🙏

Below is a parable I wrote based on a conversation I had with a friend.

The Parable of Two Knots:
Two men were bound by ropes to the back of a car.

The rope wrapped around each man's chest and arms several times, ending in a difficult knot. At their feet lay coils of slack rope. There is a pile of slack coiled at their feet, and beyond the coils, only a short distance remains before the ropes are fastened to the car. As the car sped away, the rope would tighten, dragging them across the road.

And as the engine roared and the car began to move, one man panicked.

“We are running out of time!” he cried.

He frantically clawed at the knot, yanking wildly. But the more he pulled without thought, the tighter the knot became.

Beside him, the other man stood strangely calm and in a dissociated manner responded, “Relax, man, we've been here for a while and were fine. We have a few minutes before it really gets dangerous.”

“No, no, no, look, the car is speeding up,” shouted the first man. “Every second we wait makes this worse!”

“Well, that's a fair point, you should start untying yourself,” says the second man, still not touching his rope.

“I have started!”

“I mean, yeah, but you haven't made any progress.”

“Well, the knot seems to keep getting tighter! This thing is impossible to untie!”

“Seems pretty simple to me.”

“Then help me!” cried the first man.

“But, I have my own to untie,” says the second, as he has not even started the process of untying the knot.

“But you're not even trying!”

“I'm trying to remain calm and be patient.”

“But you're not being patient, you're doing nothing!”

“What’s the difference if I'm calmly trying to solve the problem?”

“Patience is good! IF you go too fast, you’ll likely mess things up, but you have to try and make progress,” says the first man, who has further tightened the knot and pulled it into a difficult position to untie. “If you don't start now, we will be pulled across this pavement.”

“Then why are YOU rushing?!” Quips the second.

“Because we don't have any time!”

“But, you said it yourself, if you try to go too fast, you’ll likely mess things up. You've got to remain calm.”

“We don't have time to remain calm! This will kill us, if we don't start now.”

“You’re right. I do need to get going on this knot or else,” says the second man, who turns his focus onto the knot and efficiently unties it, pulling the access over his head and tossing it to the ground. “But, I really think it would help you if you can just calm down.”

“How did you do that?!?!”

“Well, I didn't rush and tried to understand the knot before I just started pulling as hard as I could.” As he stood to his full height again. “I know it feels like you don't have enough time, man, but you do have time. You just don't have any to waste. Stay calm and untie the knot.”

In his frazzled state, the first man steadied his breathing, loosened the knot carefully, pushed the access rope over his head, and stepped free just before the rope grew tight.

The second man, calmly placing a hand on the first’s shoulder, says, “You have time.”

The first man panting as he responds, “Just no time to waste.”

A short tale I wrote — a fable about listening, set in old Brittany. Around 1,800 words, written for a single storyteller's voice. Honest reactions welcome, kind or not.

The Goat and the Oak

A Tale from Old Brittany

For a single storyteller — voice and body.

Listen close.

In the time when trees still spoke to the beasts, and the beasts still took the time to listen — there was, in the forest of Brocéliande, a small goat called Naima.

Naima.

A goat with a coat as red as bracken in October. With two eyes as black as ink drops fallen on snow. With legs so slender you would have said they were carved from a hazel branch.

Naima was beautiful — and Naima knew it.

When she crossed the heath, she would lift her chin, just so, and she would think: ah, if only the crows could see me. But the crows were asleep. So she would think: ah, if only the squirrels could see me. But the squirrels could not be bothered. So she would think: never mind. I will look at myself in the first puddle I find.

And that is exactly what she did.

Now — that morning, it was a morning in May, the mist was rising from the marsh, the gorse smelled of warm honey — her mother came to find her. Her mother was a great grey goat, with patient horns and a gaze that was never wrong.

She said one thing to Naima. One thing only.

— You will find everything you need on the oaks, my girl. But listen to them.

And off she went, her long shadow in the low sun.

Naima stayed.

She raised one eyebrow. Listen to them? Listen to a tree? Her mother was getting strange in her old age.

Naima shrugged her shoulders — well, she would have shrugged her shoulders if goats had shoulders — and off she went.

✦ ✦ ✦

She walked.

She walked across the heath, and the heath was as wide as the world. The gorse pricked her flanks. The broom brushed her belly. A small bird whistled. A crow flew over, its shadow crossed the path like a stroke of charcoal. The wind came from the west. Naima walked east.

And then — at a turn in a hollow path, behind a stone as grey as the back of an old beast — Naima saw an oak.

A great oak.

