Testing the latest frontier models with a creative writing task - November 2025
While out for a walk this evening, an analogy popped into my head comparing mindfulness in the context of mental health to flexibility in the context of physical health. I decided to use this as the core of a prompt to test the latest frontier models for creative writing capabilities. This is a long post as it contains a lengthy story generated by each of four models:
ChatGPT 5.1 Extended Thinking
Gemini 3 Pro Thinking
Grok 4.1 Thinking Beta
Opus 4.1
A few observations:
When given vague/open ended prompts, models can go in very different directions. These four answers are all quite unique.
For the most part, I would say the models did quite well at conveying a nuanced subject using creative stories.
They all had strengths and weaknesses. On first read and with no formal scoring rubric, my preference was the story from ChatGPT 5.1. It was creative while still remaining logically consistent and conveying all the key information. I feel like I could print that off without any edits. Opus 4.1 is a close second in my opinion. The answer from Gemini 3 was too short and left out some key ideas. Grok 4.1 was headed in a very interesting direction but probably veered too far into being creative.
Please find below the three prompts that I wrote and provided to the models in sequential order. The first prompt is an intentionally rough set of ideas (it even includes a typo or two). I have not included any of the responses to prompt 1 or 2. I have included the full responses to prompt 3 which was the request to write a creative story.
Prompt 1:
I’d like to write an article to help youth (15-20) understand the importance of meditation.
For starters, please review the following to assess whether the message is reasonable and accurate as a general lesson.
The basic framework is:
When we think of a healthy body, we think of three key characteristics:
Strength
Cardio
Flexibility
When we think of the most healthy people, they have a good mix of all three. When people focus only on one, they are not as balanced and healthy as they could be. We can even see this in people that are considered athletes such as power lifters or marathon runners that may excel in one area but would not qualify as healthy by many metrics because of their lack of balance.
We can also recognize that with those three areas, there are healthy and unhealthy training activities. For example, if you lift too heavy you might hurt yourself and too light and it’s a waste of time. If you train for cardio during a day when the air quality is very poor, you may do more harm than good.
And so when we think of the body, we are looking to have a balance of all three characteristics and we want to be doing high quality training exercises.
Now let’s think of the mind, there are three analogous characteristics.
First, we have our ability to perform tasks that require attention. We may compare this to strength in the physical body but it’s just a rough comparison. This is a broad category. High quality exercises include doing math and reasoning, engaging in conversation, and doing some tasks that require a lot of concentration such as complex woodworking or cooking. Low quality exercises involving this characteristic are generally classified as distraction activities such as watching TV.
Secondly, we have our default mode network or our wandering mind. This is the stream of thoughts that runs through our head, often reflecting on events of the past or thinking about events of the future. We may compare this to cardio. Low intensity activity that we can keep up for great lengths of time as we daydream through periods of the day when we are not otherwise paying attention to something. For example, this commentary is often at play when we are walking or in the shower. High quality use of our wandering mind may be careful retrospection on something important that happened to help solidify a lesson, strategizing about an important event in the near future or even optimistic daydreaming about what lies ahead. Low quality exercises include ruminating and stressing about events in the past or future.
Third, we have a characteristic that many people, especially in the western world, completely ignore. In fact, many people would not think of this one at all. This is the deep calm of a rested mind during meditation. We can draw an analogy to this and flexibility. This characteristic describes your ability to simply sit in the present moment and observe the world without judgement or further thought. It is also known as mindfulness. Developing competence in this third characteristic is key to being mentally healthy.
Why don’t people in the western world develop this today:
They aren’t taught. Unlike strength and cardio, it’s not a part of our standard eduction.
Like stretching, it feels like you are doing nothing and it is hard to measure progress.
It is hard to develop this competence.
Prompt 2:
Please turn this into a full article. It should be written as an education article that you might find as a short section in a textbook. It should not use terminology that is too technical.
Prompt 3:
Please now turn this into a story. It should be written as a wise old man sharing lessons with a young woman and young man who are in their late teens. Within this larger story, the old man may share short stories and allegories to communicate the key points. Please be creative and feel free to add additional points or concepts that may have been absent from the original brief or from the article.
ChatGPT 5.1 Extended Thinking
The old man always chose the same bench.
It sat halfway up a hill, just above the basketball court and below a small stand of quiet trees. From there you could see most of the park: kids at the playground, joggers looping the path, someone’s dog occasionally breaking free and turning it all into a comedy chase.
That afternoon, two teenagers climbed the hill and dropped onto the bench beside him. He knew them a little.
Leah, seventeen, hoodie half-zipped, dark hair tied up in a messy knot. Always some kind of exam or assignment hanging over her.
Noah, nineteen, track pants, headphones around his neck, legs still bouncing with left-over energy from practice.
They had started saying hello to him weeks ago. Today, they came with a purpose.
“So,” Noah began, pulling one earcup off, “our mom says you’re ‘into meditation.’” He made air quotes. “She said we should ‘ask you about it instead of scrolling TikTok all day.’”
Leah smirked. “I think that was a polite way of saying we’re stressed out and annoying.”
The old man chuckled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
“I am certainly ‘into’ sitting still,” he said. “But tell me first—what do you think meditation is?”
“A religious thing?” Leah said. “Like chanting in a temple?”
“A way to sit on the floor and regret every life choice that led to your legs falling asleep,” Noah added.
The old man laughed aloud at that.
“Both fair impressions,” he said. “But let me try another angle. Do either of you work out?”
“Track and soccer,” Noah said. “Three times a week. Plus whatever coach calls ‘optional’ conditioning.”
“Dance,” Leah said. “And sometimes yoga. Emphasis on sometimes.”
“Ah,” the old man nodded. “Excellent. Then we can start where you already understand.”
Three Kinds of Fitness
“Imagine,” he said, “we’re designing the perfect healthy body. What do we want?”
“Abs,” Noah said immediately.
“Functioning knees,” Leah countered.
The old man smiled.
“Underneath the selfies and knees, it usually comes down to three things:
Strength
Endurance
Flexibility”
They both nodded.
