January has been about sharing the Still Mountain story on this blog by dropping in excerpts and just letting them be. I want to pause a moment and invite you to explore your core story by using one of the features on this site. Go to the Journeys page and click on Still Mountain Journey to get started. Simple pick one of the story generators available with my AI StoryWeaver and begin. Here is one I created by using the gpt myself. If you decide to go give a try, just remember to copy your story and paste it somewhere in Word or where ever to save it. StoryWeaver does not save the chats.  

There is a young girl who has traveled a very long way to a distant mountain village. She knows that she will find “her people” there but is not sure what will be required of her before she can arrive there. Her name is Sil. It is spring.

Beneath her feet there is a slight rumbling sound and a small crater opens. It is filled with hot lava. She is afraid and unsure of what this means and how it may interfere with her path to the mountain and her people.

While she pauses, searching inside for answers, the crater widens. It opens wider and wider and wider and she is suddenly standing just on the edge of it. She begin to walk slowly around it's edge noting that even as she walks the opening grows wider and wider yet. It looks hot. And scary. And just a little bit exciting.

Everything in her want to stay safe. And everything in her wants to jump into that crater, to feel the heat and the burn and the reconstruction of it all. But instead she walks. She walks for ten years, and then another ten. Everytime the urge to jump in and be consumed overcomes her she walks with even more determination. A decade becomes two, then three, then even four. She knows she is aging, that time has not paused at her first moment of awareness but it seems the more she walk and the more time passes the harder it is for her to even consider the consequences of that leap intot the fired. It makes her feel sad, that her fear and her doubt and her lack of bravery have kept her from that lovely mountain place beyond and her people. She thinks she cannot bear to spend yet another decade or five walking this rim. Or worse, to just lay down when she can no longer walk and to end that way alone, without her people.

Suddenly she hears music, voices singing, harmoniums droning, drums beating. It is the most beautiful sound she has ever heard. It feels like it is calling her to come and it is coming from the mountain, from her people, an invitation, a waiting, a sigh and a sign that if not now, when? If not here, where? As she listens to the distant music, it quells the many voices in her head that have told her not to leap, not to burn too hotly, not too dream to big, not too reach too far. Those voices seem weak and measly now that she has heard such beautiful music. They cannot hurt her. They cannot disuade her. They cannot weaken her resolve. She wants to burn brighter, hotter, and make big flames leap and she wants it now. She steps off the edge and into the fire. Smoke rises and dances around her. They form women, so many other women dancing together in smokey images and those formless forms, so powerful, pull her straight out of the fire and up to the mountain. The only parts that got burned away were the parts of her robes and wrappings that no longer fit or belonged. They were gone.

Your turn. Go to StoryWeaver and try it. 

Marcus lay on his back in the grass at the edge of the garden, his hands folded behind his head, staring up at the sky.  The clouds were scattered and slow moving, as if they had nowhere particular to go.  He named them as they drifted past—first a dog, then a woman with her hair piled high, then a long dragon whose tail dissolved into nothing.  The ground beneath him was warm, and the smell of turned earth clung to his hands and clothing.  For a moment, the voices in his head were quiet.

He thought of Elsinor.  He did not try to summon her, did not call her name aloud, but simply let the image of her come when it wished.  She appeared to him as she always did—barefoot, her dress brushing her knees, her hair falling around her face like the branches of a willow.  He wondered if she was real in the way other people were real, or if she belonged to some other layer of the world, one he could touch only when he was very still.

Without warning, the air around him seemed to shift.  The light dimmed slightly, as if a cloud had moved across the sun, though when he looked there was no cloud overhead.  He sat up quickly, his heart beating fast, and saw her standing a short distance away near the trees.

“You came,” he said, not knowing whether he was speaking aloud or thinking the words.

“I didn’t mean to,” Elsinor said.  “I was just walking.  And then I was here.”

They stood facing one another, uncertain.  Marcus noticed how young she was, younger than he had first imagined, and wondered what kind of courage it took for her to stand there so calmly.  He felt suddenly ashamed of his fear, of his hiding, of the rope still coiled in the shed behind him.

“I don’t know how to get to where you are,” he said.  “I don’t know how to leave this place.”