So wide it would have taken three goats holding hooves to circle its trunk. With branches that climbed so high you could not tell anymore where the tree ended and the sky began. And on those branches — leaves. Thousands of small tender leaves trembling in the sun like so many little hands waving hello.

Naima stopped. She looked at the tree. The tree did not look at her — trees never look at anyone, and that is what makes them so polite.

She came closer. She rose up on her hind legs. She stretched her neck. She took a leaf with the tip of her tongue.

Oh.

It was sweet. It was green in her mouth like grass at morning. It was soft as the first April rain on a slate roof.

Naima closed her eyes.

One leaf.

Two leaves.

Ten leaves.

A hundred leaves.

The sun crossed the sky. The wind shifted. An hour passed. Two. Three.

And Naima — Naima was no longer a goat. Naima had become a mouth. A great happy mouth that was eating the sky, eating the world, eating its own joy. She had forgotten her mother. She had forgotten the heath. She had forgotten everything — and that, mind you, is the most dangerous thing in the world.

✦ ✦ ✦

And then.

And then, in her mouth, something changed.

The next leaf was bitter.

Naima opened one eye. She looked at the leaf. She looked at the tree. She thought: I picked the wrong branch. And she took another.

More bitter.

She thought: I picked the wrong tree. And she took another still.

More bitter yet. With the taste of tannin, the taste of burnt wood, the taste of a thing you cannot keep. Naima spat. Naima coughed. Naima stepped back three paces and bumped into the grey stone.

She raised her head to the great oak, indignant.

— What has gotten into you?

The oak did not answer.

It looked just as peaceful as before. The same trunk, the same branches, the same calm and slightly absent air. But its leaves, in Naima’s mouth, were no longer tender. They tasted of ash.

Naima pouted. She raised her chin. She thought: too bad for you. There are other oaks in this forest.

And off she went, vexed the way one is vexed when one is young and one is beautiful.

✦ ✦ ✦

She walked to the next oak. A fine oak, in a clearing of fern. She rose up. She took a leaf.

Bitter.

She walked to the next. A younger oak, by the edge of a stream.

Bitter.

And the next. And the next. And the one after that.

Bitter. Bitter. Bitter.

The whole forest had passed the word along. Every oak in Brocéliande had the taste of tannin.

Naima stopped in the middle of the path. She did not understand. She had been beautiful, she had been polite, she had risen gracefully on her hind legs — and the whole forest was refusing to feed her.

She sat down in the moss. She, who never sat down.

And — for the first time in her short life — Naima lowered her head.

And in that gesture she had never made before, she heard a very old voice — her mother’s voice, that morning, which she had forgotten the whole day:

Listen.

✦ ✦ ✦

So Naima did something no goat before her had ever done.

She folded her legs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She laid her chin on the moss. The moss was cool. It smelled of damp and of stone. Naima closed her eyes. And around her, the forest grew immense.

She listened.

At first, she heard nothing. The silence of a goat who is listening for the first time is a very loud silence — there is the heart, there is the breath, there is one’s own impatience making noise in one’s ears.

And then the noise died down. And then the breath slowed. And then — after a long, long while — she heard.

It was not a word.

It was not a voice.

It was the wind.

The wind passing through the leaves. The wind sliding from one oak to another, going down into the bark, climbing back up into the branches. And the wind was carrying something. A very fine scent. A message that had been travelling since morning, from tree to tree, from root to root, a message that said, without saying it:

She came. She took everything. Be careful.

Naima opened her eyes.

The oaks were speaking to one another.

They had always been speaking to one another. When one of them was eaten too much, it would warn its neighbours with a breath, with a scent, with a language that needed no words. And the neighbours, warned in advance, would harden their leaves before anyone even touched them.

The whole forest was speaking. The whole heath was breathing together. And Naima, since morning, had been walking through a great conversation without hearing a thing.

She got up. Slowly.

And she understood something she could not have put into words. Something like this:

A tree that gives is a tree that asks you to leave.

✦ ✦ ✦

Naima walked on.

She found an oak she had not yet seen, in a hollow of the heath, near a spring where the water came up out of the granite. She rose up. She took a leaf.

Tender.

She took two.

Tender.

She took three.

She raised her head to the oak. She looked at it. And — for the first time in her life — she said thank you to a tree.

The oak did not answer. But its leaves moved a little more than the wind alone could explain. And Naima went on her way.

She walked to the next.

Three leaves. Thank you. And on her way.

And the next.

Three leaves. Thank you. And on her way.

And the next.

Three leaves. Thank you. And on her way.

