Don’t Be Precious, A Fable

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Peter, who lived in a small, gloomy village surrounded by deep, dark woods.

Peter was a quiet boy, always neat and careful. He never ventured too far from home, never dirtied his hands, and never tried anything unless he was certain he could do it perfectly. The villagers would sometimes whisper about him, shaking their heads and saying, “He’s too precious, that boy. Too afraid to take a single step unless he knows the ground won’t crack beneath him.”

One cold autumn evening, an old woman came through the village market. She was bent over with age, her face a map of wrinkles, and her eyes sharp as hawk’s claws. The villagers muttered and gave her wide berth, for it was said she was a witch, one who lived deep in the woods where no sane person would dare go.

Peter, of course, stayed well away from her as she hobbled past. But the old woman stopped suddenly and turned her piercing gaze toward him.

“You there,” she croaked, “you’re the precious one, aren’t you?”

Peter froze. He didn’t like to be noticed, especially not by someone so strange. “I—I suppose so,” he stammered.

The old woman’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Preciousness can be a curse, you know,” she said. “Too afraid to fail, too afraid to fall. But let me tell you something, boy—anything worth doing is worth doing badly.”

Peter frowned, unsure what to say. It sounded ridiculous to him. “But if you do something badly, it’s not worth doing at all,” he said.

The old woman chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “Oh, but you’ll see, boy. You’ll see soon enough.”

With that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving Peter feeling unsettled.

That night, Peter couldn’t sleep. The old woman’s words echoed in his head, and the moon cast long, eerie shadows on his walls. He tossed and turned until, at last, he drifted into a restless slumber.

In his dreams, Peter found himself standing before a dark, tangled forest. The trees loomed over him, their twisted branches like skeletal fingers, and the path before him was choked with thorns. But beyond the woods, he could see a distant, shimmering light. It called to him, pulling at his heart.

A voice—soft but strong—whispered in his ear, “The light is what you seek, but the path is treacherous. You must go through the woods, and the woods do not care if you are careful. Only that you try.”

Peter hesitated. The woods were terrifying, full of shadows and dangers unknown. But the light…it was so beautiful, so pure. He wanted to reach it, but what if he stumbled? What if he lost his way or got hurt?

As Peter stood trembling at the edge of the forest, a wolf appeared, its fur dark as midnight and its eyes gleaming like cold steel. It padded silently to his side, watching him with an almost human intelligence.

“If you are too precious, boy,” the wolf growled softly, “you will never leave this spot. The woods will stay dark, the light forever distant. But if you are brave enough to fail…perhaps you’ll find your way.”

Peter felt a chill down his spine. Could he do it? Could he step forward, knowing he might fail, knowing he might do things badly?

The wolf tilted its head. “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly,” it said, echoing the witch’s words. And with that, it turned and disappeared into the trees.

Peter took a deep breath. His heart pounded in his chest, but something stirred within him—a flicker of courage. He stepped forward, into the dark woods.

The thorns caught at his clothes, tearing at the fabric. He stumbled over roots, scratched his hands on rough bark, and more than once, he nearly turned back. The fear of doing things wrong gnawed at him, whispering that he should stay on the safe path. But he kept moving forward, though his legs ached, though his heart quaked with every step.

As he journeyed deeper into the woods, the shadows seemed to close in on him. He tripped and fell, his knees scraping against sharp rocks, and tears stung his eyes. “I can’t do this,” he whispered. “I’m not good enough.”

But then, a faint voice whispered through the trees: Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.

Peter pushed himself up, wiping the dirt from his face. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t doing it perfectly. He was doing it. He was moving forward, and that was enough.

And slowly, the woods began to change. The shadows seemed less menacing, the thorns parted more easily. His steps became steadier, even if they weren’t flawless. He kept moving, kept trying, until at last, he reached the other side of the forest.

There, bathed in golden light, stood the most beautiful castle Peter had ever seen. The air around it shimmered with warmth, and a sense of peace settled over him. He had made it. Not because he had done everything perfectly, but because he had dared to do it badly.

As Peter approached the castle, the old witch from the village appeared once more, though now her face seemed kinder, softer.

“You see now, don’t you?” she said. “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly. You would have stayed frozen on the edge of the woods forever if you had waited to be perfect.”

Peter nodded. He understood now. It wasn’t about being flawless or doing things without mistakes. It was about stepping into the unknown, about trying, about learning. He looked down at his scraped hands and dirt-covered clothes and smiled.

From that day on, Peter was no longer afraid of doing things badly. He painted pictures with messy strokes, built towers that wobbled, and tried new things with eagerness, knowing that even if he stumbled, he would learn and grow. And each time he took a step, the world opened up a little more, full of light and possibilities.

The End.