Elsinor took a step closer.  “You don’t leave,” she said gently.  “You come.  It isn’t somewhere else.  It’s just…quieter.”

The words settled between them like seeds dropped into soil.  Marcus did not understand them, not fully, but something in him recognized their truth.  For the first time in a long while, he felt the faintest pull toward staying. 

Reflection
As you sit with this scene, notice what happens when nothing is forced—no escape, no solution, just presence. What does quieter mean to you, right now?

“Are you Marcus?”

“I am.  Are you Elsinor?”

“Yes.  What am I doing here?  What are you doing here?”

The poor girl looked so confused that it made him laugh.  “Good question.  Are we dreaming?”

She nodded and said, “I think we are.  I’ve never had a common dream before—and I sure never actually met the person I was dreaming about.”

“Me either.”

She smiled.  “It’s pretty weird.  Are you real?”

Marcus pinched his arm.  “I think so.”  He reached out and pinched her arm.

“Ouch.”

Marcus smiled and said, “Yep, we’re both real.”

A moment to reflect
Have you ever shared a moment with someone where the rules of time, place, or explanation simply didn’t apply — and yet it felt undeniably real?

Marcus fell asleep thinking of his mother singing on a stage.  He had been stunned by her confession—and saddened.  He thought of song birds flying and flying off and away from this place.  One of the small birds suddenly broke from the formation and sailed his way.  As it came closer and closer, it shifted its shape and became the wonderful dragon he’d met earlier in his story.

Marcus was suddenly not in his bed but standing in a moon-lit meadow watching Samika approach from far, far away.  He waited, feeling excited and no longer so alone.  His feet were tapping the earth in a little dance that grew from somewhere in his body.  It was cool but he felt like his body was humming with warmth.

When Samika grew closer, he saw that there was another person on his back—a different rider.  The dragon landed in the clearing, and a young girl jumped off his back and came running toward Marcus.  It’s her, he thought.  The girl in the glen. Marcus felt suddenly shy to actually be seeing the girl he had penned so many stories about.  He wondered if he had created her from the stories, or if he had simply plucked the story out of the sky like he had the dragon.

Marcus looked at Samika and thought the dragon was smiling.  Do dragons smile?  And then Samika was gone, evaporated into the trees surrounding the meadow, and the girl was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

Marcus didn’t know what to say.  “Hi, yourself.”

A moment to reflect
Have you ever met someone — in a dream, a story, or a quiet knowing — who felt familiar before you knew why?

The Elders track their history back only a few hundred years, infant time in the longer history of the Stone People. Even so, these human Elders who call themselves simply “The Storytellers” have held the stories from all time and understand that all stories arise from Still Mountain as naturally as rain flows down its slopes. Their early prophets saw a time when stories themselves would be threatened by a too-rapidly changing world. Their mission was to preserve not only the Story Board game, but the generative nature of stories themselves. They saw this generative quality as the primary force of the creative universe. Without it, all of earth would wither and die.

None of the current Elders, except perhaps Simon, knew the exact origins of the Story Board. An earlier version of the board was preserved under glass and is thought to be a thousand years old. Its images, drawn on a tanned hide, were so beautiful that sometimes Simon did his morning prayers before the glass case trying to feel in his own fingers the energy of the one who had drawn such images.

he tanned hide traced a trail of spaces around and around in an ever-tightening spiral toward the center where Still Mountain was drawn. The green of the forests was a fresh, spring green, the white of The Great Desert of Lost Ideas as white as bone, and the dusty brown of Still Mountain itself looked as if the hand that had painted it had just put his brush down that morning.

Simon was the Master Storyteller and the grandfather of Still Mountain Camp. Simon knew that when the maker came for him (should that time ever arrive, he was unsure) his only regret would be that he must leave this game board behind for yet larger game boards as yet unknown.

Reflection
What is something you tend quietly, knowing it matters more than you can explain?

Still Mountain keeps its distance from the larger range of mountains forming a ridge from east to west. It is not stand-offish, this mountain, but rather preserves its solitude and its silence for a very special purpose. It can tolerate no interference from the younger mountain ranges with their deep rumbles and grumbles as they still react to whatever ancient upheaval disturbed their own flat quietude.