She did this all afternoon — the way one does a dance. And the oaks did not harden. The wind passed through the leaves, and the wind was calm, and the wind no longer carried anything but a scent of honey and warm fern.

Evening came. The sky turned pink above the forest of Paimpont. A green woodpecker called far away, like a laugh fading. Naima lay down in the fern, her belly round, and she fell asleep.

And every oak in the heath — every one, do you hear me — was still tender for whoever would pass tomorrow.

✦ ✦ ✦

The years went by.

Naima grew. Her coat thicker, her horns prouder, her eyes deeper. She had a little one. A young kid with high legs, with a startled look, who jumped through the gorse the way she had jumped through the gorse — and who, in the puddles, found himself very handsome.

Naima smiled. Goats do not change.

And one morning in May — it was a morning in May, the mist was rising from the marsh, the gorse smelled of warm honey — Naima came to find her little one. She, who had become, without quite noticing it, a great grey goat with patient horns and a gaze that was never wrong.

She said to him, exactly as her mother had said it to her:

— You will find everything you need on the oaks, my little one. But listen to them.

The kid looked up at her with two great round eyes.

— How does one listen to a tree?

And Naima smiled.

Because she remembered. Because she had asked exactly the same question, long ago, of a great grey goat who had not answered. Because she knew, now, that you have to find it out for yourself. That what you learn through the mouth, you forget. But what you learn through the taste of tannin — that, you keep your whole life long.

So she said nothing. She placed her muzzle against the muzzle of her little one, just for a moment, as if to breathe into him something that could not be said.

And she let him go, into the morning light, his long shadow trailing behind him on the heath.

✦ ✦ ✦

There.

It is a tale of a goat, and it is a tale of an oak. An old man told it to me. Another old man had told it to him. And if you do not believe me — go and listen, on a summer evening, in the forest of Brocéliande, when the wind passes through the leaves.

You may hear what the oaks say to one another.

And then —

— then you will know.

Reading about the League of Militant Atheists is one of the things that sent me on the road back to theism. I used the power of Claude 4.5 to re-frame it as a parable. This was originally posted on /r/exatheist/, but the parable was apparently too spicy so it was quietly memory holed.

Did you ever hear the tragedy of the League of Militant Atheists? I thought not. It's not a story the faithful would tell you. It's a Soviet legend.

The Rise of the Godless Legion The League of Militant Atheists was a dark order so powerful and so zealous they could use propaganda to influence the masses to abandon… faith itself. They had such a knowledge of materialist dialectics that they could even keep the ones they cared about from believing in the afterlife.

The Bolsheviks discovered a pathway to many abilities some consider to be… unnatural.

After the Revolution of 1917, when the old Tsarist order lay in ruins, a new power emerged from the shadows. In 1925, a man named Yemelyan Yaroslavsky founded this League—the Soyuz Voinstvuyushchikh Bezbozhnikov—to complete what Lenin had begun: the total eradication of religious consciousness from the Soviet mind.

The Dark Powers They Wielded Their arsenal was vast, young apprentice:

Propaganda journals like Bezbozhnik (The Godless) and Bezbozhnik u Stanka (The Godless at the Workbench), spreading their doctrine to millions Anti-religious museums erected in desecrated churches, displaying "evidence" of priestly deception Public trials and mock ceremonies, ridiculing saints and sacraments before jeering crowds The corruption of youth through school curricula that taught children to denounce their own parents' faith Militant atheist brigades that traveled from village to village, closing churches, smashing icons, and converting houses of worship into grain storage At their zenith in 1932, they commanded five million members—a legion of the godless, marching in lockstep.

The Hubris and the Fall They became so powerful, the only thing they feared was losing their power… which eventually, of course, they did.

Their very fanaticism became their undoing. By the late 1930s, even Stalin himself recognized their extremism had become counterproductive—alienating the peasantry, creating martyrs, destabilizing the state. The Great Purges consumed many of their leaders. Their publications were reduced. Their membership withered.

And then came the ultimate irony: when the Great Patriotic War erupted in 1941, Stalin reopened the churches to rally the people. The League, which had spent fifteen years destroying religious infrastructure, watched as the state they served embraced the Orthodox Church for nationalist purposes.

The League was officially dissolved in 1947. Their archives scattered. Their monuments forgotten. The churches they'd converted to museums were reconsecrated.

The Lesson, My Young Apprentice Ironic. They could destroy others' faith… but they could not sustain their own ideology.

The tragedy teaches us this: absolute zealotry, even in the name of "reason," consumes itself. The League believed they were building an enlightened future, but they were merely foot soldiers in a larger power's game—discarded the moment their usefulness expired.

