In the town of Nottingham, the sheriff tightened his grip as a man tightens a rope. He sent riders along the roads with questions sharp as spear points. He doubled watch at the gates. He promised silver in exchange for names, and he promised mercy to no one who withheld them. A poor man learned quickly that hunger could be punished as rebellion, and that the law did not always fall on the wicked, only on the weak. And beyond the stone walls of Nottingham, beyond the straight roads and the posted wanted notices, there was another country, older than proclamations and quieter than the courts. It was the Greenwood. It began as a seam of shadows where the king's land frayed. Oaks stood like ancient judges, black-limbed and unhurried. Bracken and bushes hid footprints. Birds carried news no sheriff could intercept. Men went into the forest for many reasons, to hunt, to hide, to steal, to flee. Some never came out again. And some came out changed. They spoke of a band of green clad yeomen who lived beyond the sheriff's reach, not saints, no one called them that, but men who had made a hard kind of peace with hunger and danger. They robbed travelers when they must, they shamed proud officials when they could, and when a poor man fell into the gears of debt or the teeth of the law, sometimes, only sometimes, help came from the trees. At the center of those rumors was one name, spoken two ways. In the sheriff's hall it was spat out like a curse. In the cottages it was whispered like a dare. Robin Hood. And on that May morning, when the leaves were long and the birds were loud and the roads looked safe, Robin sat beneath an oak with his men, feeling something restless turn in his chest, as if the forest itself were warning him that the next step would not be taken on soft ground. The Greenwood was not a garden. It was not a playground. It was not a painted backdrop for songs. It was a living borderland, where the king's road frayed into deer paths, where law grew thin and hunger grew thick, where men learned the shape of silence, the way that sailors learned the shape of storms. Robin was no lord in velvet. He was one of the yeomen, broad-shouldered, weather worn, quick to laugh and quicker to draw an arrow. He wore green not for fashion, but for hiding, and his hood was a shadow he could step into at will. Some called him robber, some called him judge, and some, in secret, called him the only court a poor man could reach without paying his last coin at the door. Robin kept his company in the deep places, under oaks that had watched generations of men rise and rot, beside streams that ran cold and clean. There they made their rough camp, a ring of stones, a spit of meat, a few patched tents, and a watchful line of eyes beyond the firelight. Little John was there, the tallest of them, with hands like mallets and a temper that could crack stone. Much, the miller's son, was there too, young, sharp, and eager, with a hunger not only for bread, but for belonging. And others besides, men who had lost their farms, lost fathers, lost patience with sheriffs and abbots, and all the fat powers that fed on the weak in those days. These men lived by hard rhythm, hunt when they could, steal when they must, laugh when the day allowed it, and keep watch always, because the forest is kind only when it chooses. One morning, when mist still clung to the bracken like a ghost refusing burial, a potter came rattling down the forest edge road with a cart of clay wares. His wheels squeaked, his donkey snorted, and his mouth never stopped muttering. Robin saw him first. He was perched on a low branch above the road, knees bent, eyes bright. From that height he could smell the clay, hear the chink of the pots, and measure the man's temper by the way he slapped the donkey's flank. Here comes a man with goods, Robin said softly, as if he were speaking of a deer. Little John's grin flashed. Then let us have some goods. Robin dropped from the branch and stepped into the road as though he were a courteous traveller, harmless and smiling. God save you, Robin called. Where go you with such a pretty burden? The potter yanked the donkey's reins and glared. And if you're hungry, eat leaves. Robin laughed. A sharp tongue for a man with breakable wares. The potter spat. Break one and I'll break you. Robin's men stirred in the bush, amused. In their world, most travelers softened when they saw green hoods and longbows. This one did not. Robin stepped closer, hands open. Friend, I mean no harm, only a little trade. The potter's eyes narrowed. Trade? I? Here is my trade. Leave me be. Robin's smile thinned. The forest listened. Then, like lightning out of a clear sky, the potter swung his stout staff and struck Robin across the shoulder. It was not a killing blow, but it was an insult. And in the Greenwood, insult had weight. Robin staggered, more surprised than hurt. The men in the brush hissed, some ready to leap out, some laughing at the sight of their captain, struck like a foolish boy. But Robin's pride was not fragile. He rubbed his shoulder, then stepped back into stance. So, he said, you want sport. They fought in the road, staff against staff, breath smoking in the cool air. Robin moved fast, but the potter moved like a man who'd spent his life balancing loads and cursing bad roads, stubborn and sure. The potter's stick snapped down, up, sideways, and Robin found himself forced to yield ground. Then the potter struck him clean across the