Still Mountain is not high, less than five-thousand feet above sea level, but it has stood unmoving for millions of years while the wind and rain soothed all of its sharp edges to soft curves and valleys. Many ancient races have occupied the place behind Still Mountain; animals and plants, the people and, of course, the first occupants which are the mountain itself—the Stone Family.

It makes sense that all legends have declared Still Mountain as the birthplace of story. It also makes sense that the human Elders, in their effort to preserve the storytelling tradition, would locate their main encampment and training school there. Their village is on the north side of the mountain hidden entirely from the eyes of all the other villages that dot the valley between Still Mountain and the Southern Range.

The Elders track their history back only a few hundred years, infant time in the longer history of the Stone People. Even so, these human Elders who call themselves simply “The Storytellers” have held the stories from all time and understand that all stories arise from Still Mountain as naturally as rain flows down its slopes.

Reflection
Notice what holds still beneath everything that moves.

Simon leaned his back against the cool wall of the cavern and meditated quietly for awhile. Finally, when his mind had cleared of all worries and concerns, he got up and lit a lamp and wound his way through the tunnels to the very back room of the cavern. There was a small chamber at the end of a long tunnel and in it was a Storyboard Game even older than the one under glass. It was painted on a skin and he kept it rolled, tied, and stored in the little chamber.

The game pieces were all carved from turquoise, tourmaline, and other natural stones, each one crudely shaped into animal forms—a bear, a dog, a tortoise. He unrolled the hide and smoothed it out on the floor of the chamber and put the lamp nearby so he could see the beautiful images, faded over time but still clear to the eye.

He picked up the small bear and a delicate little bird and placed them at the starting place. “Marcus,” he said aloud as he placed the bear. “Elsinor,” he said as he placed the bird. He threw the tile and began.

A quiet reflection
When you place the pieces of a story on the board, do you believe you are choosing—or remembering?

It was late in the evening when Simon left his cabin. The rest of the camp was preparing to sleep and the light had not yet left the treetops. Tonight, he thought, he needed to spend in the cave. On the path to his special place, he felt an acute awareness of all that was around him. He heard insects buzzing, saw a peculiar shimmer in the green of the new spring grasses poking up. It was an odd gift given to him by Lenora when she passed—that all of his love for her would be transferred to a love of the small worlds of nature. He understood the language of birds, rabbits, squirrels—even the rodents. He thought of old wood trees as brothers.

As he approached the opening to the canyon, he saw the shadow of his cavern—far too roomy to be called a cave. The earth beneath his feet hummed a welcome and he smiled, tap tapping his feet in a little dance step to offer his own hello. The opening to his stone room was small and he had to duck and tuck his long frame into it. The stone room was nearly invisible from any direction, which Simon appreciated. Stray walkers seemed to pass right by without ever discovering it.

Simon had spent hundreds of years in this room. It is what the Old Ones required of him in exchange for his betrayal. Every hundred years he must retreat and spend another hundred years in this room before reemerging into the world. This respite prevents a mystery from growing around a man who never dies—and it protects the privacy of the Stone Family—his family.

There are others like Simon, males and females of the Stone Clan who have forsaken everlasting life to walk among the earth in a human body. Usually, this defection is caused by love. But it is rare. Simon has only met one other—Josia. Although a stone is sometimes allowed this passage into human life, the reverse is never allowed. A human cannot directly become stone although they often infuse their own enduring energies into a particular stand of granite, or a single needle-like outcropping. The energy of the spirit is not different between the races—only the form.

Lenora was generous enough to leave a bit of her spirit here, in this cavern. Simon knew this because he could feel her here. Sometimes he cannot resist greeting her with a gentle, “Hello, my love.” But today, he is on another mission.

A quiet reflection
What part of you has been required to disappear for a time in order to protect something larger?

Master Simon was troubled by Elsinor’s dreams. He couldn’t quite figure what it was that troubled him. She was very young, but it is more than that. He thought the boy, Marcus, was a real person in real trouble. He scanned the empty dining hall, the separate tables with the now-closed story board games on each table. That so-called “game” was no game. He knew that. It held too many mysteries, revealed far too much to be just a game.

He sat down at one of the tables and opened the game board. Each game was a replica of the early version which was protected under glass. He put his finger on the center image, of Still Mountain. Just touching an image of that sacred place opened his mind to all he had seen and done, to the many grievous errors he had made along his own story path.

