Art and Lore: Painting Legends, Crafting Chronicles: Arboris: Roots of Emotion

Roots of Emotion: A Journey Through Time and Feeling

Setting:

A small town nestled on the edge of Washington’s lush forests, where the quiet hum of nature is only interrupted by the occasional car or the calls of local wildlife. The town is surrounded by tall evergreen trees, the sound of rainfall is constant in the colder months, and the air smells fresh and earthy. This community, though small, has a deep connection to the land and a strong sense of environmental responsibility, with locals involved in everything from sustainable farming to protecting the nearby rivers.

Main Character:

Eli Jackson, a quiet, introspective person in their mid-thirties, lives alone in a small cabin at the town’s edge. Growing up in the area, they’ve always been in tune with the natural world, yet something about their emotional world has felt... stuck. Eli’s ancestors were deeply connected to the land, and the community values that same closeness to nature. However, Eli’s own emotions feel more complicated. The way they process their feelings is often at odds with their upbringing, leaving them questioning why they can’t seem to understand or articulate their own emotional experiences.

Backstory:

Eli spent much of their childhood and early adulthood trying to live up to the ideals of emotional restraint that were deeply ingrained in their family and community. "Don’t show your weakness" was a common refrain, one that served the Jackson family well in their history of surviving hard winters and difficult times. But now, as an adult, Eli feels the weight of this inherited emotional restraint. Their attempts to express their inner world—be it joy, sadness, or frustration—often feel fragmented. Instead of speaking out, Eli turns to the forest for solace. However, even in the silence of the trees, there’s a feeling that something is missing, like a gap between the simpler, more direct emotions of the natural world and their own complex inner state.

The Emotional Conflict:

Eli's struggle is clear: their emotional responses are both more intense and more difficult to navigate than what their family and community taught them to value. They feel disconnected from the instinctive, grounded simplicity that animals and the land seem to embrace. The technological advancements of the modern world, while helpful, seem to only complicate things further—creating pressure to keep up with an ever-evolving emotional landscape that seems at odds with the slower, nature-based rhythms of their upbringing.

The Book of Emotions

The rain fell softly over the small town of Firwood, a quiet village nestled on the edge of Washington’s dense, moss-covered forests. The sound of droplets tapping against the windows felt like a constant, gentle reminder of the world outside—a world that Eli had never truly understood—until now.

Eli, a figure often lost in thought, sat by the window of his modest home, watching the mist curl around the towering trees. It had been like this for weeks: grey skies, cool air, and an overwhelming sense of being on the edge of something larger. Perhaps it was the rain, or the way the trees seemed to whisper to each other in the wind, but Eli began to wonder if there was more to his emotions than he had ever realized.

His hometown was small, where everyone knew each other, but nobody truly talked. Conversations were always surface-level, and it was as if people were too busy keeping up with their lives to pause and think about the deeper currents that pulled at their hearts. The town’s rhythm was tied to the land—slow, steady, like the rain that soaked into the earth, nourishing the evergreens that towered above.

But Eli had started questioning this. Something about the way emotions seemed to be an afterthought in the world around him didn’t sit right. How could something as essential as emotion be so overlooked? Was this how people were meant to live—suppressing what they felt for the sake of practicality?

He stood up, walking to the small bookshelf that had sat in the corner of his living room for years. It was filled with books about survival, local history, and nature—but there was one book that Eli hadn’t touched in a long time: The Evolution of Emotion. It had been a gift from a mentor years ago, a reminder of something he had pushed to the back of his mind. Maybe now was the time to explore it.

With the book in hand, Eli sat back down by the window, his gaze once again turning to the mist-shrouded forest outside. He wondered: What had happened to human emotions? How had they evolved over time, and why did it feel like, for some people, emotions had become something to hide rather than understand?

As the rain continued to fall, Eli opened the first page. The journey into his own emotional evolution had just begun.

Eli flipped through the pages of The Evolution of Emotion, the faded cover and worn edges betraying the book’s age. He had read it once before, years ago, but it had never really resonated with him back then. Now, the words seemed to pulse with an urgency he hadn’t felt before.