“Lift something heavy? That’s strength. Run five kilometers without stopping? Endurance. Touch your toes without your hamstrings complaining? Flexibility.
“Now, here is a small story.”
He leaned back, eyes drifting for a moment toward the jogging path.
“I once knew a man who could deadlift more than most people’s cars. Massive, like a walking refrigerator. Very proud of it. But one day, he visited my apartment. The elevator was broken. By the time we reached the fourth floor, he had to sit on the stairs. Face red, chest heaving. Strong, yes. Healthy? In one way. Unhealthy in another.
“I also knew a woman who ran and ran and ran. Thin as a blade of grass. One year she trained so hard for a marathon that she never stretched, barely ate, never lifted a single weight. Her heart was strong, but her joints and bones were not. She kept getting injured.”
He turned back to them.
“Do you see the pattern?”
“Too much of one thing, not enough of the others,” Leah said.
“Exactly. A healthy body needs all three. If you only chase one, you can look impressive and still not feel good, not function well, not last.”
He paused.
“And you also know there are smart and foolish ways to train, yes?”
“Like lifting way too heavy and tearing something?” Noah said.
“Or going for a run when the air quality is terrible,” Leah added. “We had smoke last summer. Our coach said absolutely no running outside.”
“Exactly,” the old man said. “So we want two things for the body:
Balance between strength, endurance, flexibility.
High-quality training, not just any random effort.”
He let that sink in for a moment, watching their faces.
“Now,” he said gently, “what do you think happens with the mind?”
The Mind’s Gym
“The mind also has its own versions of strength, endurance, and flexibility,” he said. “But because we can’t see them in a mirror, we often ignore them.”
Noah stretched his legs out in front of him. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Good,” the old man said. “First: mental strength.”
1. Focused Attention — Mental Strength
“This is your ability to pay attention to one thing and actually stick with it.
“When you:
Work through a difficult math problem and don’t give up at the first sign of confusion.
Practice piano and repeat the same passage until your fingers get it right.
Read a challenging book and stay with it instead of checking your phone every three sentences.
Really listen to someone when they’re telling you something important.
“You’re training your mind’s strength.”
“Okay,” Leah said slowly. “So doom-scrolling… is like lifting a one-pound weight.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “You’re moving your mind a lot, but not really challenging it. It’s like doing half a squat while holding a feather. Motion, but not growth.”
He glanced at Noah. “You know how in the gym, people sometimes do a set, then spend five minutes texting, then another set, then more texting?”
“That’s… most of us,” Noah admitted.
“In the mind, we do that too. A minute of homework, then phone. Back to homework. Then another notification. We keep breaking the set. The mental muscle never truly works.”
Leah sighed. “That is painfully accurate.”
“Now,” he said, “your schools and parents usually care a lot about this kind of mental strength. They call it ‘concentration,’ ‘focus,’ ‘discipline.’ So you’ve all been told to train this, one way or another.”
He held up a finger.
“But it’s only one part.”
2. The Wandering Mind — Mental Endurance
“The second part,” he continued, “is your wandering mind. The thoughts that drift in when you’re not fully focused.”
“You mean overthinking?” Leah asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But not always. Let me explain.
“Imagine you’re on a long bus ride. No music, no phone, nothing to read. What happens?”
“I invent entire fake conversations in my head,” Leah said.
“I replay the game I just played,” said Noah. “Every mistake. In high definition.”
The old man smiled.
“That drifting… that moving from memory to imagination to worry to daydream… that’s your mind’s version of cardio. It can go on and on, low and steady.
“This wandering can be very useful:
You replay a conversation and realize what you want to say next time.
You imagine the future and make a plan instead of just hoping.
You daydream about possibilities and feel motivated to try something new.
“But it can also turn into a kind of mental treadmill you can’t step off:
Replaying the same mistake on loop.
Worrying about something you cannot control.
Imagining everyone is thinking about you when they’re not.”
He looked at Noah. “You said you replay games in your head. Does that help?”
“Sometimes,” Noah said. “Like if I’m thinking about what I should’ve done instead. But other times I’m just… torturing myself.”
“So there is useful reflection,” the old man said, “and there is useless self-attack. The same wandering ability, used in different ways.
“Let me tell you a little story.”
The Story of the Two Dogs
“In a small village,” he began, “a farmer had two dogs.
“One was a wild, excited dog. It ran all over the fields, chased birds, barked at clouds. It woke up the baby, wasted the farmer’s time, and sometimes knocked over the milk.
“The other dog also loved to run. But the farmer had trained it. It still had energy, but it knew where to go. It chased foxes away from the chickens. It herded the sheep when they wandered near the road. It helped rather than harmed.
“The farmer’s neighbor asked, ‘How did you get one dog to help you and one to cause trouble?’
“The farmer replied, ‘I fed and trained one. I just let the other do whatever it wanted.’
“Our wandering mind is like those dogs. It will run. The question is: have we trained it to be helpful, or do we let it run wild?”
Leah stared at the basketball court below. “So when I lie awake imagining every possible way an exam can go wrong…”
“That,” the old man said, “is the untrained dog. Lots of running. No real help.”
“And when I think back on a game and see what I can actually work on at practice?” Noah asked.
“That is the trained dog,” he nodded. “Same energy. Different direction.”
He folded his hands.
“So we’ve covered:
Mental strength: focused attention.
Mental endurance: the wandering mind.
“There is one more piece. The one most people forget entirely.”
3. Mindful Presence — Mental Flexibility
The old man grew quiet for a moment. A breeze moved the leaves around them.
“Have you ever had a moment,” he asked, “where everything went oddly quiet inside? Maybe just for a few seconds?”
Leah frowned thoughtfully. “Sometimes when I’m dancing. Like, I stop thinking about the moves and I’m just… there.”
“For me it’s right after a race,” Noah said. “Not during—the middle is just pain and panic. But right after, when I’m lying on the grass, staring at the sky. Brain is empty for a bit.”
He nodded.
