The Owl
You are not shaped by feeling it. You are shaped by refusing to.
There was, and there was not, a hollow deep within the quietest part of the forest. The air was cool there, the branches undisturbed by wind, and the stillness held a kind of presence. Not silence, exactly, but listening.
The Raven found the Owl there.
Not by accident.
And not entirely on purpose.
She had heard of the Owl before, how creatures sought her when the stories in their heads grew too loud to sleep beside. No one knew where the Owl came from. She spoke little of herself. But when she looked at you, it was as if she had read your whole interior aloud.
The Raven landed on a branch across from her. Neither bowed. Neither spoke.
Finally, the Raven said, “I want to talk about something, but I don’t want to become something.”
The Owl blinked. “What is it you fear becoming?”
“Resentful,” the Raven said. “I’ve felt angry before, but I don’t let it out. I smooth it down, tuck it beneath other things. I try not to let it show. I don’t want to become someone who leads with bitterness. I don’t want to be hardened.”
The Owl nodded once, neither affirming nor dismissing. Just there.
“And what is it you feel now?” she asked.
The Raven paused, then answered, “I feel resentful. Toward the Grey Squirrel. Toward the Counsel. Toward the parts of the Kingdom that watched me fade and did nothing. I did what I could. I stayed longer than I should have. I tried to repair it, I tried to rise above it. But I still lost things I should not have had to lose.”
She looked down, her voice quieter now. “I don’t want to let that feeling shape me.”
The Owl’s eyes remained on her. “You are not shaped by feeling it. You are shaped by refusing to.”
The Raven looked up.
“Resentment,” the Owl continued, “is what grows when truth is buried. You do not have to weaponize it. You do not have to lead with it. But naming it? Letting it move through you? That is not dangerous. That is cleansing.”
The Raven blinked, uncertain.
“You are not less noble because you were hurt. You are not less kind because you name it. You are not less wise because you resent what harmed you. You are more honest. You are more whole.”
The Raven exhaled, a sound not of defeat, but of loosening.
She had tried so hard to be composed. Resilient. Grateful.
But she had never been asked to simply be truthful.
“You are dynamic,” the Owl said. “You are composed and you are cracked. Soft and defiant. Wounded and steady. You do not need to pick one.”
When the Raven left the hollow, she carried nothing new, only what had always been there, finally allowed to be named.
Not a burden.
Not a flaw.
Just a truth she no longer had to hide.
© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.