The first chapter was a dry exploration of the biological origins of emotions. But as Eli moved through the text, he began to feel something shift inside him—an old, unfamiliar sense of curiosity. The chapter described how early humans’ emotional responses were tied directly to survival instincts. Fear kept them alert to danger, love helped them form social bonds, and joy reinforced actions that benefited the tribe. Emotions, it seemed, were not just reactions to life but integral parts of human survival.

He paused for a moment, staring out the window at the rain-soaked forest. How could something so crucial—something so deeply embedded in his being—be so easily dismissed? Eli had seen people in Firwood suppress their feelings without even realizing it. They were all too busy, too focused on surviving the daily grind, to let themselves feel deeply. Was that the way the world worked now? Had emotions been reduced to something less than they once were?

Eli turned the page and stumbled upon a passage that made him stop dead in his tracks. It read: As society evolved, so did the complexity of human emotion. What was once purely a response to stimuli—like fear of a predator or the need to find a mate—became increasingly nuanced, tied not just to survival but to identity, memory, and perception.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Identity. Memory. Perception. Were these emotional shifts simply the result of a changing world, or had something more profound happened to emotions themselves?

The sound of a twig snapping in the woods outside broke his thoughts. Eli stood up, the book still clutched in his hands, and walked slowly to the door. Something about that sound, sharp and sudden against the soft patter of rain, tugged at him. He stepped outside, the cold air biting at his skin, and gazed into the dark, misty forest.

He had always felt a deep connection to nature, but today it felt different—like the trees were watching him, waiting for something. Maybe he was on the edge of something, something deeper than just his own emotions. The forest, the rain, even the changing seasons—they all seemed to be whispering, asking him to listen.

As Eli stood there, the wind rustling the leaves above, a question formed in his mind: Was it possible to rediscover emotions that had been lost, buried beneath years of societal pressure and expectations?

The Whispering Woods

The chill of the rain seeped into Eli’s jacket as he stood at the edge of the forest. The mist curled low over the ground, tendrils of fog weaving between the trunks of cedar and pine like ghosts with stories to tell. He gripped The Evolution of Emotion tightly, its weight somehow grounding him in the moment.

He didn’t know why he’d stepped outside. The snap of a twig had pulled him, but now that he was here, it felt like the trees themselves were calling him. Their stillness wasn't silent — it was full of the hum of life. Raindrops tapped on leaves, the distant caw of a crow echoed from above, and somewhere deeper in the forest, he thought he heard the rhythmic thump of woodpecker strikes.

“Emotions are instinctual, ancient,” he thought, recalling a passage from the book. “But they’re also learned, shaped by everything we experience.”

He sat on the broad root of a cedar tree, the bark rough beneath his hands. His gaze wandered to the forest floor, where tiny mushrooms sprouted in clusters, bright pops of orange, red, and white. Their delicate forms pushed up from the soil, soft but persistent.

“Even the smallest things push through the weight of the world,” he muttered, brushing his thumb over the edge of a small mushroom cap. “If they can do it, so can I.”

For most of his life, emotions had felt like something to "handle" — to be managed, not explored. In school, he was told to stay focused and push his feelings aside to get through tests and deadlines. At home, emotions were seen as a private matter, not something to discuss openly. He remembered how his father would come home after long days at work, silent but tense, his jaw tight like a vice. His father never spoke of stress, sadness, or even joy — he just kept going.

Eli realized, in that moment, that he had been doing the same thing. Pushing through, not pushing up.

He closed his eyes, letting the cool, damp air wash over him. The steady rhythm of rain became his backdrop, like a metronome for his mind. In that stillness, he did something he hadn’t done in a long time — he listened to himself. Not to his thoughts, but to the quiet murmurs underneath.

At first, it was hard to hear. All he felt was the heaviness in his chest, the kind that settled there when days felt too long and nights felt too short. It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was something more like weight.

“What is this?” he wondered, pressing a hand to his chest. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t comfortable either. He breathed in deeply, as if that would give him clarity, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, as his breathing slowed, the weight shifted. It wasn’t leaving him, but it was becoming something he could feel more clearly. It was like turning on a light in a dim room — suddenly, everything had shape. The weight wasn’t formless anymore. It was a knot, tight but specific, tangled but real.

“Is this what I’ve been carrying this whole time?”

He thought back to the book, flipping through passages in his mind. It had said something about how emotions take form through perception. He wasn’t sure what that meant before, but now it made sense. This weight wasn’t just "stress" or "tension" — it had texture, a location, a presence.