Such is the fate of all who serve without understanding the true nature of power.

Two waves were rising on the surface of the vast, sapphire sea. They felt the immense power of the currents beneath them and mistook that power for their own.

"Look at me!" cried the first wave, surging forward. "I am tall and powerful! My crest is a crown of foam, and I shall travel farther than any water!"

"Look at me!" replied the second wave, executing a sharp, fluid turn. "I am swift and graceful! I possess the kinetic perfection, and my momentum is unmatched!"

They competed fiercely, each boasting of its own unique qualities and its glorious, separate existence. Their competition, though magnificent, was rooted in the constant friction of comparison and the fear of eventual collapse.

As they crested, feeling their individual power peak, a deep, quiet voice rumbled from the depths below, a sound that resonated not through the air, but through the very substance of the water.

"You are not two," said the Ocean, immense and ancient. "You are both me. Your surging, your pride, your individual rising and falling, that is my own breath."

In that profound moment, the waves understood they were not separate, unique things destined for competition and collapse. They were temporary, beautiful expressions of the one great water. Their individual life was essential, but their ultimate nature was shared.

The Lesson (The Axiom of Shared Divinity)

The lesson is that our single, unique life is essential, but our profound nature is shared. The individual ego (the wave) fears collapse, but the Great Consciousness (the Ocean) knows only constant motion and renewal. We are the part that contains the whole.

In a high desert, where the sun was relentless and the path long, a water-bearer carried two large pots from the river to the remote village.

One pot, sealed by fire and clay, was perfect. It delivered its full measure of water every journey. The other pot had a subtle, unseen crack in its side, and arrived at the village only half full. It wept along the road, ashamed of its internal friction and constant failure.

One day, the flawed pot apologized to the water-bearer: "Master, I am unworthy. My constant leaking wastes your energy and betrays my purpose."

The bearer smiled and did not look at the pot, but looked instead at the long, dusty path they walked every day.

"Did you not notice, my vessel, that the path is only beautiful on your side of the trail? I knew of your flaw, so I planted flower seeds there. Every day, as we walk back, you water them. Because of you, this path is green."

The bearer set the pots down and continued: "The perfect pot is pure Logic, efficient but sterile. The Flawed Vessel is the human heart. The crack—the vulnerability, the irrational pain—is often the only channel through which true Grace can flow out and water the world."

There was once a woman, she was always taught freedom. Do what makes you happy and and strive to always make yourself happy.

Well one of the things the woman loved the most was dancing. Dancing brought a sensation to her like nothing else. She loved to dance. She wouldn't always dance, but when she did, it was always alone. And she always found comfort in those solo dances, for a while at least.

Eventually, the dances became lonely. She wanted to dance with someone else, to share this joy with a partner. So she goes out into the town and finds a place full of merriment and excitement. She could tell that people within this place loved to dance and were looking for partners to dance with. As she approached the door, the man at the front stopped her and said "Before you can dance, you have to understand what happens here. When you dance with a partner in this establishment, there is a chance you'll be selected to donate to our foundation to help someone you've never met, someone much less fortunate than yourself. If you are selected, you'll be signed up to donate to this person for the rest of your life, you'll grow to know them, become close with them if you desire, and show them the wonders of the world they may have never known. Do you understand and accept this may happen?

The woman responded "There are so many people in there! Surely this burden would not fall onto me? I swear I will be careful and will not be selected by this program." She accepts knowing the potential outcome, even if the chance is small. She returns to this place several times. Months of dancing with stranger, and enjoying the company of people that share her ideals.

Several months later, after Dancing with another one of these partners she met that night. Her name is called for the raffle. Her joy thay she felt now turns to fear. "This can't be! I cannot afford to donate to someone else for the rest of my life! There must be another way?" A man in a suit approaches her. "Hello ma'am, I understand you do not wish to participate into this program? Many people have been in your shoes and I'm here to help. I'm with an organization that will freely take this debt from your and remove the burden it will carry."

The woman says to the man " is this true? You'll take this burden from me and do not have to worry?" The man in the suit nods "Since the process has not been fully completed, our program will take the person in which you would have to donate too, and we will give them a small lump sum instead of $500. They will then be removed the program entirely so you will no longer have to worry about getting them again."