Most people had no idea that life was simply a story unfolding. He knew that most people thought we were caught in a swirl of events over which we have no control but, in truth, Simon reminded himself, we constantly draw the life choice cards, make our decisions, and pray for the best.

He placed his finger on the path of the game board and followed its twists and turns to the center. Another little known fact was that on the reverse side of the tanned hide protected beneath glass was a second game. It is the reverse of the spiral he now traces. That path began at Still Mountain, the source of life itself, and then led the traveler back into life.

He folded the game board up and collected the small bead people into the cloth bag and carried them to the cupboard. When he turned around, Suny was there.

A quiet reflection
Where in your own life does the “game” turn out not to be a game at all?

Elsinor and Sarah held their hands out at their sides, palms up, knuckles down toward the earth. The stillness did seem to enlarge, broken only by the occasional birdsong or the sound of the wind gently moving through the tree tops.

Sarah whispered, “How will I know the difference between the sound of my own heart beating and the earth’s?”

She thought a moment. The words eased into her mind as if carried on the breeze. She said, “You can’t. They are the same.”

Across the valley a young boy was lying on his back in a small clearing in the forest behind his house. It was so quiet he could hear his own heart beating. It was all that let him know he was alive.

Marcus rolled over on his stomach and put his ear to the earth. Sometimes, if he quieted his thoughts, even his own breathing, he could feel a rhythmic thumping beneath the surface of the earth. It made him feel small, but a good kind of small, as if he was just a part of all things and not separate and alone.

Where in your life do listening and belonging become the same thing?

Master Simon was troubled by Elsinor’s dreams. He couldn’t quite figure what it was that troubled him. She was very young, but it is more than that. He thought the boy, Marcus, was a real person in real trouble.

He scanned the empty dining hall, the separate tables with the now-closed storyboard games on each table. That so-called “game” was no game. He knew that. It held too many mysteries, revealed far too much to be just a game.

He sat down at one of the tables and opened the game board. Each game was a replica of the early version which was protected under glass. He put his finger on the center image, of Still Mountain. Just touching an image of that sacred place opened his mind to all he had seen and done, to the many grievous errors he had made along his own story path.

Most people had no idea that life was simply a story unfolding. He knew that most people thought we were caught in a swirl of events over which we have no control but, in truth, Simon reminded himself, we constantly draw the life choice cards, make our decisions, and pray for the best.

Simon forced his mind back to the practical concerns of the day—Marcus, and Elsinor’s dream. He must go to the village and poke about to discover if there is a sad boy, a dark house, a wily father. He would go first thing in the morning.

A quiet reflection
What do you sense before you understand it—and how do you know when it asks for your attention?

Across the valley a young boy was lying on his back in a small clearing in the forest behind his house. It was so quiet he could hear his own heart beating. It was all that let him know he was alive. What would it be like to not be alive, he wondered? To be dead?

He felt like the center pin of a pinwheel, as if the spike in his middle kept his whole family spinning. Middle child, caught between his mother's secret love of stories and his father's hatred of "tales and fancy." He can't serve both to save his own soul, and he was so tired.

He didn't like to think about death, and yet sometimes it simply jumped into his mind and teased his thoughts in that direction. To be gone from this place—forever? Perhaps the next place would be a better one—perhaps Samika is there waiting for him, even calling him.

Marcus rolled over on his stomach and put his ear to the earth. Sometimes, if he quieted his thoughts, even his own breathing, he could feel a rhythmic thumping beneath the surface of the earth. It made him feel small, but a good kind of small, as if he was just a part of all things and not separate and alone.

Yes, if he were dead, they would put him in the earth and he would be home at last.

Where do you listen when the world feels too heavy to carry alone?

None of the current Elders, except perhaps Simon, knew the exact origins of the Story Board. An earlier version of the board was preserved under glass and is thought to be a thousand years old. Its images, drawn on a tanned hide, were so beautiful that sometimes Simon did his morning prayers before the glass case trying to feel in his own fingers the energy of the one who had drawn such images.

The tanned hide traced a trail of spaces around and around in an ever-tightening spiral toward the center where Still Mountain was drawn. The green of the forests was a fresh, spring green, the white of The Great Desert of Lost Ideas as white as bone, and the dusty brown of Still Mountain itself looked as if the hand that had painted it had just put his brush down that morning.

