What is etched in clay is my story.

I saw a glimpse of it one day. I walked, in solitude, into the forest when I came upon it. A tablet with my story. I didn’t like what I read. I panicked. I felt unsafe. No; who wrote this for me? I wouldn’t have. Did I land here on this Earth accidentally and come upon a life already etched in clay?

My eyes darted. I slowly turned myself in a circle, my eyes looking up and down, my ears pricked for any noises, my skin for any reaction, and smell. What was that smell? It was damp. I am in the woods, and it has rained. The sun does not find me.

I found a stick, too flimsy. I found another one. Yes, this will do. Its tip is damp, jagged, broken from its branch. It told me it didn’t belong in this forest either.

Together we walked to the inscription in the clay. With all my determination, we tried to scratch the words, change the meaning, tell a new story.

The stick continued with all its might, with my strength behind it. My feet firm on the ground, pushing, my legs strong for balance and to provide additional support. My torso leaning, my shoulders, arms, hands, fingers holding the stick, pushing against the clay.

But the stick broke and fell to the ground. “I’m sorry I let you down,” we said simultaneously.

Then it told me, “Find the stream, but you must find a way to gather its gift.”

“But how?” I respond, my eyes searching.

Desperately, I get the urge to move. An anger washes over me; how can my life be already written, I did not plan it. I kick the tablet with all my might. Kick, kick, kick. Three times.

Then I walk over to it and move behind it. It’s resting on a fallen tree, so innocent, so naturally.

Who am I to change it? And still, I must.

I look around. A skinny tree is behind me, fighting for its place in the forest, reaching for the sun. It is not too young. It can help.

I grasp its trunk. Its deciduous leaves greet me with a gentle song. It’s a birch, I realize, my favorite tree.

“I come in peace, my friend,” I say to it and bow my head. “This tablet has a story etched on its face, claiming to be my life unfolding. But I do not like what comes next. I’ve never belonged, you know, but there is cruelty in its script.”

The tree’s leaves rustled and stood strong, and still. I leaned in and gave it a kiss. Its papery surface felt smooth on my lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I put my hand against it again and push with my foot, pulling all the strength from body and the birch tree’s steadiness.

Yes! It falls to the ground. I pat the tree and smirk, then walk back over to the tablet. The words are now hidden.

So, what does this mean? I look around for an answer. I stand in front of it, legs spread out, my arms both outstretched, and I close my eyes.

I see a stone come into view in my mind’s eye. I open my eyes, bring my feet together and lower my arms.

“I’ll be back,” I announce, then pivot and walk away.

The ground beneath me is soft. The composted leaves and needles cushion my steps.

From the corner of my left eye, I see a set of rocks stacked in front of the trunk of an old oak tree. I immediately go over. I kneel before it.

“Thank you. I’ve always believed in rocks. I love you. You’re magical.”

I pull out my shirt to create a pocket to carry.

I take one stone at a time, until I could hold no more.

“I’ll be back,” I say and walk back. But where is it? I’m sure it was here.

Carrying my rocks, held in my shirt, I walk around. But now I am lost.

How far did I walk?

How could this be?

I look for my birch and the fallen tree.

My arm feels tired. I look for a place to sit.

In the near distance, I see another fallen tree. I walk to it, my legs feel heavy. I’m dragging.

I crouch down and gently place my rocks on the ground. I sit on the tree’s trunk and rest. I notice the light. It is fading. I must exit the forest. I search for a clearing to walk toward that is yet unseen.

Can I really leave my story behind?

Author’s Note: This story emerged from a moment of reckoning—a time when I questioned the path that seemed laid out before me. I wrote it as a way of exploring choice, resistance, and the quiet possibility of renewal.