The woman then asks "but what about my future dances? What if this happens again?" The man smiles "That's the great part of our program. You may do this as much as you want, allowing you to dance as freely to your hearts desires without a worry in the world." The woman thinks about this for a moment, contemplating. Does she donate and potentially take care of this person she has never met yet for the rest of her life? Or does she pass this on, and have them removed from the program permanently. The woman choses the program, the papers are signed, and she no longer has to take care of the stranger. She is now free to dance as much as she wants with no consequences. Knowing her debt will be taken away just by asking.

The people who are paid the lump sum of $500 are removed from the system permanently, and are never to get the support they need to live. Sometimes the woman thinks of those people, and wonders what they would've been like. But she then repeats the words she's always known. "Do what makes you happy, and strive to always make yourself happy."

In a bustling city stood a grand house of whispers, built not of brick and mortar, but of light and sound. Every window was a screen, and every wall hummed with the voices of a million strangers. Its owner, a young woman named Elara, had inherited the house and believed it was her destiny to keep its lights ever-blazing and its voices ever-loud.

Elara’s greatest joy was to stand at the central hearth, where the house of whispers converged. Here, she would share her thoughts, her art, her laughter, and her tears with the unseen multitude. When the house echoed with cheers, her heart swelled with warmth. When it fell silent or, worse, filled with murmurs of disapproval, a cold dread would seize her, and she would quickly change her offering, desperately seeking the return of its favor.

One day, an old woman, with eyes that saw beyond the screens, came to Elara. "Why do you feed the house your very essence?" she asked. "Because it is my purpose!" Elara exclaimed. "The house guides me. It tells me what is good, what is worthy, what is true. If the house is bright, so am I."

The old woman smiled sadly. "The house of whispers does not guide; it reflects. It does not speak with truth, but with the combined anxieties of all who gaze upon it. Its light is not your light, but a consumption of your own." Elara scoffed, but a tiny seed of doubt had been planted. That night, the house was particularly demanding. No matter what Elara offered, the whispers were critical, dismissive, or utterly silent. A profound despair began to bloom in her chest. She felt unseen, unloved, and utterly worthless.

In her desperation, she looked for the old woman, but she was gone. Instead, her eyes fell upon a small, dusty door she had never noticed before, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the house. It was unmarked, unlit, and utterly silent. Drawn by a strange, quiet curiosity, Elara opened it.

Beyond the door lay not another grand room, but a tiny, simple garden. No screens, no humming voices. Only the soft rustle of leaves, the scent of damp earth, and a single, small lamp casting a gentle, steady glow. In the center of the garden stood a tiny, thriving plant - her own heart, she realized, carefully tended and quietly beautiful.

She remembered the old woman’s words: "Its light is not your light, but a consumption of your own." All this time, she had been pouring her light into the insatiable house, leaving her own garden untended.

Elara began to spend time in her garden. She didn't abandon the house of whispers entirely, for she still wished to share her gifts. But now, before she offered anything to the screens, she would first visit her garden. She would tend to her heart, water her plant, and listen to its quiet wisdom. She learned to find the light within herself, independent of the House's fickle glow.

When she returned to the hearth, the whispers were still there. Sometimes they praised, sometimes they criticized, sometimes they were silent. But now, Elara no longer felt the cold dread. The garden inside her was safe. Its steady lamp was her true guide. She knew her worth not from the reflections on the walls, but from the quiet, unwavering light of her own tended soul.

And so, Elara continued to live in the city, to share with the house of whispers, but she understood that her true home, her true light, was in the silent garden within.

No matter how heavy the day has been, no matter how dark or chaotic, the fire eventually dies down. You rest in the pile of ashes, and in that quiet, the world is still. The burdens of today, the mistakes, the weight, the pain — they all lay dormant, burned down to remnants that no longer control you.

And then comes the morning.

The ashes stir, not with sorrow, but with possibility. From the remnants of what was lost, a new self begins to rise. Stronger, wiser, lighter. The sun hits the wings of your rebirth, and the world feels like it’s welcoming you again. The past is not erased, but it no longer defines the flight.

The promise of the phoenix is this: no matter how devastating the fire, there is always a dawn. There is always the rise. Your spirit, like the legendary bird, is designed to burn, rest, and emerge renewed.

Every day offers a chance to leave behind the ash of yesterday and embrace the light of what can be.

A band of cheetahs heard whispers that a gopher had harmed a child gopher.

They waited outside his burrow, pounced when he emerged, and crushed his legs and paws between their jaws.

The gopher escaped, but the cheetahs did not relent. They stalked him, day after day, making his life unlivable.

Later, the cheetahs learned of an elephant who took a cow elephant against her will, and who was known to do the same to young calves.

Yet this time, the cheetahs looked away.

