Brrd Roots ~ Allegorical and Spiritual Art of Storytelling II
Life is chaos—
chaos, cascading, swirling chaos.
Questions detour—detours linger, clarity fleeting.
Life untangles when we tell it in rhythms,
it unfolds with stories that spin,
like threads sewn in a circle, in and in again.
Meet Amira: no hero, no sage.
Just someone fumbling toward truth,
truth, truth that whispers—
whispered like a legend through the cracks of a village.
“The Well of Truth,” they call it.
“A Well that knows?” They laugh,
“Ask it how to make dinner,
ask it something useful!”
But Amira wasn’t listening,
no, her heart wasn’t bound by laughter.
It was tugged forward,
forward, forward toward something more.
---
Tides call her name but refuse to move.
“Rec-ee-eede!” she shouts,
the syllables lost in the foam.
The forest swallows light.
Its shadows, deeper than space, obscured paths spiral inward.
Her feet falter, slip on mountains
that scrape the clouds.
She stumbles—oh, she stumbles,
legs shake, sweat falls, her will wavers.
And the Well, oh, the Well—
its surface mirrors not answers, not peace,
but disappointment.
Silent, still, mocking her—her reflection stuck, unmoving.
---
It is not what she expected,
and isn’t that always the way of it?
She walks away, frustrated and empty-handed.
Hands empty, but her heart… full of lessons not yet unlocked.
---
Home swallows her disappointment.
The “Well of Truth,” she murmurs,
a cruel prank from a cryptic elder’s lips.
Behind her house sits the other well—
plain, overlooked, water rippling in sunlight.
Ripples shimmer—
shimmer, shimmer as sunlight bends.
And there… clarity dawns.
The real Well wasn’t carved in grandeur,
wasn’t distant—it was always here.
Here, waiting. Always here.
---
Before she left, the elder gave her a clock:
Tick-less, rusted, a symbol of time unspent.
“Carry it,” he said, “when it ticks, you’ll know.”
The silence followed her—tick-tockless,
an anchor of doubt in her pocket.
The unremarkable well behind her home—
stirs something deeper.
She dips the clock, water swirling,
and it ticks. It finally ticks.
Not from the magic of water,
but from the rhythm of her understanding.
She’s changed.
Time unfolds in mercy—mercy we rarely give ourselves.
---
But let’s not lie—Amira struggled.
At the river, she screamed. “MOVE! MOVE!”
It didn’t move.
The forest swallowed her sobs
as she threw rocks at the void.
“Why,” she said. “Why did I think I could do this?”
The mountain laughed back.
Growth isn’t clean—it’s messy, sharp, uneven.
She wasn’t saintly. She cursed the path.
But wasn’t that the point?
Struggles don’t ruin journeys—they enrich them.
---
Let’s not forget the humor,
because Amira had it in spades.
“This tide has an attitude problem,” she muttered,
its refusal to yield almost personal.
Lost in the forest, she imagined signs:
**“Shadowy Void: Five Miles Ahead.
Despair: Free Admission!”**
Climbing, oh, climbing the mountain, she groaned—
“Spiritual growth,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“More like painful branding.”
Even failure laughs,
because the only thing more absurd than the journey
is pretending we don’t stumble.
---
The moon turns the tide into liquid silver.
Branches whisper in the wind’s secret tongue.
Clouds stretch crowns over mountaintops,
while the Well behind her home—her unassuming Well—
glows, luminous,
teaching her truths she had feared to face.
Mysticism breathes between each step she took.
Silver rivers and whispering trees—
wisdom isn’t loud.
It is moonlit. It is still.
It’s alive, waiting in shadows.
---
She slowed down,
the river demanded mercy.
She adapted,
the forest whispered resilience.
She confronted discomfort,
the mountain asked nothing less.
Her moral compass was chiseled by struggle.
---
Amira didn’t find the Well she sought—
But she found something far better.
Not the truth “out there,”
But truths rippling from her still waters.
(Holy Spirit)
“May the paths we walk,
whether lit by silver tides or hidden by shadowed branches,
Teach us to find the wells within—
and may laughter, mercy, and humility
carry us forward.”