Simon was the Master Storyteller and the grandfather of Still Mountain Camp. Simon knew that when the maker came for him (should that time ever arrive, he was unsure) his only regret would be that he must leave this game board behind for yet larger game boards as yet unknown.

A quiet reflection
What do you tend with care, knowing you may not see how its story ends?

Here is me taking a first run into StoryWeaver to see what the AI chat can do. It was fun to plug into so I'll share my story here.  

StoryWeaver Story from Jamie 

There is a young girl who has traveled a very long way to a distant mountain village. She knows that she will find “her people” there but is not sure what will be required of her before she can arrive there. Her name is Sil. It is spring.

Beneath her feet there is a slight rumbling sound and a small crater opens. It is filled with hot lava. She is afraid and unsure of what this means and how it may interfere with her path to the mountain and her people.

While she pauses, searching inside for answers, the crater widens. It opens wider and wider and wider and she is suddenly standing just on the edge of it. She begin to walk slowly around it's edge noting that even as she walks the opening grows wider and wider yet. It looks hot. And scary. And just a little bit exciting.

Everything in her want to stay safe. And everything in her wants to jump into that crater, to feel the heat and the burn and the reconstruction of it all. But instead she walks. She walks for ten years, and then another ten. Everytime the urge to jump in and be consumed overcomes her she walks with even more determination. A decade becomes two, then three, then even four. She knows she is aging, that time has not paused at her first moment of awareness but it seems the more she walk and the more time passes the harder it is for her to even consider the consequences of that leap intot the fired. It makes her feel sad, that her fear and her doubt and her lack of bravery have kept her from that lovely mountain place beyond and her people. She thinks she cannot bear to spend yet another decade or five walking this rim. Or worse, to just lay down when she can no longer walk and to end that way alone, without her people.

Suddenly she hears music, voices singing, harmoniums droning, drums beating. It is the most beautiful sound she has ever heard. It feels like it is calling her to come and it is coming from the mountain, from her people, an invitation, a waiting, a sigh and a sign that if not now, when? If not here, where? As she listens to the distant music, it quells the many voices in her head that have told her not to leap, not to burn too hotly, not too dream to big, not too reach too far. Those voices seem weak and measly now that she has heard such beautiful music. They cannot hurt her. They cannot disuade her. They cannot weaken her resolve. She wants to burn brighter, hotter, and make big flames leap and she wants it now. She steps off the edge and into the fire. Smoke rises and dances around her. They form women, so many other women dancing together in smokey images and those formless forms, so powerful, pull her straight out of the fire and up to the mountain. The only parts that got burned away were the parts of her robes and wrappings that no longer fit or belonged. They were gone.

The Elders track their history back only a few hundred years, infant time in the longer history of the Stone People. Even so, these human Elders who call themselves simply “The Storytellers” have held the stories from all time and understand that all stories arise from Still Mountain as naturally as rain flows down its slopes.

Their early prophets saw a time when stories themselves would be threatened by a too-rapidly changing world. Their mission was to preserve not only the Story Board game, but the generative nature of stories themselves. They saw this generative quality as the primary force of the creative universe. Without it, all of earth would wither and die.

None of the current Elders, except perhaps Simon, knew the exact origins of the Story Board. An earlier version of the board was preserved under glass and is thought to be a thousand years old. Its images, drawn on a tanned hide, were so beautiful that sometimes Simon did his morning prayers before the glass case trying to feel in his own fingers the energy of the one who had drawn such images.

The tanned hide traced a trail of spaces around and around in an ever-tightening spiral toward the center where Still Mountain was drawn. The green of the forests was a fresh, spring green, the white of The Great Desert of Lost Ideas as white as bone, and the dusty brown of Still Mountain itself looked as if the hand that had painted it had just put his brush down that morning.

A quiet reflection
What is it in your own life that feels worth protecting—not because it is fragile, but because it is generative?

Still Mountain keeps its distance from the larger range of mountains forming a ridge from east to west. It is not stand-offish, this mountain, but rather preserves its solitude and its silence for a very special purpose. It can tolerate no interference from the younger mountain ranges with their deep rumbles and grumbles as they still react to whatever ancient upheaval disturbed their own flat quietude.

