Mei's Way of Finding Calm

Mei sits on a weathered wooden bench beneath a large old oak tree in a school courtyard, hunched over her open sketchbook with a frustrated expression, a broken pencil in her hand. Her dark hair falls across her face as she looks down at a page filled with messy, tangled scribble drawings. In the background, the bustling elementary school building with colorful walls and cherry blossom trees lining the walkways, students moving through the hallways visible through windows.

Something was different about Mei's sketchbook. Usually, its pages were filled with delicate drawings of cherry blossom trees, soaring birds, and tiny worlds she invented during quiet moments on her favorite bench. But lately, the pages looked like storms—dark, tangled lines that went nowhere and shapes that fell apart before they could become anything real. Mei sat beneath the old oak tree in the school courtyard, pressing her pencil so hard that the tip snapped. She stared at the broken point and sighed. Everything felt like it was breaking lately.

A bright yellow competition flyer pinned to a cork bulletin board outside the art room. The flyer has bold text reading 'CITYWIDE YOUNG ARTISTS COMPETITION' with a painted palette icon and the words 'Theme: What Matters Most' beneath it, surrounded by other colorful school announcements and pushpins. In the background, a hallway wall painted in cheerful colors with student artwork displayed in frames.

It had all started two weeks ago, when a bright yellow flyer appeared on the bulletin board outside the art room. "CITYWIDE YOUNG ARTISTS COMPETITION," it announced in bold letters. "Theme: What Matters Most. Submit your best original artwork!" Mei's heart had leaped when she first read it. Art was her favorite thing in the world, and she had imagined winning ever since she could hold a crayon. But now the deadline was just five days away, and she didn't have a single idea that felt good enough. Every sketch she started ended up scribbled over or torn out.

Mei sits alone at a long cafeteria table with her sketchbook open, looking sad and guilty, her lunch tray barely touched. Across the crowded cafeteria, Lily sits at a different table with other students, her back turned to Mei. In the background, a bright, noisy school cafeteria with colorful walls, hanging student art projects, and groups of children eating and talking.

And the competition wasn't the only thing weighing on her. A stack of math worksheets sat in her backpack like a pile of bricks, and her science project on weather systems was due the same week. Worst of all, her best friend Lily hadn't spoken to her in three days—not since Mei had snapped at her during lunch for talking too loudly while Mei was trying to sketch. The memory made Mei's stomach twist with guilt. She hadn't meant to be harsh. The words had just tumbled out before she could stop them, sharp and jagged like the lines in her sketchbook. Now Lily sat at a different table, and the empty seat beside Mei felt enormous.

Mei sits at a paint-splattered art table covered with crumpled paper balls and scattered colored pencils, looking up with wide, surprised eyes as her art teacher, a kind woman with reading glasses pushed atop her head and a paint-stained apron, sits down on a wooden stool beside her with a warm, concerned expression. In the background, a colorful art room with shelves of supplies, student paintings drying on a rack, and late afternoon sunlight streaming through large windows.

The next afternoon, Mei stayed late in the art room, surrounded by crumpled paper and worn-down colored pencils. She was trying—again—to create something for the competition, but every attempt looked wrong. Too stiff. Too messy. Too much of everything she was feeling and not enough of anything she wanted to say. She didn't notice her art teacher standing behind her until a gentle voice broke through the silence. "Mei," her art teacher said softly, pulling up a stool beside her. "I've been watching your work this week. Your drawings are telling me something. Would you like to talk about it?"

Mei holds her sketchbook open toward her art teacher, showing a page of chaotic dark scribbles and unfinished shapes. Tears glisten in Mei's eyes while her art teacher leans forward on the stool, looking at the sketchbook with a thoughtful, understanding expression, one hand resting gently on the table. In the background, the art room walls display bright student artwork and inspirational quotes about creativity on colorful paper.