He opened his eyes slowly, gazing at the forest once more. The fog still hung in the air, curling in slow, deliberate movements. Suddenly, he saw it differently. The fog wasn’t just "fog." It had its own weight and form, its own rhythm, like his emotions. The wind didn’t blow it away, it guided it. The fog yielded, swirled, and shifted — but it never disappeared.

“Maybe that’s what I need to do,” Eli whispered aloud. “Shift, not fight.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let his mind wander freely. His past, his memories, his fears, his hopes — he let them all rise to the surface. No more pushing them down. No more ignoring them. He would do what the fog did. Shift. Move. Reshape.

For the first time in a long time, Eli didn’t feel like he had to "fix" himself. He just had to understand himself.

The sound of wings startled him, and he glanced up to see a large, dark shape glide silently through the mist. A barred owl perched on a low-hanging branch, its eyes wide and round as it gazed at him. It blinked once, tilting its head as if curious.

“You see me, huh?” Eli smiled.

The owl blinked again, still watching him.

There was something about the owl's gaze that felt different from other animals. Crows and squirrels darted away from him, but the owl stayed, still and steady. It reminded him of how he felt just a moment ago, sitting in stillness with his own emotions.

He’d read somewhere that owls symbolize wisdom, but at that moment, it felt like the owl was something more. A witness.

“Alright,” Eli said softly, standing up from the cedar root. “Let’s see where this goes.”

He glanced at the book still in his hands, his fingers resting on its rough cover. He’d never really expected a book to change him, but this one was doing more than that. It wasn’t telling him what to feel — it was showing him how to feel. And for the first time, he wasn’t afraid to feel it.

As he turned to walk back toward his house, the rain felt less like a nuisance and more like part of the rhythm. It wasn’t trying to stop him. It was just there. Like his emotions, it didn’t need to be controlled. It needed to be felt.

Behind him, the owl watched until he disappeared from sight.

The Vision of Ancestors

Ancestral Reflection

The mist hangs thick in the forest, muffling sound and shrouding the world in quiet mystery. As Eli steps carefully over a bed of moss, his boot scuffs against something hard. Curious, he kneels, brushing aside the damp greenery to reveal a weathered stone. Its surface is smooth in some places and jagged in others, its shape resembling a worn fossil or a fragment of an ancient tool. A strange warmth rises in his chest as he holds it, his fingertips tracing the grooves as if decoding a message left behind.

He sits back on a fallen log, turning the stone in his hands. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, as though it holds more than its physical mass. He closes his eyes, breathing in the cool, rain-soaked air, and lets his mind drift.

Vision or Imaginative Sequence

The warmth in his chest spreads, and the sounds of the present fade. The faint tap of rain against leaves grows distant. In its place, he hears the distinct crackle of a fire. When he opens his eyes, the forest is gone. He finds himself at the edge of a clearing encircled by shadowy figures. The figures are people — his ancestors — seated in a rough circle around a flickering campfire. Their faces are illuminated in flashes of orange and gold, their eyes reflecting the fire’s glow like the eyes of nocturnal creatures. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood and earth.

Some faces are weathered with age, others are youthful and sharp with intensity. A child clings to a parent, wide-eyed and alert, eyes darting toward the darkness beyond the firelight. Eli’s gaze follows theirs, and he senses it too — something unseen but present in the night beyond the ring of light. A distant growl echoes, low and resonant, from deep within the forest’s depths.

Fear. It vibrates through the circle, a shared awareness, not just within the child, but within every person. The tension of survival grips them, yet they do not flee. They stay close, eyes fixed on the fire, on each other. One of the older figures rises, their voice low but firm, speaking words Eli cannot fully understand, yet he knows the meaning. Stay together. Stay close. This bond of safety, this instinct to protect and be protected, roots itself deeply in him. He feels it in his own chest, mirrored in his modern fears — fear of isolation, fear of loss, fear of the unknown.