ribs. Robin grunted, and the world tilted for a heartbeat. The potter stood there, panting, triumphant. Now, he said, get out of my road before I sell you by the pound. There was laughter in the brush, low, disbelieving chuckles. Robin straightened slowly. He could have ordered arrows, he could have demanded the cart by force. Instead, he smiled again, wide this time, as though he'd discovered something delightful. You've beaten me fairly, he said, and that is a rare thing. Let me make peace. You lend me your coat and hat for one day, and I will pay you honest coin. The potter blinked. Why would I do that? Robin's eyes gleamed. Because I want to walk into Nottingham as you, and I want to see what a potter can do to a sheriff. The potter hesitated. Curiosity is a strong hook, and bitterness towards sheriffs is stronger. So with muttered curses and wary glances, he agreed. Robin took the potter's coat and hat and swung himself onto the cart as if he were born to it. He rattled toward Nottingham with the young man much beside him, both of them disguised as plain sellers. When they reached the market, the town smelled like coin and sweat and frying fat. People shouted prices as if shouting could turn hunger into fullness. Robin drove the cart into the square and began selling pots, but not like any potter had ever sold pots. He sold them too cheap. He gave some away. He winked at old women and handed them clay bowls as if he were a prince with gifts. He teased children and let them carry little pots for their mothers. He watched the merchants grow angry because kindness is bad for business. And soon, as surely as thunder follows heat, the sheriff's men noticed. They came to see this strange potter who ruined honest trade with generosity. And as they came, the sheriff's wife came too, curious, smiling behind her veil. Come, she said, you shall dine at our house. My lord likes a merry man. Robin bowed low and obedient, the potter's hat shadowing his grin. As you wish, lady. At the sheriff's house he ate and drank, and he listened to the sheriff brag about hanging outlaws. He laughed at the right moments, he played the fool, and the sheriff, fat with wine and confidence, slapped his thigh. This potter is a good fellow, he declared. He shall come hunt with me tomorrow. Robin's eyes flickered just once. Gladly. So the next day, Robin led the sheriff into Greenwood, and the Greenwood, which keeps its own counsel, closed around them. A whistle sounded, green hoods rose from fern and shadows, longbows bent like judgment. The sheriff's face turned pale, and his horse danced beneath him. Robin pulled off the potter's hat. The sheriff stared as if his soul had fallen out of his mouth. Robin Hood, he whispered. Good morning, Robin said brightly. You spoke of hanging me. I thought I'd save you the trouble of hunting. The sheriff's men reached for their weapons, but arrows answered them. No battle broke out. Not because Robin was merciful, but because he was practical. He took the sheriff's purse, he took the sheriff's fine cloak, he took just enough to sting, but not enough to start a war that day. And then, like a judge delivering sentence, he let the sheriff ride away, alive, shaken, humiliated, and hungry for revenge. Let's pause here for a moment. There's something almost unsettling here. Robin wins, and then stops. Not because he's gentle, not because he has become saintly. The text itself gives us the chillier truth. He's practical. And that's worth lingering on, because it reveals what these early ballads really are. They aren't fairy tales where virtue always shines. They're folk stories shaped by people who lived under real power and who understood that survival sometimes requires a hard restraint. In Christian moral language, this is the difference between mercy and mere non-violence. Mercy can be holy, but it can also be strategic. And strategy by itself doesn't cleanse the heart. Still, look at what Robin doesn't do. He doesn't kill the sheriff when he easily could have. He doesn't turn victory into slaughter. He limits the violence even if his motives are mixed. And that's the first spiritual lesson that the forest teaches. In a fallen world, righteousness and sin can tangle together in the same hand. A man can do the right thing for a wrong reason. He can refuse to become a butcher and still be ruled by pride. The question for us is not, is Robin the hero? The question is what grows in you when you hold power? When you finally have the upper hand, do you become a judge or do you become a beast? Because the Greenwood doesn't automatically make men pure. It only reveals their character when no one is watching. Let's return to the story. When Robin returned the potter's coat to him and paid him silver, the potter looked at him in awe and fear. You are mad, the potter said. Robin's smile turned quieter. No, he said, I'm awake. And that was how the sheriff's hatred of Robin deepened. Not only because Robin robbed him, but because Robin made him look small and insignificant. After that, time passed. The forest warmed towards summer, leaves lengthened, birds grew louder, as though creation itself were singing victory. But Robin's heart did not settle. On a bright morning late in May, when the sun lay gentle on the grass and the air smelled of hawthorn, Robin sat by the fire with his men and stared into the coals as if they were a doorway. Little John noticed it first of all. What gnaws at you, Robin? he