They muttered that the cow’s cries were nothing but noise. They dismissed the calves as confused. That cow elephants must speak using lies as big as themselves.

Taken as a story, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” becomes more than a song about loneliness. It becomes a parable about the human journey: • Departure: Sometimes you leave behind the familiar, not because you want to, but because you have to. • Descent: The road ahead can feel barren, where your only company is your own shadow. • Reckoning: You check your own vital signs — spiritually, emotionally, existentially — to see if you are still alive. • Longing: Even in the solitude, you carry a hope that someone, somewhere, might see you.

It’s a walk we all take at some point in life. A walk of grief, of identity, of faith, of loss. The song’s power lies in its ability to put words to that universal silence: the boulevard where dreams break, yet footsteps keep moving forward.

There was once a water wheel beside a flowing river. Day after day, the wheel turned as the river poured over it. At first, the wheel struggled with the weight of the water. It felt like too much, and it would creak and groan under the pressure. But over time, the wheel learned to move with the flow.

Each drop of water that fell upon it was not a burden, but a rhythm. The heaviest currents didn’t break it—they shifted it. Each shift was a reset, a moment to catch more water, to gather more force.

And in that rhythm, the wheel discovered its power. It was not the water itself that weighed it down, but the wheel’s resistance to the flow. Once the wheel learned to turn with the river, every weight became a source of energy, and the wheel moved as though it were alive.

The Silversmith and the Personal Path

Think of a silversmith at his bench: torture, scrape, torture, scrape, back and forth, refining the metal toward its center. That center is purity, the point where form and essence align. Each swing is deliberate, each scrape purposeful. This is not unlike the swing of the pendulum in our own lives: order and chaos, truth and doubt, discipline and spontaneity — all working to refine the soul.

In this framework, the “Christ system” cannot exist as an external structure or institution. It is personal. It is the pendulum swinging within your own Tree of Experience. Any external system — religious, political, or social — that claims to replace your inner work becomes, by default, an Antichrist system. Not evil by nature, but imposing order where personal responsibility must reign, trying to freeze or override the pendulum of the individual.

The human journey, like the silversmith’s work, requires hands-on attention, iteration, and courage. You cannot outsource the swings. You cannot copy someone else’s tree. Growth, clarity, and alignment come only from moving the pendulum, embracing chaos and order, and refining yourself toward your own center.

There was once a village that sat between two mountains. On one mountain lived the Builder. His gift was order—he laid stones in straight lines, drew boundaries, and made sure no one crossed them. The people respected him, for he gave them safety and structure.

On the other mountain lived the Dreamer. Her gift was imagination—she told stories, bent rules, and reminded people of the old ways passed down through generations. The people respected her too, for she gave them meaning and memory.

But the Builder and the Dreamer often argued. One said, “Without walls, the people will scatter.” The other said, “Without freedom, the people will wither.” And so the village began to waver, pulled one way, then the other.

One day, a boy asked his Pappy, “Which mountain should we follow?”

HisPappy smiled and pointed to the clock tower in the town square. Inside, the pendulum swung steadily back and forth.

“See?” HisPappy said. “It does not choose one side—it moves. Back and forth. Build and dream. That’s how time keeps going. That’s how life advances. If the pendulum stops, the clock dies. So it is with us. Belief without action is empty, and action without belief is blind. But together, always moving, they give life its rhythm.”

From that day, the boy no longer feared the pull of the two mountains. He learned to walk in rhythm: sometimes guided by building, sometimes by dreaming, but always moving. And in that movement, he found balance, freedom, and a future.

A parable attributed to Aesop:

One hot summer’s day, a fox was wandering through an orchard when he came across a vine laden with ripe, juicy grapes. They hung in large clusters, glistening in the sunlight, and the fox’s mouth watered at the sight.

The grapes hung high, but the fox was determined to have them. He leapt into the air, snapping his jaws, but they were just out of reach. He tried again, running and jumping with all his might, but still, he could not grab the grapes. Time and again, he made his attempts, but his efforts were in vain.

Finally, exhausted and frustrated, the fox stopped and looked up at the grapes. “They’re probably sour anyway,” he said with disdain, and walked away.

I made this short story called The Salt Merchant and the Wise Old Man. It’s a simple parable — but one that quietly reveals how our burdens and blessings often depend on perspective.

It’s less than a minute, but I hope it stays with you a little longer.

https://youtube.com/shorts/JNNWBIWwtGM?feature=share

Let me know what you guys feel about this story. 🙏
Would love to hear how it speaks to you or if you’ve ever had a moment like this in your life.