“That quiet, that sense of simply being present… that is a glimpse of mental flexibility.
“It’s your ability to:
Sit or stand without immediately chasing every thought.
Feel something—nervousness, anger, excitement—without being dragged around by it.
Notice, ‘Oh, my mind is wandering,’ and gently bring it back.
“Most people think of this as peace, calm, or mindfulness. But you can simply call it: being here, on purpose.”
He drew a little circle on the bench with his finger.
“Imagine your thoughts are like the weather: clouds, wind, rain, sun. Constantly changing. Most of us live like we are the weather: ‘I am angry. I am anxious. I am useless.’ We completely blend with whatever passes through.
“This third capacity lets you sit more like the sky: big enough for all of it, not destroyed by every storm.”
Leah watched his finger trace the circle.
“And meditation trains that?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Just as stretching trains flexibility, meditation trains the ability to rest in awareness. To see thoughts and feelings without getting tangled in all of them.”
Why No One Teaches This
Noah leaned back, hands behind his head.
“If it’s so important,” he said, “why don’t we learn this in school? We do PE. We do health class. We never do ‘mind class.’”
The old man smiled sadly.
“Some schools are starting. Slowly. But for a long time, in many places, people assumed that your mind was just… something you had. Like eye color. You used it to study or work, but you didn’t train how it relates to itself.
“There are three main reasons, I think.”
He held up one finger.
“First, you can’t see it. Nobody gets a six-pack of mindfulness. You can’t post a selfie of ‘my brain after ten minutes of meditation.’ So it doesn’t get much attention.”
Second finger.
“Second, it feels like doing nothing. Sitting still, watching your breath, noticing thoughts drift by. Compared to winning a game or solving a hard problem, it doesn’t feel very heroic.”
Third finger.
“Third, progress is subtle. You don’t suddenly float off the ground. Instead, you shout at your sibling a little less. You fall asleep a little faster. You recover from a bad day a little more quickly. These are real changes—but they’re quiet.”
He shrugged.
“And in a culture that loves loud results, quiet progress doesn’t always get much respect.”
Leah nodded slowly. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”
The Three Musicians
“Let me offer another little story,” the old man said.
“Imagine a band with three musicians:
A drummer: loud, powerful, keeps the beat.
A guitarist: fast, flashy, plays exciting solos.
A bassist: quiet, steady, holds the whole song together.
“Most people notice the drummer and the guitarist. They get the attention, the applause. But if you remove the bass, the whole song feels thin and unstable, even if you can’t quite say why.
“In your inner world:
The drummer is your wandering mind, always keeping some rhythm going in the background.
The guitarist is your focused attention, doing the impressive solos.
The bass is your mindful presence, the quiet sense of ‘I am here,’ holding everything together.
“Most of our training and praise goes to the guitarist and sometimes the drummer. But without the bass, the band never sounds right.”
Noah looked out over the park.
“So meditation is… bass practice,” he said.
The old man laughed. “Yes. Sitting there, practicing ‘boring’ notes that, over time, make the whole song of your life sound different.”
A Tiny Experiment
“Want to try something now?” he asked.
Leah glanced at Noah. “Like, actual meditation?”
“Just one minute,” the old man said. “You don’t even have to close your eyes if that feels weird. Think of it as… a science experiment on your own mind.”
They hesitated, then nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Sit comfortably. Feet on the ground. Hands resting on your legs.
“Now: pick one thing to pay attention to. You can choose:
The feeling of your breath in your nose or chest.
The sounds around us.
Or the way your hands feel resting on your legs.
“Got one?”
“Breathing,” said Leah.
“Sounds,” said Noah.
“Perfect. For the next minute, just notice that thing.
“When a thought appears—‘This is dumb,’ ‘What’s for dinner,’ ‘I hope nobody sees me’—don’t fight it. Don’t chase it. Just think: ‘There’s a thought,’ and gently return to your breath or sounds.
“The goal is not to have no thoughts. The goal is to notice when you wander and come back.”
He took out his old watch, set a minute, and nodded.
“Ready? Begin.”
The park went on as usual. A ball thudded against the court down the hill. Somewhere a dog barked. The breeze moved over their faces.
Leah’s eyebrows smoothed a little. Noah’s bouncing legs gradually stilled.
After a minute, the old man said softly, “Okay. Stop.”
Noah blew out a long breath.
“That was… harder than I thought,” he said. “My brain would not shut up.”
“The brain’s job isn’t to shut up,” the old man said. “It’s to think. You wouldn’t get mad at your heart for beating. The point isn’t to silence the mind. It’s to change your relationship to it.”
Leah opened her eyes.
“At first I kept thinking ‘I’m doing this wrong,’” she admitted. “Then I remembered what you said and just went back to the breath. It was… I don’t know. Less panicky than usual.”
The old man smiled.
“And that is the entire principle,” he said. “You wandered, you noticed, you returned. You just completed one full set in the mental gym.”
A Life With and Without Training
“Let me tell you two futures,” he said. “Both completely possible for anyone.”
He held out one hand.
“In the first future, you never train this third capacity. You only push mental strength and mental endurance.
“You get very good at focusing when you have to—exams, deadlines, games. Your wandering mind never stops, constantly replaying the past and guessing the future. Some of that helps you plan. A lot of it keeps you stressed. When strong emotions come, they grab you by the throat. You believe every harsh thought your mind throws at you.
“You might still succeed by many external measures—grades, career, achievements—but inside, you often feel you’re being dragged around by an invisible dog.”
He lifted his other hand.
“In the second future, you practice, just a little.
“Five minutes here, three minutes there, like we just did. You learn to notice thoughts instead of instantly believing them. You catch yourself before you say something cruel in a fight. You still have stress, but it doesn’t own you quite as completely.
“You still study, still train, still dream. But there is a quiet bass line underneath it all: ‘I am here. I can watch this. I can choose my next move.’”
He looked from Leah to Noah.
“Same world. Same phones, same exams, same breakups and disappointments. Very different experience from the inside.”
What Practice Might Look Like
Leah folded her arms, thoughtful.