asked. Robin didn't answer at once. He listened to the birds, he listened to the distant creak of branches, he listened to the low laughter of men mending their gear. Finally he spoke, and his voice was not the voice of a captain bragging, it was the voice of a man confessing a hunger. I've not heard the mass, he said, not Matins, not a clean hymn in a fortnight and more. Young Much made a face. We have our prayers, he said. We have psalms. Robin shook his head. We have what we can steal from the day, but I want to kneel where the bell rings. I want to hear the holy words spoken over the bread and cup. I want to stand in a place where the world remembers God before it remembers kings. Little John heard him and his jaw tightened. And in Nottingham they only remember the rope, he said. Robin looked at him. I know. Then do not go, John said. The sheriff wants your head. After the potter trick, he'd pay a man's weight in silver to see you swinging from the gallows. Robin's eyes gleamed with stubborn fire. If I die, I die, but I will not rot in the greenwood like a beast, never entering a church because I fear men. John stepped forward, voice rising. Then, take twenty men, we'll go in force. Robin laughed once, bitter. Twenty men is a raid. I go as one. You go as a fool, John snapped. The camp went quiet. Even the birds seemed to hush for a moment, as if the whole forest leaned in. Robin's face hardened, and he stared at John. You forget who leads here. John's eyes flashed, and you forget that you are not immortal. Much stepped between them, nervous. Masters, he said. Robin cut him off quickly. No, let it be said plainly. He faced John fully now, and the bond between them, built in hunger and blood and laughter, stretched thin as a drawn bow. I am going, Robin said, alone. John's fists clenched. Then we are done. He turned away, and the words fell like a stone into water, not loud, but heavy, leaving rings that rippled outwards. Robin watched him go, and something flickered behind his eyes. Regret, perhaps? But he swallowed it. A man can be right and still be wrong in how he walks. Pride is a companion that never pays rent. Robin tightened his belt, pulled his hood low, and set off toward Nottingham. Let's pause here for a moment as well. This is one of the strangest and most haunting features of the early Robin Hood tradition. The outlaw's hunger to worship. Robin lives outside the law, yes, but he does not want to live outside the holy. And whatever we do with the medieval setting here, whatever distance we feel from Latin and stone chapels, this longing still stands. Because it names something that endures. The souls ache to step out of noise and coercion and commerce and into a place where reality is reordered. He wants a world where God is remembered before kings. That sentence alone could have been carved into a thousand American timbers. Because the Protestant listener hears this and thinks, yes, men may misuse the church, priests may grow fat, institutions may fail, and still the living God calls men to worship him, to remember not to fear man, not to live as a hostage to corruption, but to say as an act of defiant dependence, Lord God, I belong to you first. And that's the irony of Robin's moment here. He risks his life to kneel, because he knows, at least for this breadth of time, that a man who won't kneel before God will eventually kneel before something worse. Let's return to the story. Nottingham rose from the plain like a clenched hand of stone. Its gates were open, but heavily guarded, because the town trusted walls more than it trusted God. Men moved through the streets with the briskness of those who believed they are safe. Robin moved like smoke. He kept his head down and his steps measured. He passed stalls and taverns, past butchers and bakers, past men who would have sold him for silver if they had known it was him. At last he reached St. Mary's. The church stood like a promise, cool stone, high arches, faint light filtered through colored glass. Inside the air smelled of wax and old prayers. Robin stepped in and felt the world change. Even an outlaw feels it, that shift from street noise to holy hush, from commerce to confession. He knelt, and for a moment, the Greenwood and the sheriff and the king's proclamations all fell away. He listened. He prayed. He let the Latin move over him like river water over bruised skin. And then eyes. A monk sat not far off, his face full and satisfied. His hands were soft, his gaze was sharp. The monk's eyes fixed on Robin's hood, on his shoulders, on the line of his jaw. Recognition rose in him, and he grinned. This monk had been robbed before, not of a little, of a great sum, and though monks preach forgiveness, some keep grudges like relics. The monk rose quietly and slipped away. Robin felt a prickle at the back of his neck. He turned his head slightly, but saw only empty space. He breathed out and tried to return to prayer. Outside the monk ran. He ran to the sheriff, and his words spilled fast. I have seen him, he hissed. Robin Hood in Saint Mary's, the King's Felon! Take him now, and your name will be praised. The sheriff's eyes narrowed. He didn't laugh, he didn't question. His hatred had matured past disbelief. He ordered the city gates shut. He ordered men armed. And then he marched to St. Mary's as though he were marching into battle. The church doors slammed open. Boots thundered on stone. Steel flashed in candlelight. Robin rose, and