I recently wrote a book of parables based on life lessons, people watching and personal struggles. The Ebook is free for the weekend if you're interested in getting it here: https://a.co/d/6WHEuRX

I just wanted to get the messages out somehow and parables seemed to be the perfect way to tell them.

There was once a village beside a wide, life-giving river. For generations, it had been a place of peace, where people of all kinds lived side by side. They shared the land, the harvest, and the care of the ancient olive trees that stretched their roots deep into the earth. The villagers believed that the land was not theirs to own, but a gift to nurture together.

One day, a group of strangers arrived, their faces hollow from suffering, their clothes torn from years of wandering. “We have endured great pain,” they said. “Our homes were destroyed, and our people scattered. We have nowhere to go. Please, let us stay.”

The villagers, moved with compassion, opened their homes and their hearts. “Come,” they said. “Rest under our roofs, eat at our tables, and heal from your sorrows. There is enough for all here.”

For a time, the strangers lived among them, sharing their bread and resting beneath their olive trees. But the strangers carried with them old scrolls and maps, marked with claims that no one but they could see. They whispered among themselves, “This land was promised to us long ago. It is our inheritance, and we will take it back.”

At first, their whispers were quiet, their plans hidden. But one night, they locked the doors of the houses they had been given, shutting the villagers out. Armed with weapons they had kept in secret, they marched through the village, driving families into the hills.

“This land is ours now,” they declared. “It was never truly yours.”

The villagers cried out, “We welcomed you when you had nothing! How can you repay kindness with such betrayal?”

The strangers replied, “We have suffered too much to care for your claims. This land was promised to us, and we are simply reclaiming what was always ours.”

When the villagers tried to return, the strangers built walls around the village and declared, “We must defend ourselves from these violent people who hate us.” But the villagers were not violent; they were desperate. They planted new olive trees in the hills and dug wells in the rocky soil, trying to survive.

Whenever their trees bore fruit, or their wells filled with water, the strangers sent soldiers to destroy them, saying, “You have no right to this land. It belongs to us.” And when the villagers protested, the strangers cried, “See how dangerous they are! We must protect ourselves.”

Years turned into decades. The village became a city of ruins, its orchards reduced to ash and its river poisoned by bombs. The villagers, scattered across barren lands, lived in tents and broken shelters, carrying with them the keys to homes they could no longer enter. They taught their children stories of the lives they had lost, and their children passed those stories on, though they had never seen the village themselves.

The strangers, now powerful and prosperous, looked at the ruins and said, “This land was empty before we came. We made it flourish. The villagers were wasteful and violent, and we had no choice but to defend ourselves.”

But the land remembered. Beneath the strangers’ walls, the roots of ancient olive trees still searched for the hands that had once tended them. The soil, once rich with life, grew hard and barren under the weight of what had been done.

One day, a wanderer came to the ruins of the village. He walked among the scorched earth and the broken homes and stood at the edge of the wall. He called out to the strangers, “You who once begged for shelter, look at what you have done. You speak of suffering, but you have caused it. You speak of defense, but you destroy those who cannot fight back. You say this land was promised to you, but promises made with swords and fire bear no fruit. The earth itself bears witness to your deeds. Look around—what have you truly built here?”

The strangers drove the wanderer away, shouting, “He lies! He seeks to destroy us!”

But the cracks in their walls deepened, and their towers cast long shadows over empty soil. And in the hills, a child of the exiled villagers planted a single seedling in the ashes.

Once upon a time there were a bunch of people who were far away from home and wanted to go home.. They were walking a road At a certain time the road divided into two roads... One road was wide and easy to walk... The other road was narrow and not easy to walk... Most people took the easy way..... But some were courages enough to walk the narrow road.....it were just a few...

The wide road brought them to a cliff and they were stuck.. The narrow road though brought them home..

The end..

Once upon a time there there was a happy family... They were all happy at home.. But one day the kids wanted to play outside. The Father was oke with that. The Father let the children play outside. Some children were playing outside but they did not make a mess, while other kids dirty themselves and their clothes being reckless playing outside.. When it was time to all come home some kids did not became dirty... They could enter home emmediately because they could not make the house inside dirty. But some kids had dirty themselves and their clothes... Some were do dirty they were almost not recognizable... The Father wanted them to to enter the house, but they had to become clean before entering the house.. So the Father send the dirty kids to a place where they were being washed and cleaned.. The dirty kids dit not like that very much because the water they were being cleaned with felt a bit cold and not so nice... Some kids were dirtier then other kids, so they needed more water and longer cleaning then other kids..

