The Gardener and the Reflection

In a village nestled in a valley, there was a young gardener named Elian who could grow the most magnificent flowers but could not bear to look at their own reflection. Whenever Elian passed a still pond or a polished surface, a deep discomfort would arise—a sense that the face looking back was not their own.

The village had many mirrors—some clear and honest, others distorted and flattering. Elian tried them all, but in each one, the same unease persisted. "This cannot be me," Elian would whisper. "There has been some terrible mistake."

One day, a traveling merchant came to the village selling magical lenses that could change how one appeared in reflections. "With these lenses," the merchant promised, "you can become whoever you wish to be. No more discomfort. No more dissonance."

Elian purchased the most beautiful lens—one that showed a face of perfect symmetry and grace, a face that felt comfortable and right. For a time, this brought peace. The reflection finally matched the inner feeling. The villagers, seeing Elian's new appearance through the lens, treated Elian differently, and this too felt comforting.

But as seasons turned, Elian noticed something troubling. The magical lens required constant polishing and adjustment. It would occasionally slip, revealing glimpses of the old reflection beneath. Each time this happened, the discomfort returned, sharper than before.

Worse still, Elian began to notice that the garden was suffering. The flowers that once bloomed with such vitality now seemed muted, as if reflecting the gardener's diverted attention. Elian had been so focused on changing the reflection that the actual gardening—the real work of cultivation—had been neglected.

One afternoon, an old woman who tended the village's ancient oak tree approached Elian. "I notice your flowers are not as vibrant this year," she said gently.

"I've been busy with... other things," Elian replied, touching the magical lens.

The old woman nodded. "I too once bought a lens from that merchant. It showed me a younger face, one without wrinkles or scars. It was comfortable for a time, until I realized I was using it to avoid the wisdom my true face had earned."

She led Elian to a different kind of mirror—a deep, still well that showed not just surfaces, but depths. "Look properly this time," she said. "Not at what you wish to see, but at what is actually there."

Reluctantly, Elian set aside the magical lens and looked into the well. At first, there was only the familiar discomfort. But as Elian kept looking, something shifted. The reflection began to tell a story—not of a mistaken identity, but of unexamined wounds, of societal expectations internalized, of a self that had never been fully explored or accepted.

The problem wasn't the reflection itself, but Elian's relationship to it. The magical lens had been a solution to the wrong problem—it changed how Elian appeared, but not how Elian saw.

Elian began the difficult work of sitting with the discomfort, of investigating its roots. There were childhood messages about worthiness. There were cultural stories about beauty and value. There were personal traumas that had never been processed. The reflection wasn't wrong—it was a messenger trying to deliver important news that Elian hadn't wanted to hear.

This work was harder than buying a lens. It meant facing painful truths. It meant grieving lost time and missed connections. It meant accepting imperfections and contradictions. But as Elian did this work, something remarkable happened: the garden began to flourish again, more vibrant than ever.

The flowers now seemed to embody the complexity Elian was discovering within—some petals perfectly formed, others beautifully irregular, all together creating a more interesting and authentic whole.

Elian still occasionally used the magical lens, but now with awareness rather than desperation. Sometimes the transformed reflection brought genuine joy; other times it felt like avoidance. The difference was that Elian could now tell the difference.

The ultimate healing came not from changing the reflection, but from changing the relationship to it. The peace Elian had been seeking externally was found internally, in the courageous act of turning toward rather than away from the self.