My first day in Athens, I went to the temple of Athena and heard a story.

When the city was still young, Athena and Poseidon both wanted to become its patron. Poseidon struck the earth and brought forth salt water, which represents  the sea, force, movement. Athena offered the olive tree: which meant food, oil, shade, medicine.

Everyone in the city cast their vote for who they chose to be patron.

The men chose Poseidon, the women chose Athena.

Athena won.

Then, the myth goes, Poseidon flooded the land in rage. To appease him, the Athenians punished the women and they could no longer vote, they could no longer be called Athenians.

I’ve been thinking about that story while imagining the Athena who once stood inside the Parthenon: thirty feet tall, gold and ivory, radiant and worshipped by an entire nation.

And yet the women of that city were not allowed to participate in the society. That contradiction feels ancient and very familiar. We praise the feminine in symbol, we fear it holding power.

It’s hard to put the majesty of this place into words.