Still Mountain is not high, less than five-thousand feet above sea level, but it has stood unmoving for millions of years while the wind and rain soothed all of its sharp edges to soft curves and valleys. Many ancient races have occupied the place behind Still Mountain; animals and plants, the people and, of course, the first occupants which are the mountain itself—The Stone Family. It makes sense that all legends have declared Still Mountain as the birthplace of story. It also makes sense that the human Elders, in their effort to preserve the storytelling tradition, would locate their main encampment and training school there.

Their village is on the north side of the mountain hidden entirely from the eyes of all the other villages that dot the valley between Still Mountain and the Southern Range. The Elders track their history back only a few hundred years, infant time in the longer history of the Stone People. Even so, these human Elders who call themselves simply “The Storytellers” have held the stories from all time and understand that all stories arise from Still Mountain as naturally as rain flows down its slopes.

Their early prophets saw a time when stories themselves would be threatened by a too-rapidly changing world. Their mission was to preserve not only the Story Board game, but the generative nature of stories themselves. They saw this generative quality as the primary force of the creative universe. Without it, all of earth would wither and die.

A quiet reflection
What feels ancient and steady beneath the surface of your own life. Feel free to leave a comment below.

(An excerpt from the unpublished novel, Still Mountain by P. Jamie Lee)

For the month of January 2026, I’m opening a story world.

Each day, I’ll be sharing a short excerpt from a longer, unfinished novel called Still Mountain. These are not lessons or essays. They are moments—small crossings, pauses, scenes where something subtle is happening beneath the surface. A boy writing in the dark. A girl listening too closely. A mountain that seems to be listening back.

Still Mountain is not a place--it is a state of being. It is the quiet center we sometimes touch in childhood, sometimes lose, and sometimes spend a lifetime circling back toward. The excerpts you’ll read this month come from many years of writing and revisiting this world. They’re offered here just as they are—unedited, unpolished—so they can do what stories do best: work on us sideways.

You don’t need to remember characters or follow a plot. You don’t need to “understand” anything. Let each piece stand on its own. Read it once. Or twice. Let the images come and go. If something stays with you, that’s enough.

It’s about letting the story meet you where you are.

As you read, notice one image, feeling, or line that lingers. You don’t need to do anything with it. Just notice what stays.

There is nothing more frustrating than expending a ton of energy and time on a project or a relationship only to realize that you didn't ask the right questions to begin with. 

 

Good questions are critical to making the kind of progress we want to make.  Good questions help us uncover what we want from our relationships, from our work, from our selves.  

 

Using The Circle Tool can bring clarity to the questions we are asking.  When we choose representatives for the many sides of a question we can get sudden clarity about what we want and how to get there.

 

Let's say I am confused about a relationship with a co-worker.  She and I have been good work partners and even friends, but suddenly something happens and a distance grows between us.  I don't know what happened--and I am not sure how to ask her.  Instead, I muddle it about in my head making up stories and wondering if I said or did something that offended her.  I begin to avoid her.  I grow more and more uncomfortable with our relationship, but because I don't know how to ask her what happened, I just sit and stew about it.

 

Finally, my discomfort forces me to take action.  I take out The Circle Tool and turn it to the blank side.  I choose a representative figure for myself and one for her. As soon as I set these two "people" on the board, a certain calm comes over me. 

 

I can see that I have placed the two at a distance from one another, but I am not sure why.  She is not "looking" at me but is turned away and looking outside of the edges of my board. This makes me curious.

 

Is there something on her mind? Something that perhaps has nothing to do with me?  What happens if I move closer to her, maybe even stand right behind her?  Does she need something from me? 

 

Many questions come to mind, and I can use The Circle Tool to let those questions arise.  I can experiment trying different approaches to closing the gap between us. This process puts time, distance and a certain perspective around the two women that I was not able to get to in my own spinning thoughts.

 

Moving myself closer to her feels right--so much better than the distancing I have been doing.  I resolve to take her aside and ask her if she needs help with anything right now.  I stop making things up in my mind that only put more distance between us.  I choose to respond rather than react.

 

Is there a relationship that you are struggling with?  Use The Circle Tool to set up a tabletop constellation and see if you can gain new insight into that relationship.