This story or parable is from the first of eight sections of an inquiry I am running into Relational Disobedience.

The world today gives us plenty of reasons to resist. Wars rage, ecosystems collapse, politicians play games with truth and trust, and economic systems deepen inequality. Many feel the urge to fight back. Yet the dominant images of resistance remain loud, angry, and often violent; burning barricades, bitter slogans, pitched battles of us versus them.

But what if we want to resist without adding to the hatred in the world? What if we feel called to stand firm, but not in ways that perpetuate cycles of fear and blame? This is the way of Relational Disobedience.

Listen to the parable or read it. Let it sit with you.

* Have you struck a bargain with The Mirror King?

* Is it a bargain you can renounce?

* What other bargain might you make?

Long ago, in the land now known only as the Severed Thread, the people lived by attunement. Their days were woven from story and song, their nights from silence and stars. They listened to one another as they listened to the wind: with care. No need was too small, no joy too quiet to be shared.

But then came the Mirror King.

No one saw him arrive. One day, a strange pavilion appeared in the central square: tall, angular, and cold to the touch. Its walls shimmered like still water, reflecting the image of anyone who drew near. Above the door was inscribed:

“Come and see yourself… as you were meant to be.”

Curious and weary, the people entered one by one. Inside, they were shown visions: a life without struggle, without shame. Their homes, clean and efficient. Their jobs, tidy and optimised. Their children, high-achieving and well-behaved. They saw themselves smiling, surrounded by metrics that glowed like stars.

The Mirror King himself never spoke. His messengers, silver-masked and honey-tongued, made the offer clear:

“All this can be yours.

Simply pledge your alignment.

Let go of the burdens of care.

Trust the system.

Comply with the new design.”

Some hesitated. But most accepted. After all, it was only a form. Only a signature. Only a dashboard login. The difference seemed minor, at first.

They returned to their homes, which now echoed with automated voices and gentle reminders to optimise their schedules. They wore wristbands that congratulated them for efficiency. And when they began to feel restless, or melancholic, or strange, the Mirror King sent gifts:

- Clarity Coaching™,

- Emotional Resilience Packs™,

- Wellbeing Wednesdays™.

They stopped gathering in the village square. Stories felt indulgent. Silence was no longer valued, unless it was productive.

It was a child, born on a night of heavy rain and flickering power, who first began to notice.

She asked her mother, “Why doesn’t Nana visit anymore?”

“She lives further now,” her mother replied, though Nana’s house was five doors down.

“Why doesn’t the river sing?”

“It’s been paved over, love. For safety.”

“Why do people look at themselves so much, but never at each other?”

There was no answer.

The child began to wander the village, listening. She noticed things others ignored: the way laughter now ended too quickly. How people spoke without touching. How the elders, once revered, now sat alone, unmeasured and unproductive.

One evening, she returned to the pavilion. A silver-masked figure appeared at the threshold.

“You are not authorised,” he said gently. “You have not yet aligned.”

“But I don’t want to see myself,” said the child. “I want to see the world.”

The figure hesitated.

“No one has asked that before,” he said.

He led her past the mirrors into a dark room, and there, for a moment, the child glimpsed something terrible: a great ledger, stretching to the sky, where names flickered and vanished as compliance was recorded. And in the centre, bound in thread and gears, sat the Mirror King, eyeless, earless, endless, compiling performance reports.

The child stepped back, terrified.

“What is he doing?” she asked.

The silver figure whispered, “He is counting what cannot be counted.”

“And what does he offer in return?”

The figure removed his mask. He was weeping.

“He offers safety. And silence. And forgetting.”

The child returned to her home, where the stars no longer shone through the smart-glass roof. That night, she lit a candle. She whispered a story to the dark. She left her front door open.

And so it began, not a rebellion, but a remembering.

A tiny, flickering refusal to forget what had been traded away.

If you would like to join with a group of us exploring the topic of Relational Disobedience and how it might be helpful please get in touch…

Thanks for reading Fresh Thinking! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Get full access to Fresh Thinking at freshthinking.substack.com/subscribe