Time shifts. Another scene rises from the smoke. The figures around the fire are laughing now. A hunter holds up something — food, a successful catch — and the others cheer. Smiles split their faces, the kind of joy that fills the chest with warmth. It is not just relief at survival but celebration, connection. Hands reach out to pat the hunter on the back, to offer him water, to share in his triumph. Eli sees it for what it is: love. Not the romantic, idealized kind that fills modern songs and stories, but a love of kinship, of belonging, of shared purpose. It is the same feeling he remembers from childhood, when his family gathered after a long day and shared stories, meals, and warmth. A love that asks for nothing but togetherness.

The scene shifts once more. An elder now speaks alone, their hands moving in slow, deliberate gestures. Children sit close, listening wide-eyed, soaking in every word. The elder’s voice is calm but strong, weaving a story of something long ago — perhaps a hunt, a storm, or the lessons learned from an ancestor even older than them. Eli sees himself in those children. How many times had he leaned in to listen to a story, feeling that same quiet awe? The story becomes a thread, weaving through time, passing from elder to child, from generation to generation, embedding itself into the human heart as the foundation of curiosity, imagination, and wonder.

Emotional Revelation

The fire dims. The scene fades like mist in the sun, and the sounds of the modern forest return. The stone in his hand feels cold now, but its weight remains significant. Eli’s heart beats steadily, and his breath rises in slow, deliberate pulls. For a moment, he sits perfectly still, gazing at the stone. Then, with a quiet exhale, realization settles into him like a root digging deep into the soil.

His fear of public speaking is not unlike the fear of the predator’s growl in the dark. His feelings of joy when his friends celebrate his achievements mirror the hunter’s triumphant return. His awe while listening to a story matches the children’s rapt attention as the elder spoke. The forest, the fire, the ancient figures — they are all still within him. The form of his world may have changed, but the essence of his emotions remains the same.

He is not burdened by emotions. He is guided by them. They are not obstacles to be overcome or suppressed. They are signals, echoes of something ancient and wise, growing more intricate with each generation. Instinctive fear became social anxiety. The love of kin became the desire for belonging. Awe evolved into the pursuit of knowledge and wonder. But at their core, they are the same threads of being that tied his ancestors together around that ancient fire.

Eli gazes at the stone one last time, his fingers curling around it with quiet reverence. The rain continues its soft drumming on the leaves above. He stands, feeling his feet press firmly into the soil, connected to something ancient, something enduring. The mist no longer feels like a wall of uncertainty but a veil of possibility. His steps are slow but steady as he continues his walk deeper into the forest, carrying the wisdom of his ancestors within him, every beat of his heart a reminder that his emotions are roots that have always been there, unseen but ever-present, ready to guide him home.

The Tree of Emotions (Root, Trunk, Branches)

The forest hums with quiet life, each breath of wind carrying the scent of earth and leaves. Eli's gaze is drawn upward, following the silhouette of a towering, ancient tree that rises like a monument to time itself. Its gnarled roots twist into the ground, its sturdy trunk stands firm, and its branches reach into the fog-draped sky. Something about the tree feels familiar, almost sacred. A thought stirs within him — this tree is not just a tree. It is a reflection of his inner world.

Roots: Primal Instincts

Eli kneels down, brushing his fingers over the exposed roots that snake across the ground like veins. They disappear into the earth, unseen but undeniably present. "These are the first emotions," he thinks. Fear, love, hunger, the will to survive — all buried deep, invisible yet essential. These roots are the oldest part of the tree, and they remind him of the instincts that lie within himself. Though unseen, they support everything above. "Without them," he realizes, "there would be no tree at all."

Trunk: Core Endurance

He rises to his feet and places his palm against the rough bark of the trunk. The surface is solid, unyielding, and steady. His fingers trace the grooves, feeling the passage of time in each weathered ridge. "This is where strength resides," Eli reflects. The trunk holds it all together. It is the bridge between the hidden and the seen, connecting primal roots to the world above. Here, he senses the core emotions that guide him daily — curiosity, connection, growth. Unlike the raw instincts below, these emotions have been shaped by time and experience. They endure. They are steady. The weight of storms and seasons may test them, but they remain. He presses his hand firmly, feeling that strength echo in himself. "This is what keeps me upright," he realizes.

Branches: The Reach of Complexity

His eyes lift to the canopy, where countless branches twist and tangle, each one reaching toward a different part of the sky. Some stretch boldly into the open air, while others curl and double back. No two are the same. Sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow. "This is the complexity of being human," Eli muses. The branches represent the more intricate emotions — ambition, anxiety, hope, doubt, and self-reflection. They grow in unpredictable directions, and sometimes they break. But they are also alive. "I am one of these branches," he realizes with a quiet smile. Each branch has its own path, but all are connected to the same source of strength. Even when they twist and turn, they belong.