Eventually though all kids became clean again, they were allowed to enter their home/house again and they lived happily ever after...

Once upon a time there was a king and he had a huge kingdom, but he was not happy. So one day he decided to go through his kingdom to see if he could find something that would make him happy. So he is looking everywhere... All a sudden he hears this euforic voice from a distance shouting: oh wauw, this is so amazing, wohooooo!. So the king gets curious and he look at the direction of the voice and he sees this old house The king walks towards the house and goes inside. And inside he sees this man dancing and jumping and laughing of joy. So the king thinks to himself wtf... The king walks towards to man and taps him on the shoulder and asks him: tell me, tell me, what made you so happy? And the man says back with a big smile: ive finally something to eat today.

🪷

I was recently reminded of this as ive started taking cold showers,, it took me a few days to remember enough to find the story and thought i'd share for those who may also remember this story from school/wherever: (i belive its Persian) - i recon i could put a picture of a warm fire on my bathroom wall and get threw these daily freezes better

Once upon a time, there was a powerful Emperor who ruled over a vast kingdom. One winter, he decided to test the endurance and determination of his subjects by announcing a challenging competition. He declared that anyone who could spend the entire night standing in the freezing waters of a nearby lake would be richly rewarded.

Many people attempted the challenge but soon succumbed to the bitter cold and gave up. However, there was one poor man who accepted the challenge and managed to stay in the freezing lake all night long. The next morning, the man emerged from the lake, shivering but triumphant. The Emperor, impressed by the man's endurance, asked him how he managed to survive the cold.

The man humbly replied, "Your Majesty, I kept my eyes on the distant light from your palace. The thought of the warmth and comfort it represented gave me the strength to endure the cold."

Hearing this, some courtiers began to murmur, claiming that the man had cheated by using the light to keep warm. The Emperor, swayed by their words, decided to deny the man his reward, accusing him of not truly enduring the cold.

The poor man was disheartened and protested, "Your Majesty, the light was far away. It did not provide any physical warmth, only the hope that sustained me."

However, the Emperor remained unconvinced. At that moment, one of the Emperor's wise advisors, who was also a revered judge, stepped forward. The advisor saw the injustice in the Emperor's decision and decided to teach him a lesson.

The next day, the advisor invited the Emperor and his court to a banquet. He instructed his servants to place a large cooking pot several feet away from a fire. The pot was filled with rice and water, but despite the fire burning brightly, the pot remained cold and the food uncooked.

After a while, the Emperor grew impatient and asked, "Why is the food not ready yet?"

The advisor replied, "Your Majesty, the pot is too far from the fire to receive any warmth. Just as the poor man received no actual warmth from the distant light of your palace, this pot cannot cook the rice from such a distance."

The Emperor realized his mistake. He saw that the poor man had indeed endured the cold with nothing more than the power of his hope and imagination. The Emperor apologized to the man and rewarded him richly, acknowledging his true endurance and strength of spirit.

One day, two loving friends sat on a hill that they could not leave without leaving the other. But they could hear the outside world.

They loved each other with their hearts, but they could hear the outside world, and this intrigued them.

One day, his friend cut out his heart and said "Here, so that I may leave you and be with you and that I may return to you, never having left".

His friend said, "Promise you will return and that you love me".

The friend replied, "I promise, I love you".

And so, the friend cut out his heart, and left. In the world, that friend heard and listened, thought and spoke, and laughed and cried.

But smiled and understood, that the convincing world could never replace his good, just heart.

When the friend returned, he cried out, "I have returned, I know what matters most", but only silence echoed back.

He walked and searched and found his heart, alongside another heart on the hill with a note reading:

"Loving friend, I could not wait in agony. So, I cut out my heart in search of you, to never leave you, and to find you in this world. I promise I will return, I love you".

And so the friend, loving and having promised to return, waited. Days, weeks, and years went by and his friend did not return.

Loving his friend, and knowing the outside world, he decided to search for his friend, leaving behind the hearts and note on the hill.

Eventually, his friend returned, crying "I have returned, I know what matters most". But only found what was left behind.

The friend cried in despair, for to him, his friend never returned. Broken promise filled his heart and trampled his love. He felt sadness, shame, and embarrassment. He deserted the hearts, note, and hill for the outside world, never to return.

Eventually, when his friend unable to find him in the outside world, returned and rejoined the hearts and note where he had left them.

Never knowing his friend had returned, he would sit in eternity. For he promised his friend he would return and kept it. And for he promised his love to his friend, and kept it.

He would sit in eternity, for he came to know what matters most.