“How much would we have to do?” she asked. “Like, to make any difference?”
The old man shrugged lightly.
“If you went to the gym for three minutes a day, would you become a bodybuilder?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“But would you be stronger at the end of the year than if you did nothing at all?” he continued.
“…Probably,” she admitted.
“The mind is similar. Tiny, regular moments can shift things more than you expect.
“You might start with:
Two minutes before bed, noticing your breath.
One minute on the bus, just listening to sounds without opening your phone.
A few deep breaths before an exam, feeling your feet on the floor.
“That’s it. No incense required.”
Noah smirked. “No chanting either?”
“Optional,” the old man said, smiling. “You can chant ‘I hope I don’t fail this test’ if you like, as long as you’re noticing that you’re doing it.”
They laughed.
Choosing Your Training
The old man looked at them kindly.
“You don’t have to meditate,” he said. “Just like you don’t have to stretch. You can live with tight muscles and a tight mind. Many people do.
“But you should at least understand the choice.
“If you train only focus and wandering, you might become brilliant and exhausted. If you add this third training—mindful presence—you give yourself a different kind of strength: the ability to stay steady in a noisy world.”
He tapped the bench lightly.
“Just remember this:
Mental strength is your focus.
Mental endurance is your wandering thought stream.
Mental flexibility is your ability to be here and notice it all.
“And meditation is simply the practice of sitting down with all three and saying: ‘Let’s learn to work together.’”
Leah stood up, stretching.
“Okay,” she said. “Two minutes a day. I’ll try. If I lose my mind, I’m blaming you.”
“If you find your mind,” the old man said, “you can blame me as well.”
Noah put his headphones back around his neck.
“I’ll try it after practice,” he said. “When I’m lying on the grass. Instead of just roasting myself about every mistake.”
The old man nodded, pleased.
“That,” he said, “is a very good place to start. When the body is tired, the mind often becomes honest.”
They started down the hill together—two teenagers with somewhere to be, and one old man settling back onto his favorite bench.
Behind them, the park continued: balls bouncing, dogs barking, the endless soundtrack of people’s lives.
Inside two young minds, something new had joined the band—a quiet, steady bass line, barely audible at first, but ready to grow stronger with every small, simple practice.
Gemini 3 Pro Thinking
The smell of cedar and old varnish filled the small workshop where Elias spent his days. He was seventy years old, with hands rough as bark and eyes that seemed to hold a quiet, steady light.
Leo and Maya, both seventeen, sat on stools near the woodstove. They looked like typical high school seniors: tired, vibrating with a low-level anxiety, and constantly checking their pockets where their phones buzzed.
“You two look like you’ve been carrying the world,” Elias said, running a piece of sandpaper over the leg of a chair.
“Exam week,” Leo groaned, rubbing his temples. “My brain feels like it’s going to turn into mush.”
“And I can’t sleep,” Maya added, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. “Even when I finish studying, I lay there and my brain just... loops. Over and over.”
Elias blew the dust off the wood. “It sounds to me like you are training recklessly.”
“Training?” Leo asked. “I haven’t been to the gym in weeks. I don’t have time.”
“I’m not talking about your biceps, Leo. I’m talking about the muscle between your ears.” Elias set down the sandpaper. “You know, the mind has a physique, just like the body. And just like the body, it needs three things to be healthy: Strength, Endurance, and Flexibility.”
He walked over to a chalkboard he used for sketching furniture designs and drew a triangle.
The Heavy Lifter (Strength)
“First,” Elias said, pointing to the left corner, “is Strength. Leo, when you go to the gym, why do you lift weights?”
“To get stronger. To be able to move heavy stuff.”
“Exactly,” Elias nodded. “Your mind has strength too. It is called Attention. When you solve a calculus problem, or learn a language, or focus on a complex essay, you are ‘lifting heavy’ with your mind. It is good. It builds a powerful intellect.”
He looked at Leo. “But imagine a weightlifter who lifts for twelve hours straight, never putting the weight down. What happens?”
“He tears a muscle,” Leo said. “Or drops the weight on his foot.”
“Precisely. You are treating your attention like a machine that never overheats. But there is also the matter of junk volume.” Elias leaned in. “When you are too tired to study, what do you do?”
“Watch videos,” Leo shrugged. “Scroll.”
“That,” Elias said, “is like lifting a one-pound weight ten thousand times. It is not heavy enough to make you strong, but it is repetitive enough to wear out your joints. It is low-quality training.”
The Runner in the Smog (Cardio)
Elias turned to Maya. “Now, you said your mind loops. That brings us to the second point: Endurance. Or, as I like to call it, The Traveller.”
He drew a squiggly line on the board.
“When we aren’t focusing hard, our minds wander. This is our ‘default’ state. It is like cardio. It’s a low-intensity jog that can go on all day. It happens when you walk to school, or shower, or eat lunch.”
“That’s when the anxiety hits,” Maya said quietly.
“Imagine a runner,” Elias said. “If a runner jogs through a beautiful forest, they return energized. They have planned their route, enjoyed the view, maybe solved a problem in their head. That is good mental cardio—reflection, planning, dreaming.”
Elias’s expression grew serious. “But what if that runner decides to jog through a tunnel filled with toxic smoke? They are still running, but they are poisoning themselves.”
“That’s the worry,” Maya realized.
“Yes. Rumination. Replaying an embarrassing moment from two years ago. Stressing about a test that hasn’t happened yet. That is running a marathon in smog. You are exhausting yourself, Maya, but you aren’t going anywhere.”
The Oak and The Willow (Flexibility)
Elias picked up a thick strip of dried oak from the floor. “Catch,” he said, tossing it to Leo. “Try to bend that.”
Leo gripped it and strained. The wood barely moved. “I can’t. It’s too hard.”
“It is strong,” Elias corrected. “But it is rigid.”
Then Elias walked to the open window where a willow tree grew outside. He cut a fresh, green branch and handed it to Maya. “Bend that.”
Maya bent the branch into a complete circle. When she let go, it sprang back, undamaged.