in that instant prayer ended and survival began. He drew his sword. Men surged toward him. Robin struck. The first man fell. Then another. He fought with the desperation of a wolf trapped in a pen, ferocious, not beautiful. Blood splattered the stones that had heard a thousand confessions. The sheriff himself drove forward, face twisted with rage. Robin swung at him, and the blade bit, but then the sword shattered on the sheriff's helmet with a crack like a snapped branch. For a heartbeat, Robin stared at the broken steel in his hand. Then the swarm hit him. They dragged him down, they bound his arms, they struck him until his vision swam. They hauled him out of the church like a trophy, and the townsfolk spilled out into the street to see. Some cheered, some spat, some crossed themselves. Robin kept his mouth shut. Shame burns hotter when you feed it. They threw him into a stone prison, dark and foul, where the air smelled of old urine and old fear. Above him, Nottingham breathed easy. The sheriff smiled as if he had caught the devil. In the forest, the news arrived like a raven. A man came running, breath ragged, eyes wide. Robin is taken, he cried. In Nottingham, betrayed by a monk, bound and held in the sheriff's prison. The camp exploded in noise, curses, shouts, moans. Some men began to wail as if Robin were already dead. Little John, still angry, still holding his wounded pride, stood rigid for a moment, as though the words had struck him in the chest. Then his anger turned into something colder. Stop your crying, he barked. Do you think tears pick locks? He looked at Much. Come. Much swallowed. Just us? John's eyes were like flint. Just us. Let's take our last break here. This is where the story shows its true heart. Not the potter's trick, not the swagger, not even the violence. It's this. When Robin falls, Little John doesn't make a speech. He makes a choice. He doesn't comfort the man with soft words. He doesn't let grief become a substitute for action. He turns the camp from noise into purpose. And that's loyalty in its oldest form. Not sentiment, but risk. Just us, much asks, because he knows what it means. Two men against a town, two shadows against a prison, two names that could be erased with one mistake. And John says, just us, because the covenant of friendship is never safest when it matters most. It's safest when it costs nothing. The Greenwood doesn't test loyalty with pleasant evenings and venison. It tests loyalty with gates, chains, and the question, will you walk into danger for your brother? There's a Christian echo here, not because Robin's band is holy, but because the shape of the thing is familiar. Love that proves itself in deeds, not declarations. The world is full of people who care from a distance. But Scripture's love is heavier than that. Love that shows up, love that bears burdens, love that moves toward the trapped. And there's also a warning. Because once you bind yourself to others, you inherit their consequences. You can't keep your hands clean if you're going to pull a friend out of a pit. That's why so many people prefer a safer virtue, one that never has to bleed. But myths don't remember safe virtue. They remember the men who said, with trembling in their throat, just us, and go anyway. Let's move back to the story. The two men moved fast, slipping through undergrowth, crossing streams, avoiding roads. They didn't march like soldiers, they hunted like wolves. On the road outside Nottingham, they saw him, the monk, riding out accompanied by a boy page, carrying sealed letters to the king, letters meant to secure reward and royal praise for capturing Robin Hood. The monk rode like a man already tasting victory. John stepped into the road, smiling with the politeness of a traveler. God save you, father, John said. What news from Nottingham? The monk's lips curled. News! The king's felon is taken. Robin Hood sits bound, and the sheriff will be praised. Much's hands tightened on his staff. John kept smiling. Ride with us awhile, he said. Tell us the tale. Two yeomen are poor company for a holy man, but they are better than none. The monk, swollen with triumph, agreed, and on they went into the trees, and there, where the road's witness could not follow, John's courtesy vanished. He struck. The monk's head fell, and his body folded like a sack. The boy page opened his mouth and terror filled it, but much was faster. He struck the boy down, and the sound that might have warned the world died in leaves. For a moment they stood in silence, breathing hard. Much stared at the dead boy, and something in his face tightened. He was only John's voice cut him off. He would have carried warning. He would have sealed Robin's death. Do not be soft now. Much swallowed, and the forest swallowed with him. They buried the monk and the boy in a place neither moss nor heather would mark. They took the letters. They took the monk's horse. And then John did something stranger than murder. He rode to the king. Because in this old world, authority is not a simple ladder. Sometimes it is a maze. Sometimes the crown can be used against the sheriff. Sometimes the king himself, far from Nottingham, can be made to serve justice, if only for a moment. John and Much reached the king's court dusty and bold. They were admitted because of the letters. The king read them, his brow furrowed. He had expected praise or requests for permission to execute, an acknowledgement of his authority. What