The Adventures of Thistle and Honey 3

Another Ritual

Want to start at the beginning? Click here

“How am I supposed to make my mind shut up long enough to ‘find peace’ or whatever?” Thistle grumbles, sitting cross-legged in the heart of the garden beside the belladonna that had mysteriously bloomed overnight.

Honey’s voice is soft, but steady.
“Meditation isn’t about force. It’s about permission. Letting whatever is present exist without trying to silence it or chase it away. The quiet you’re looking for isn’t something you make, it’s something you fall into, once the noise no longer needs your attention.”

Thistle exhales through her nose, her shoulders slumping slightly. “So, I just… sit here and let my thoughts ramble?”

“Exactly. Sit, breathe, notice. If your mind wants to think about what you’re having for dinner or replay that embarrassing thing from twelve years ago, let it. Eventually, the mind gets bored and quieter all on its own. Like a child who stops demanding your attention once you stop reacting.”

Thistle tilts her head, considering that. “And then? … I just keep doing that until… what, I ascend into a higher state of consciousness?”

Honey smirks, “Or maybe you just feel a little more like yourself than you did before. Don’t aim for the stars. Just aim to be. The rest will come.”

Thistle nods slowly, then closes her eyes.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Honey buzzes contentedly beside her, the garden alive with quiet wind and budding magic. That buzz slowly becomes the only sound Thistle can hear. Her mind begins to settle, not on the thoughts gliding through it, but on the vibration of the wings.

breathe in

breathe out

breathe in

breathe out

But still, the thoughts persist.

I need to ask Honey what she meant when she said I could “grow new wings.” How is that even possible? I know my mother had her struggles, but would she really rip off my wings? I don’t understand. Why cause my deformity, and then blame me for it?

Ugh. I’m not supposed to be focusing on my thoughts! Get it together, Thistle. Okay, the buzzing… just listen to the buzzing…

She starts to hum in tune with the rhythm of Honey’s wings.
“Hmmmmmmmmmmmm…”

“What are you doing?” Honey asks softly, slightly amused.

Eyes still closed, Thistle replies, “Trying not to focus.”

Honey lands gently on her knee, and Thistle opens her eyes.
“Hey,” she says, “your buzzing was the frequency I was humming to. Why did you land?”

“If you’re trying, you’re not meditating.”

Thistle bristles. “Well, I’m sorry, getting things right isn’t exactly something I’m known for.”

“I wasn’t criticizing,” Honey says gently. “Just stating a fact. Meditation isn’t about effort. It’s about letting go. What were you trying not to think about?”

Thistle blurts out, too quickly:
“I was trying not to think about the fact that my mother might have been the one to rip off my wings. That for my entire life, others have called me defective. Broken. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t believe them. It makes me angry! And I hate feeling angry. Because anger leads to exhaustion, and exhaustion takes me back to that dream I was finally able to release. The one that felt like it would be easier to just, not exist…” She lets out a resigned sigh,” which just makes me feel like nothing’s changing at all.”

Honey listens in silence, her tiny face calm and solemn as Thistle’s voice cracks under the weight of her truth. The garden falls still. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

“Those are some heavy thoughts,” Honey says softly.

She flutters upward, then gently lands on Thistle’s hand. Thistle instinctively turns her palm upward, offering Honey a steadier place to rest. The bee settles there, wings folding with a whisper of sound.

“You’re not broken, Thistle,” Honey says gently. “You’re wounded. There’s a difference.”

Thistle stares down at her lap, avoiding the compassion in Honey’s gaze. Her voice is low. “Wounded still means something’s wrong with me.”

“No,” Honey says, her tone firm now. “Wounded means something happened. Something was done to you. Broken implies you're faulty. But you…” she pauses, flying up to hover just above Thistle’s heart, “you are not faulty. You are healing.”

Thistle's lips part, but no words come. Only the soft burn of tears pressing behind her eyes.

Honey continues, “And anger isn’t your enemy. It’s your fire. It's the heat that says, this hurt. It only becomes exhaustion when you bottle it up, when you try to silence it instead of listening to what it’s trying to tell you.”

Thistle lets out a shaky breath. “It tells me I wasn’t protected. That I was left to figure out my worth on my own.”

“Then let it say that” Honey whispers. “Let it speak until it's done. Because only when it’s finished talking, can your truth begin to speak back.”

Thistle wipes her cheek, quietly absorbing those words.

After a long pause, she says, “So if I’m not broken… how do I start healing?”

Honey smiles gently. “You’ve already begun. You sat still. You listened. You spoke your truth. And even now, through all of it… you’re still here.”

Thistle swallows the lump in her throat and nods.

breathe in

breathe out

The wind stirs again, soft and warm. And the garden listens.

Honey breaks the silence, “Ready to try again?”

Thistle takes a grounding deep breath. “Yeah, I can do this.”

Thistle begins again. She settles into stillness, breath deepening, mind softening. Time drifts, there’s no clock in the garden, only the hush of wind and the steady hum of life.

Thought doesn’t persist this time, it flows past as if watching a film. Each thought having its moment and then drifting away. Eventually her thoughts start to transform into possibility. She sees herself smiling and happy, face turned towards the sun. Walking down a path with some unknown destination. There is no fear, no worry, just the satisfaction of anticipation.

Eventually, she returns, slowly, gently, opening her eyes as if waking from a dream.

Honey’s voice is a whisper beside her. “How do you feel?”

Thistle takes a breath, scanning the quiet of her body, the quiet of her heart.
“Honestly… I feel… eager?”

Honey chuckles, a knowing smirk tugging at her tiny mouth. “Oh? And what exactly are you eager for?”

Thistle lets the smile bloom slowly across her face, eyes shining with something new. “Whatever comes next.”

---

As always, Thank you for reading! The story continues in part 4!

.