“This,” Elias said softly, “is the third element. Flexibility. And this is the one your world has forgotten.”
“In the mind, flexibility is the ability to simply be,” Elias continued. “To sit in the present moment without judging it, without fighting it, and without trying to fix it. We call this meditation.”
Leo scoffed slightly. “Sitting still? That feels like doing nothing. How is that training?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Elias said, sitting back on his stool.
“Once, a great storm swept through the forest. The winds howled like demons. The mighty Oak tree puffing out its chest said, ‘I am strong! I have deep roots! I will not move!’
The Willow tree looked at the wind and said, ‘I cannot stop you, so I will move with you.’
The wind blew harder. The Oak fought the wind with all its strength (Attention). It braced itself. But the wind was too chaotic. With a sound like a cannon shot, the Oak snapped in half.
The Willow, however, yielded. It bowed low, letting the wind pass over it. It didn’t try to analyze the wind (Strength), and it didn’t run from the wind (Cardio). It simply felt the wind and let it pass.
When the storm ended, the Oak was destroyed. The Willow stood back up, shook its leaves, and drank the rain.”
Elias looked at them. “You two are training to be Oaks. You are building massive mental strength in school. You are running endless mental marathons with your worry. But you have no flexibility. So when the storm comes—a breakup, a failure, a tragedy—you are at risk of snapping.”
“So... meditation is just stretching?” Leo asked, looking at the rigid piece of oak in his hands.
“It is the practice of putting down the weight,” Elias said. “It is stopping the runner. It is the only time in your day when you are not ‘doing’ or ‘going.’ You are just sitting. It feels difficult because you are stiff. Touching your toes is hard when you have never stretched before.”
The Lesson
The workshop was quiet. The frantic energy of the teenagers had settled into something calmer.
“The world you are growing up in wants you to be a machine,” Elias said gently. “It wants output. It wants grades. It wants likes. It tells you that sitting still is lazy.”
He stood up and dusted off his apron.
“But a machine has no flexibility. A machine grinds its gears until it breaks. To be a human—a healthy human—you must learn the art of the Willow. You must learn to sit for ten minutes, watch the storm of your thoughts, and let them pass without fighting them.”
“How do we start?” Maya asked.
“Start small,” Elias smiled. “Five minutes a day. No phone. No music. Just sit. When your mind tries to pick up a weight (thinking), put it down. When your mind tries to start running (worrying), tell it to stop. Just sit. It will be the hardest training you do, but it will save you when the storm comes.”
Leo looked at the oak wood, then at Maya. “Maybe we can try it? Before we go back to studying?”
Maya nodded. “I think I’d like that.”
And there, amidst the smell of sawdust and the ticking of the workshop clock, two young oaks began to learn the way of the willow.
Grok 4.1 Thinking Beta
The sun had already slipped behind the western ridge, but the sky was still the color of a fresh bruise.
Aria and Jax sat on a log by the dying campfire, shoulders touching because the night was turning cold.
They had come up the mountain to “get away from everything,” but everything had followed them in their pockets and inside their skulls.
An old man stepped out of the dark as if the pines themselves had decided to speak.
His beard was white as birch bark, his eyes bright as a hawk’s.
He carried no pack, only a walking stick worn smooth by decades of mountains.
“Mind if I borrow some of your fire?” he asked.
His voice was low, warm, the kind you feel in your ribs.
Jax shrugged. “It’s almost out anyway.”
The old man—Elias, he told them—sat cross-legged on the ground without waiting for more invitation.
He fed the fire three small sticks and it leapt back to life like it recognized him.
“You two of you,” he said, “are strong in some places and brittle in others.
I can see it in the way you keep checking those rectangles of light in your hands.”
Aria laughed, a little embarrassed, and shoved her phone into her jacket.
“We’re fine,” Jax muttered. “Just stressed.”
Elias smiled. “Stressed is what a bowstring says right before it snaps.”
He leaned forward, firelight flickering across his face.
“Let me tell you about three young warriors I once knew.
The first was called Iron Arm.
He could bend iron bars with his hands and lift boulders that took three ordinary men ropes and levers.
Villages cheered when he walked past.
But one winter he had to cross a narrow footbridge in a storm.
The wind pushed; he could not bend.
He fell into the gorge and was never seen again.
The second was called Wind Foot.
He could run from dawn to dusk without tiring, could outrun horses on the open plain.
Everyone said he would live forever.
But when raiders came to his village he could not lift a sword heavy enough to matter.
He ran, yes.
He lived.
But his people did not.
The third was called Willow.
She was not remarkably strong, and she tired like anyone else after a long march.
But she could twist and flow like a dancer in battle.
Arrows missed her.
Swords cut only air.
When the storm came she bent with the bridge and crossed safely.
When raiders came she slipped between them like smoke.
She lived a very long life, and people still tell her stories.
Strength without flexibility is pride.
Speed without strength is fear.
Only the one who trained all three parts became unbreakable.”
Elias poked the fire. Sparks rose like tiny stars.
“Your mind is the same,” he continued. “Exactly the same.
Most young people today train only two parts and wonder why they feel half-dead inside.
The first part is the blacksmith’s forge—your focused mind.
This is the power to hammer one thing until it takes shape: studying for exams, practicing free throws, writing a song, learning code, fixing an engine.
When you give something your full attention, you are swinging the hammer.
Good strikes make the blade sharp.
But if all you ever do is swing the hammer—grind, hustle, achieve, scroll, game, hustle some more—your arm gets huge and your back seizes up.
I’ve seen seventeen-year-olds with the soul of fifty-year-old machines, rusted tight.
The second part is the wandering horse.
When you walk home from school, wash dishes, lie in bed—your mind runs free.
This is not laziness; this is the long, slow miles that build endurance in your spirit.
A good wander reviews the day and learns from it.
A good wander dreams about the person you might become and feels the excitement.
A good wander invents stories in the shower that later turn into real things.
But most wandering horses today are chased in circles by wolves of worry, regret, comparison, rage.