he found instead was the stink of petty triumph and bitterness masquerading as justice, and he knew for a moment what kind of man the sheriff was. John knelt silently, much knelt beside him, trembling. Lord, John said, your outlaw is taken, not by fair fight, but by false men and hungry reward. If you are a true king, let not such men feast on injustice. The king studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled, not kindly, not cruelly, but with a sharp interest, as though he had found a new blade. I have long wished to see a yeoman like you, the king said. He rewarded them, money, yes, but more than money, a seal, a writ, a borrowed authority that could command the sheriff to yield Robin into their keeping. John took it and rose. He didn't thank the king with flattery, he thanked him with a bow, like a man accepting a tool. They rode back to Nottingham as fast as hooves could go. The sheriff met them at the gate with suspicion that melted when he saw the seal. Power recognizes itself. He welcomed them into his hall, fed them, drank with them, boasted of his capture, and never once imagined the men smiling across from him were wolves. When night fell and Nottingham's streets grew quiet, John rose from the bench and nodded too much. Now, he seemed to say. They slipped through the hall, they found the jailer, they killed him quickly, they took the keys. Down they went into the dark. Robin sat chained, bruised, eyes still burning with stubbornness. He looked up and for a heartbeat he thought he was dreaming, because the mind in prison will invent mercy if none comes. John leaned close. Quiet, he whispered. If you shout, you die. Robin's mouth twitched. You came. John's eyes flashed. Of course I came. I will curse you later. They worked the locks. Chains fell, and Robin stood swaying. They moved upward like shadows, listening to every creak, every breath of the sleeping town. Then bell. A bell rang, sudden and sharp. A guard had woken too early. A suspicion had stirred. Alarm spread through Nottingham like fire in dry straw. Horns sounded. They ran. They reached the lowest wall where stone dipped and the earth rose. They leapt, hit the ground hard on the far side, and disappeared into field and hedge. Behind them, Nottingham roared furious and humiliated. Before them, the greenwood opened its arms, stern, silent, and alive. When they reached the camp, the men surged forward with cries, half joy, half disbelief. Robin lifted a hand for silence. He looked at John, and the two stood close enough to smell each other's sweat and blood and fatigue. The quarrel from the fire returned between them like a ghost. After a long moment, John spoke first. I have done you a good turn, he said, for an ill. Pay me back when you can. Robin swallowed. His pride wanted to speak, his shame wanted to hide. But a third thing, older than pride, rose up, the bond forged by shared danger. And so Robin nodded once. I will, he said. No embrace, no speeches, not yet. In the Greenwood, loyalty is not a soft thing. Loyalty is a blade you hold until your palm bleeds. And somewhere, far behind them, the sheriff sat in nodding him with rage in his belly, swearing that next time he would not be fooled by seals or smiles. But for this night, this one hard won night, the forest held its outlaw court again. The fire crackled, the men ate, and the wind, moving through leaves like whispers through a crowd, carried the story outward, toward hearths and taverns and future centuries, where it would become legend not because it was clean, but because it was true in the way old songs are true. That when law grows crooked, men still hunger for justice, and when a friend falls, a true friend will walk into darkness to bring him home. And still the escape did not end the story. It only sharpened it. The sheriff had been wounded in pride, and pride does not forgive. What happened in Nottingham would not stay in Nottingham. It would travel the roads in whispers until it reached higher ears than a sheriff's. But for now, part one ends where good myths often end, not with everything resolved, but with a truth planted in the listener like a seed. The Greenwood is not a heaven, it's a borderland. And Robin Hood is not a plaster saint. He's a man, sometimes merciful, sometimes proud, sometimes righteous in a way that still needs redeeming. But the story refuses to let us ignore the question that makes it endure. What happens when the law becomes a weapon? What happens when ordinary people can't reach justice without a man taking a sword? That question echoed across England for centuries, and it echoed across the Atlantic too, into a world where towns were small, courts were far, and conscience sometimes had to stand where institutions failed. And next week in Part 2, Justice in the King's Land, the story widens, the forest becomes louder, the rumors become political. The crown himself begins to listen. And we'll see what always comes for outlaw legends in the end. Not only conflict, but betrayal. And the bitter memory that freedom is never kept without a cost. We hope you'll join us next time. If you want to help this show grow, three simple things matter more than you'd think. First, share this episode with a friend. Second, leave a review. And third, join our mailing list. The link is in the show notes. And if you want to support the work directly, you can find our Patreon link there as well. Until next time, keep the fire burning.