Personal Realization: The Whole Tree

Eli steps back, taking in the full majesty of the tree. The roots hidden below. The trunk standing firm. The branches reaching wide and wild. Suddenly, he sees himself in it all. "I am not a visitor here," he thinks. "I am part of this." His emotions — raw like roots, enduring like the trunk, and complex like the branches — are not mistakes or flaws. They are natural, ancient, and vital. No part is more or less important than the other. They each have their role to play. And just like the tree, his growth will be messy, unpredictable, and beautiful.

For the first time in a long while, Eli feels a profound sense of peace. The weight of trying to "overcome" his emotions lifts. Instead, he sees them for what they are — living, growing, ever-changing parts of a much larger whole. He glances up once more, watching the branches sway gently in the breeze, and he smiles.

The tree is not just a metaphor. It is a mirror. It is home.

Conclusion: Return with Insight

Return Home

As the golden glow of the setting sun filters through the leaves, Eli walks back toward town. His pace is slow but steady, each step feeling more intentional than the last. The air is cool, carrying with it the rich scent of rain-soaked earth. The rhythmic crunch of his footsteps on the forest path echoes his quiet reflections. With each step, his thoughts shift from the forest's vast, ancient world to the familiar streets of his town. But something about it feels different now. What once seemed quiet, shallow, and mundane now feels like part of a larger, living system — just like the forest. The streetlights flicker on as dusk settles in, their glow softer and warmer than before, like the light of a campfire shared by unseen kin.

Emotional Shift

Eli pauses at the edge of town, gazing at the rows of houses and the soft glow of windows. The sounds of distant conversations, clinking dishes, and the hum of evening life reach his ears. Before, these sounds might have seemed ordinary or even intrusive. But now, they feel like the rustle of leaves or the distant calls of birds — a natural part of the living world. His heart feels lighter. For so long, he'd seen his emotions as problems to "solve" or "fix." Anxiety had felt like a flaw, sadness like a weight to be lifted. But now, he understands that emotions are not burdens. They are as natural as the roots of a tree, the strength of its trunk, and the ever-changing branches that reach for the sky. Each feeling is a part of something much older, something shared by ancestors and creatures alike. This realization fills him with a profound sense of belonging.

Closing

Back at home, Eli sits by his window. The rain continues to fall, tracing soft trails down the glass. He rests his head against the cool pane, watching the world beyond it. Drops of rain slide and merge, like threads weaving together unseen stories. Before, he might have seen the rain as a symbol of isolation — a curtain between him and the world. But now, it feels different. The rain is no longer a boundary. It is connection. Each droplet, each sound of water on stone and soil, reminds him of the forest, his ancestors, and the unseen bonds that link all living things. The warmth of his home, the hum of distant thunder, and the soft glow of his room feel less like a retreat from the world and more like a sanctuary within it. For the first time in a long while, Eli feels truly at peace. Not because everything is "fixed" — but because he no longer needs it to be.

Moral Message

The moral message of Roots of Emotion: A Journey Through Time and Feeling could center around themes of emotional awareness, self-discovery, and the importance of connection with nature and oneself. Here are a few possible moral takeaways:

Emotions Are Essential, Not Secondary
Suppressing emotions for the sake of "practicality" leads to disconnection from oneself and others. By embracing and understanding our emotions, we achieve greater self-awareness, empathy, and personal growth.
Growth Comes from Reflection and Curiosity
Just as nature's roots seek water deep underground, human growth comes from reflecting on the unseen depths of our emotional selves. True strength is found not in avoidance, but in exploration and understanding.
Nature as a Mirror for the Soul
Nature’s cycles—growth, decay, and renewal—parallel our emotional experiences. Like the trees and rain, emotions ebb and flow, and allowing them to run their course can bring clarity and peace.
Connection Over Isolation
While the townfolk keep their emotions on the surface, Eli's journey suggests that deeper connection—both with oneself and with others—requires courage to face vulnerability. True understanding blossoms when we aren't afraid to feel deeply.