They run and run and run until they drop dead from exhaustion, and the rider never gets anywhere.
And then there is the third part—the still pond.
Almost nobody trains this one.
Imagine a lake high in the mountains.
When it is stormy, the water is muddy; you cannot see your own face.
When the wind dies and the surface becomes glass, you see not only your reflection but the sky behind you, the eagle overhead, every pebble on the bottom.
That stillness is not emptiness.
It is completeness.
We call the training ‘meditation,’ but that word sounds like homework to you.
So call it something else.
Call it stretching for the soul.
Call it giving your mind a bath.
Call it the place where you remember you are alive and not a machine.
Five minutes a day is enough to start.
Sit.
Feel your breath go in and out like waves on a shore.
Thoughts will come—let them sail past like clouds.
You do not have to fight them.
Fighting thoughts is just another way thoughts win.
Do this and something strange happens.
The blacksmith’s arm stops aching.
The wandering horse finds better pastures.
The storms still come, but you are no longer the storm.
I knew a girl your age once,” Elias said softly, looking at Aria. “She was brilliant—top of every class, captain of every team.
But inside she was screaming all the time.
One day she sat by a river for seven minutes and simply listened to the water.
She cried for no reason and every reason.
After that, the screaming quieted.
She still worked hard, but now the work belonged to her instead of owning her.
And I knew a boy your age,” he said, turning to Jax, “who could not sleep because tomorrow was always attacking him.
He started watching his breath every night before bed.
Not to fall asleep—just to watch.
Sleep came as a friend instead of an enemy.
He began to dream again.
Real dreams.
The kind that change lives.”
The fire had settled into slow red coals.
Elias stood.
His knees did not creak.
“Tonight,” he said, “when you zip into your sleeping bags, do not open the glowing rectangles.
Lie on your backs.
Feel the weight of your body on the earth.
Notice one breath.
Then another.
When the mind runs, smile at it the way you’d smile at a puppy that escaped the yard.
Then come back to the breath.
Do it for seven nights.
If on the eighth morning you do not feel even a little lighter, come find me and I will give you my walking stick as payment for your trouble.”
He turned to leave, then paused.
“One last thing.
The world will never give you permission to be still.
It makes no money from your peace.
So you must steal the minutes like a thief.
But once you taste it—real quiet—you will steal more, gladly.
Because a river is only free when it remembers it is also the ocean.
Good night, young willow trees.
Grow bent, grow strong, grow deep.”
He walked into the dark.
The pines closed behind him like a curtain.
Aria and Jax sat without speaking for a long time.
Then, without planning it, they lay back on their sleeping bags and stared up at the stars.
For the first time in months, the silence did not feel like something they had to fill.
Somewhere inside their chests, very gently, something stretched.
Opus 4.1
The Garden of Three Paths
The old clockmaker’s shop sat wedged between a bustling café and a vintage bookstore, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Maya and James had walked past it dozens of times before Mr. Chen had invited them in one rainy afternoon, offering shelter and tea while they waited for the storm to pass.
That was three months ago. Now they came every Tuesday after school, drawn by something they couldn’t quite name—perhaps the way the old man’s stories seemed to answer questions they hadn’t known how to ask.
Today, Maya slumped in her usual chair, dark circles under her eyes. “I got into Berkeley,” she announced without joy.
James looked up from the watch mechanism he’d been studying. “That’s incredible! Why do you look like someone died?”
“Because I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about everything—will I be good enough, what if I chose the wrong major, what if—” She rubbed her temples. “My mind won’t shut off.”
Mr. Chen set down the delicate gears he’d been cleaning. His weathered hands, steady despite his eighty years, poured tea for all three of them. “Ah,” he said simply. “Maya, you’ve been training for a marathon using only your arms.”
James snorted. “What does that even mean?”
The old man smiled. “Tell me, what makes an athlete truly healthy?”
“Being strong?” James ventured.
“Being able to run far?” Maya added.
“And?”
They looked at each other, then Maya said slowly, “Being flexible?”
“Precisely. Three pillars, each essential. Too much focus on one creates imbalance.” Mr. Chen moved to his workbench, where an intricate clock face lay disassembled. “Your minds are no different. But first, let me tell you about the village of runners.”
The Village of Runners
Mr. Chen settled into his story-telling voice, the one that made the shop seem to fade away.
“There was once a village obsessed with running. From childhood, everyone ran. They had the most magnificent legs you’d ever seen—powerful, tireless. They could run from sunrise to sunset without stopping. They were proud of this, believing themselves the healthiest people in all the land.
“One day, a tree fell across their main path. It was too heavy to lift, too low to run under comfortably. The villagers had to crawl beneath it or climb over it, but their backs ached terribly—they’d never learned to bend. Their arms, weak from neglect, could barely pull them over. Some injured themselves trying; others took long detours to avoid the tree entirely.
“A traveling merchant, seeing their struggle, showed them how to stretch, how to build strength in their arms and backs. But the villagers resisted. ‘We are runners,’ they said. ‘This other training would take time from our running.’
“The tree remains there to this day.”
Maya frowned. “So they just... kept being limited?”
“They chose their limitation,” Mr. Chen corrected gently. “Now, your mind has three aspects, much like the body. James, you’re quite good at the first—focused attention. I’ve watched you work on these mechanisms for hours without wavering.”
James straightened slightly, pleased.
“But when you leave here, what happens?”
“I... what do you mean?”
“Do you ever just sit? Just observe? Or does your mind immediately seek the next task, the next problem to solve?”
James shifted uncomfortably. “I like being productive.”
“And Maya,” Mr. Chen continued, “your second aspect—your wandering mind—is incredibly active. You think, you plan, you reflect. But like a river that never stops flowing, it’s wearing away at your banks.”
The Three Gardens
Mr. Chen led them to the back room they’d never entered before. To their surprise, it opened onto a small courtyard with three distinct garden areas.
The first was filled with puzzle boxes, mechanical devices, and books. “The Garden of Focus,” he explained. “Where the mind learns to direct its strength.”