Mei's eyes stung with tears she tried to blink away. "I can't get anything right," she whispered. "The competition is in five days, I have a mountain of homework, and I said something awful to my best friend. My brain feels like—" She flipped open her sketchbook to a page of wild, chaotic scribbles. "Like this." Her art teacher studied the page for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You know what I see? I see someone whose mind is moving so fast that her hands can't keep up." She smiled gently. "Mei, have you ever tried mindfulness?" Mei frowned. "Isn't that just sitting still and doing nothing?" "Not at all," her art teacher said. "It's the opposite. It's learning to pay attention—on purpose—to what's happening right now, instead of worrying about everything at once."

Mei sits at the art table with her eyes closed, her hands resting softly on the table beside her sketchbook, a peaceful expression beginning to form on her face. Her art teacher sits beside her on the stool with eyes also closed, demonstrating the breathing exercise, hands folded calmly in her lap. In the background, the art room is bathed in warm golden afternoon light, art supplies neatly arranged on shelves, creating a serene atmosphere.

Her art teacher asked Mei to close her eyes. "Let's start with something simple—deep breathing. Breathe in slowly through your nose for four counts, hold it for four, then breathe out through your mouth for four. Just focus on the air moving in and out. Nothing else matters right now." Mei felt silly at first, but she tried. In—two—three—four. Hold—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four. After a few rounds, something surprising happened. The tightness in her chest loosened, like a knot being gently untied. The buzzing in her head quieted just a little. "Now," her art teacher said, "open your eyes and draw exactly what that breath felt like." Mei picked up a soft blue pencil. Slowly, carefully, she drew a single curving line—smooth and flowing, like a ribbon carried by a breeze. It was the first line in days that didn't feel broken.

Mei sits cross-legged on the weathered wooden bench beneath the old oak tree, her sketchbook open on her lap, carefully drawing small, delicate illustrations. The page shows tiny detailed sketches of a cherry blossom petal, a steaming teacup, and the oak tree, each labeled neatly. Mei has a soft, thoughtful smile. In the background, cherry blossom trees in full bloom line the school sidewalks, pink petals drifting gently through the morning air, with early sunlight filtering through the oak tree's branches.

The next morning, Mei sat on her wooden bench beneath the old oak tree before school started. She opened her sketchbook to a fresh page and wrote the word "GRATITUDE" at the top in careful letters. Her art teacher had explained that gratitude meant noticing the good things in your life, even small ones, especially when everything felt overwhelming. Mei thought for a moment, then began to draw. A tiny cherry blossom petal drifting in the wind—because the trees along the sidewalk were blooming, and they were beautiful. A steaming cup of her grandmother's jasmine tea—because it always made mornings feel safe. The old oak tree above her—because it never judged her, never rushed her, and always had room for her on its bench. With each small drawing, Mei felt something warm settle in her chest, like sunlight filling a room one window at a time.

Mei stands facing Lily near a hallway water fountain, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. Mei looks earnest and apologetic while Lily's expression is softening from guarded to warm. Both girls face each other with open body language, a small gap between them that feels like it's closing. In the background, a bright school hallway with lockers painted in cheerful colors, student artwork on bulletin boards, and sunlight streaming through a window at the end of the corridor.

That afternoon, Mei spotted Lily at the water fountain. Her heart began to race, and the old familiar urge rose inside her—the urge to look away, to pretend she hadn't noticed, to avoid the uncomfortable feelings swirling in her stomach. But then she remembered what her art teacher had told her about self-control: "When you feel a big reaction coming, pause. Take one breath. Then choose how you want to respond, instead of just reacting." Mei paused. She took one slow breath. Then she walked over. "Lily," she said, her voice a little shaky but steady enough. "I'm really sorry I snapped at you. I was stressed, but that's not an excuse. You didn't deserve that." Lily looked at her for a long moment. Then her expression softened. "I was worried about you, Mei. You seemed so upset, and I didn't know how to help." "I didn't know how to help me either," Mei admitted. "But I'm figuring it out."

A close-up view of Mei's open sketchbook lying on a desk, showing a beautiful two-page spread of small, colorful gratitude drawings: a detailed ladybug on a green leaf, raindrops on a windowpane, cherry blossoms, a laughing girl's face, and flowing breath-like ribbons in soft blue. Colored pencils are scattered around the sketchbook. In the background, a cozy bedroom desk with a small lamp glowing warmly, a window showing a dusky evening sky with a few stars appearing.

Over the next three days, Mei practiced her mindfulness exercises every morning and evening. She breathed deeply when her math worksheets made her want to crumple them into balls. She paused before speaking when she felt frustrated. She drew one gratitude sketch each night before bed—a ladybug on a leaf, the sound of rain on her window, the way Lily laughed when they finally sat together at lunch again. Her sketchbook was changing. The dark, chaotic scribbles gave way to something new—drawings that were calm and detailed, full of life and color. Not perfect, but honest. Each page felt like proof that she was learning to slow down, to be present, to trust herself again.

Mei sits at her bedroom desk late at night, intensely focused, drawing in her sketchbook with colored pencils. The page shows her competition piece taking shape: a beautiful illustration of the old oak tree with a girl on a bench surrounded by small floating images of cherry blossoms, a teacup, a ladybug, and flowing blue ribbon-like lines. Mei's expression is calm and confident. In the background, her cozy bedroom with a window showing a dark night sky dotted with stars, a small desk lamp casting a warm pool of light over her work.

The night before the competition, Mei sat at her desk staring at a blank page. This was it—the drawing she would submit. The theme echoed in her mind: "What Matters Most." She closed her eyes and breathed. In—two—three—four. Hold. Out—two—three—four. What mattered most? Not winning. Not being perfect. Not impressing anyone. When she opened her eyes, she knew exactly what to draw. She picked up her pencils and began. She drew the old oak tree with its wide, welcoming branches. Beneath it, she drew a girl sitting on a bench with a sketchbook, surrounded by tiny floating images—cherry blossoms, a teacup, a ladybug, a friend laughing, a single smooth blue line curving like a breath. The drawing wasn't loud or flashy. It was quiet and true, like the calm she had found inside herself.

Mei stands in the school gymnasium beside a long display table, a small bronze third-place ribbon pinned to her competition drawing of the oak tree scene. Her art teacher kneels beside her, looking into Mei's eyes with a proud smile. Lily stands just behind Mei with a supportive grin, one hand on Mei's shoulder. Mei's expression shows quiet pride and peace. In the background, a gymnasium decorated with colorful banners reading 'YOUNG ARTISTS COMPETITION,' tables lined with student artwork, and parents and children milling about admiring the displays.

The gymnasium buzzed with excitement on the day of the competition. Dozens of drawings, paintings, and sculptures lined the tables, each one bursting with color and creativity. Mei's hands trembled slightly as she placed her entry beside the others. It looked so small compared to some of the larger, bolder pieces. Lily squeezed her arm. "It's beautiful, Mei." When the judges announced the winners, Mei held her breath. She won third place—not first, not second, but third. A small, proud ribbon. Part of her felt a flicker of disappointment, but she paused, breathed, and let the feeling pass through her like wind through the oak tree's branches. Her art teacher found her afterward and knelt down so they were eye to eye. "I'm proud of you, Mei. Not because of the ribbon, but because of what it took to make that drawing. You did something much harder than winning. You learned to be still when everything was spinning."

Mei sits peacefully on the weathered wooden bench beneath the old oak tree, her sketchbook open to a blank page on her lap, a pencil resting lightly in her hand. She gazes upward through the oak tree's branches with a serene, contented smile, cherry blossom petals drifting gently around her. In the background, the school courtyard bathed in warm golden sunset light, cherry blossom trees glowing pink and white, the colorful school building quiet and still in the evening calm.

That evening, Mei returned to her wooden bench beneath the old oak tree. The courtyard was empty and quiet, the cherry blossoms catching the last golden light of the day. She opened her sketchbook—not to the competition drawing, but to a fresh, blank page. She didn't feel the need to fill it right away. Instead, she sat and breathed, listening to the rustle of leaves above her and the distant hum of the neighborhood settling into evening. She thought about everything she'd learned: that slowing down wasn't the same as falling behind, that being kind to yourself was just as important as being kind to others, and that the best things she would ever create would come from a place of calm, not chaos. Mei smiled and picked up her pencil. She wasn't sure what she would draw next, but for the first time in weeks, that felt perfectly okay.

Mei's Way of Finding Calm

Browse More Stories

from the Fable Public Library