The second held comfortable chairs facing windows, wind chimes, and journals. “The Garden of Wandering, where thoughts flow and connect.”
The third was simplest—cushions on smooth stone, a small fountain, nothing else. “The Garden of Presence.”
“This one’s empty,” James observed.
Mr. Chen chuckled. “Is it? Sit there for five minutes and tell me what you notice.”
James sat, fidgeting almost immediately. After barely two minutes, he stood. “I can’t just sit there doing nothing.”
“Exactly your problem,” Mr. Chen said kindly. “You’ve never developed your mental flexibility. Maya, you try.”
Maya lasted longer but soon her face showed distress. “My thoughts are so loud here. Without distraction, they’re overwhelming.”
“Now you understand,” Mr. Chen said, “why I invited you both here. You’re each strong in different ways, but incomplete. Like a stool with one tall leg and two short ones—it will always wobble.”
The Merchant’s Three Sons
They returned to the main shop, and Mr. Chen began another story while his hands worked on a pocket watch.
“A wealthy merchant had three sons. When deciding who would inherit his business, he gave each son the same amount of money and told them to develop themselves for one year.
“The first son hired the best tutors, studying mathematics, languages, and strategy from dawn to midnight. He learned five languages and could calculate complex equations in his head. But the constant study exhausted him. He developed headaches, couldn’t enjoy simple pleasures, and despite his knowledge, made poor decisions when tired—which was always.
“The second son traveled the world, experiencing everything, letting his mind wander from adventure to adventure. He gathered wonderful stories and creative ideas but never developed the discipline to implement them. His journals overflowed with half-formed dreams that never became reality.
“The third son puzzled everyone. He spent his mornings in focused study, his afternoons walking and reflecting, and his evenings in meditation. People mocked him—’You’re wasting a third of your time sitting still!’
“After a year, the merchant tested all three. He presented them with a complex business crisis requiring immediate decision. The first son knew all the theory but was too mentally exhausted to apply it well. The second had creative solutions but couldn’t focus long enough to see them through. The third listened calmly, focused completely on the problem, drew from his reflections to find creative solutions, and had the mental clarity to know which path was wisest.
“’How?’ his brothers asked.
“’You strengthened only one aspect of your minds,’ he replied. ‘I developed all three. My meditation didn’t make me weaker—it made everything else stronger.’”
The Practice
Maya leaned forward. “So meditation is like... mental flexibility training?”
“Tell me,” Mr. Chen said, “what happens when you stretch regularly?”
“You become more flexible?” James offered.
“Yes, but what else? What happens to your strength training, your running?”
Maya’s eyes widened. “They improve. You have better form, fewer injuries, better recovery.”
“Precisely. Meditation—true mindfulness—isn’t about emptying your mind or achieving bliss. It’s about developing the capacity to observe without being pulled into the current. Watch your thoughts like you’d watch clouds passing. They’re there, they’re real, but you don’t have to chase each one.”
“But how?” Maya asked, frustration creeping in. “Every time I try, my mind goes everywhere.”
Mr. Chen pulled out an old snow globe, shaking it vigorously. The snow swirled chaotically. “This is your mind now, Maya. Always shaking, always swirling.” He set it down. Gradually, the snow settled, the water cleared. “Meditation isn’t about stopping the snow. It’s about letting it settle. But every time you shake the globe checking if it’s clear yet...”
“You stir it up again,” she finished.
The Mountain Climber’s Lesson
“But sitting still feels like wasting time,” James protested. “There’s so much to do, to learn.”
Mr. Chen nodded. “I once knew a mountain climber, incredibly ambitious. He would race up mountains, proud of his speed. One day, he attempted the highest peak in the range. Halfway up, altitude sickness struck. He had to descend, defeated.
“He met an old sherpa who told him, ‘You climb like you’re fighting the mountain. The mountain doesn’t care about your schedule.’
“The sherpa taught him to climb differently—periods of effort followed by complete rest, not just physical but mental. Sitting, breathing, being present with the mountain rather than conquering it.
“The climber resisted—it felt too slow. But he tried it. To his amazement, he reached summits he’d never achieved before. The rest wasn’t weakness; it was part of the strength. His body adapted better, his mind stayed clear at altitude, and he actually enjoyed the journey instead of just enduring it for the summit.”
James was quiet, processing.
“Your generation,” Mr. Chen continued, “has been taught to optimize everything, to be productive every moment. But a bow kept always strung will lose its power. A field never left fallow will deplete. And a mind never given rest will eventually rebel—through anxiety, through insomnia, through burnout.”
The Three Practices
“So what do we actually do?” Maya asked.
Mr. Chen handed them each a small notebook. “Three practices, one for each garden. Choose based on what you need most, but don’t neglect any entirely.
“For Focus: Choose something requiring complete attention. Mathematics, music, coding, detailed art. But—and this is crucial—do it without distraction. No phone, no music unless that IS the practice. One thing, fully engaged. Start with twenty minutes if an hour seems impossible.
“For Wandering: Schedule time for quality reflection. Walk without podcasts. Sit with a journal. Let your mind process, but guide it gently toward construction rather than destruction. If you notice yourself spiraling into worry, ask: ‘Is this thought helping me prepare, or just making me suffer?’
“For Presence: Start with just five minutes daily. Sit, breathe, notice. When thoughts arise—and they will—don’t fight them. Notice them like you’d notice a sound outside, then return to breath. It’s not about perfect stillness; it’s about practicing return.”
The Story of the Anxious Archer
Seeing Maya’s skeptical expression, Mr. Chen shared one more tale.
“There was an archer, talented but anxious. In practice, she never missed. In competition, her mind raced—what if she missed, what would people think, what about the archer next to her who looked so confident? Her arrows flew wild.
“A master archer watched her and said, ‘Your problem isn’t your aim; it’s that you’re shooting three arrows at once—one at the target, one at your fear, and one at the future.’
“He taught her to meditate. Not to empty her mind, but to notice when she was shooting multiple arrows. Through practice, she learned to recognize the moment her mind split, to breathe, to return to just one arrow, one target, one moment.
“She didn’t become fearless. The thoughts still arose. But she learned to let them pass through without gripping them. Her accuracy in competition finally matched her practice. More importantly, she began to enjoy the sport again.”
Maya’s eyes glistened slightly. “That’s me with tests. I know the material, but my mind...”
“Races ahead, imagining failures that haven’t happened, creating suffering from thin air,” Mr. Chen finished gently.
The Modern Challenge
“Your generation faces something unique,” Mr. Chen said, cleaning his tools methodically. “Never before have humans had such constant stimulation available. Your phones—miraculous devices—also mean you never have to sit with discomfort, with boredom, with your own thoughts.
“But boredom is where creativity is born. Discomfort is where growth happens. And sitting with your thoughts, learning to observe them without being controlled by them—this is where wisdom begins.”
James pulled out his phone reflexively, then caught himself and put it away, embarrassed.
“Don’t be ashamed,” Mr. Chen smiled. “It’s designed to capture your attention. But ask yourself: are you using it, or is it using you? Can you sit through a meal without checking it? Can you wake up without immediately reaching for it? These aren’t moral failings—they’re signs of an untrained aspect of mind.”
The Water and the Cup
Mr. Chen poured more tea, deliberately, mindfully. “Watch,” he said. “The water takes the shape of the cup, but it remains water. Your thoughts, your wandering mind, your focused attention—they’re all water. Meditation teaches you to be the cup as well as the water. To hold your thoughts without becoming them.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” James said.
“Not to the mind that only knows doing,” Mr. Chen agreed. “But sense isn’t always found through thinking. Sometimes it’s found through practice, through experience. You learned to ride a bicycle not by understanding the physics, but by getting on and falling until suddenly, you weren’t falling anymore.”
The Assignment
As the afternoon light faded, Mr. Chen gave them their task.
“For one week, practice all three aspects daily. James, you’ll meditate for ten minutes each morning—and I mean truly sit, not plan your day while sitting. Also, take one walk daily without any goal, let your mind wander constructively.
“Maya, you’ll do one focused task daily without any multitasking—perhaps mathematics or art. And yes, you’ll also meditate, but differently. Your practice is to notice when your mind spirals and gently return to present, even during daily activities.”
“What if we’re bad at it?” Maya asked.
“Then you’re doing it correctly,” Mr. Chen laughed. “Everyone is ‘bad’ at meditation when they start. That’s like saying you’re bad at lifting weights because they feel heavy. The weight is supposed to feel heavy. Your mind is supposed to wander. The practice isn’t in preventing that—it’s in noticing and returning.”
The Clock’s Secret
Before they left, Mr. Chen showed them the clock he’d been repairing. “See these three mechanisms? The mainspring provides power—like your focused attention. The escapement regulates the energy—like your wandering mind, processing and distributing. And the balance wheel maintains rhythm—like mindfulness, keeping everything in harmony.
“Remove any one, and the clock stops. Neglect maintenance on any part, and time distorts. But when all three work together, properly maintained...” He wound the clock. It ticked with perfect rhythm.
The Return
A week later, they returned. James entered more calmly than usual, moving deliberately rather than his typical rush.
“The meditation is hard,” he admitted. “But I noticed something. After sitting still, even for just ten minutes, my focus during work is... cleaner? Like someone cleaned my mental glasses.”
Maya nodded eagerly. “I know what you mean! I still have anxious thoughts about college, but now I sometimes catch myself spiraling and can ask, ‘Is this helpful or just noise?’ Not always, but sometimes. And that’s new.”
Mr. Chen smiled. “You’ve discovered something important. Mental fitness isn’t about perfection or constant peace. It’s about developing the capacity to work with your mind rather than being worked by it.”
The Final Story
“Let me leave you with one last story,” Mr. Chen said. “A student asked a wise teacher, ‘Master, you seem so peaceful. Have you conquered your mind?’
“The teacher laughed. ‘Conquered? No. My mind still produces thoughts like clouds produce rain. The difference is I’ve learned to build good shelters and when to go walking in the rain. I’ve learned when thoughts are weather to wait out and when they’re climate requiring action. But conquered? The mind isn’t an enemy to defeat—it’s a powerful horse to train. And training never really ends; it just becomes more refined.’
“’Then what’s the point?’ the student asked.
“’The point,’ the teacher said, ‘is that an untrained horse goes where it wants, when it wants, dragging you along. A trained horse takes you where you need to go. Both are still horses. One is a partnership; the other is chaos.’”
The Continuation
As Maya and James prepared to leave, Mr. Chen handed them each a small river stone, smooth and plain.
“Keep these,” he said. “When you feel your mind racing, hold it. Feel its weight, its texture, its temperature. Let it anchor you to the present. Not as magic, but as reminder—you always have access to this moment, this breath, this choice of where to direct your attention.”
“Will it get easier?” Maya asked.
“Different,” Mr. Chen corrected. “Your capacity will grow. You’ll notice patterns sooner, return to balance faster. But life will also bring new challenges requiring deeper practice. This isn’t a problem to solve once—it’s a relationship to tend daily.”
James pocketed his stone thoughtfully. “It’s like maintaining these clocks, isn’t it? Daily attention, small adjustments, regular care.”
“Now you’re beginning to understand,” Mr. Chen said warmly. “Your minds are the most sophisticated instruments you’ll ever own. They deserve at least as much care as we give these simple machines.”
As they left, Maya turned back. “Mr. Chen, how long did it take you to develop all three aspects?”
The old man’s eyes crinkled with humor. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
Walking away, James and Maya felt something had shifted. The world looked the same, but they had new eyes for seeing it—and more importantly, new ways of seeing their own seeing. The journey toward mental fitness had begun, not with grand gestures, but with simple awareness: that the mind, like the body, needs strength, endurance, and flexibility. And that developing all three was not just possible, but essential.
The clock tower chimed five o’clock. For the first time, they both stopped to listen to it—really listen—until the last echo faded into silence.