I was just a young novice monk when the lesson of the tree and the axe changed my life forever.
My name is Nadhi, and I came from a small bamboo village by the River Sarabhu, where my family fished the gentle waters and harvested rice from the land. I grew up watching my father wake before the sun, humbly bow toward the rising light, and tend to his field with steady, mindful hands. Yet, despite the peace of our village, something inside me longed for a deeper understanding of life’s suffering and how to end it.
When I was twelve, my parents sent me to Jetavana Monastery in the great city of Sravasti. It was here that I came under the guidance of Venerable Ananda, one of the closest disciples of the Buddha himself. Ananda was kind but firm, wise and patient. He shared many stories from the Buddha’s teachings, but none stayed with me like the one he shared one quiet evening under the Bodhi tree.
“There was once a majestic tree in the heart of a forest,” Ananda began, his voice soft as the warm breeze. “It stood tall and strong, its branches wide like welcoming arms. Birds sang in its leaves, animals found shelter beneath it, and travelers rested in its comforting shade.”
I leaned closer, listening to every word.
“One day,” he continued, “a woodsman entered the forest. He carried no axe, only a humble request. He called upon the tree and said, ‘O great tree, I wish to build a home for my family. May I have a branch from you, so I might craft an axe handle?’”
The tree, generous and without fear, gently agreed. “Take what you need, good man,” it said.
“With that branch,” Ananda said, pausing with meaning, “the woodsman made an axe. He returned days later—not to ask, but to cut. His blade bit deep into the tree’s bark, again and again, until the proud tree began to weaken.”
I was shocked. “But why would he do that? The tree helped him.”
Ananda smiled sadly. “It is a lesson, Nadhi. Sometimes, harm is born not from others’ strength, but from what we give without wisdom. The Buddha used this parable to remind us that suffering often arises when we feed the causes of our own destruction.”
He paused, letting the words settle like falling leaves.
“Even compassion,” he added, “must be guided by mindfulness, insight, and balance. Without wisdom, kindness can lead to harm—for others and ourselves.”
That night, I could not sleep. I thought of the tree, the woodsman, and the sharp pain that came not from the world, but from the tree’s own offering. I began to see how I too had given to emotions like anger and worry—letting them shape the axe that chopped down my peace.
From that day forward, I practiced with greater mindfulness. I listened to my breath, to the silence inside. I learned to offer my energy where it nourished, not where it destroyed.
And so I grew, not as a tree that gave its branch to the axe, but as one who shaded all beneath with wisdom, peace, and steady roots.
That one teaching—so simple, spoken beneath the evening stars—reshaped my heart. I saw at last that true compassion is not just about giving, but about knowing how and when to give, so that suffering is not invited, but healed.
In the quiet of the monastery, I found inner power—not in strength, but in peace.
I was just a young novice monk when the lesson of the tree and the axe changed my life forever.
My name is Nadhi, and I came from a small bamboo village by the River Sarabhu, where my family fished the gentle waters and harvested rice from the land. I grew up watching my father wake before the sun, humbly bow toward the rising light, and tend to his field with steady, mindful hands. Yet, despite the peace of our village, something inside me longed for a deeper understanding of life’s suffering and how to end it.
When I was twelve, my parents sent me to Jetavana Monastery in the great city of Sravasti. It was here that I came under the guidance of Venerable Ananda, one of the closest disciples of the Buddha himself. Ananda was kind but firm, wise and patient. He shared many stories from the Buddha’s teachings, but none stayed with me like the one he shared one quiet evening under the Bodhi tree.
“There was once a majestic tree in the heart of a forest,” Ananda began, his voice soft as the warm breeze. “It stood tall and strong, its branches wide like welcoming arms. Birds sang in its leaves, animals found shelter beneath it, and travelers rested in its comforting shade.”
I leaned closer, listening to every word.
“One day,” he continued, “a woodsman entered the forest. He carried no axe, only a humble request. He called upon the tree and said, ‘O great tree, I wish to build a home for my family. May I have a branch from you, so I might craft an axe handle?’”
The tree, generous and without fear, gently agreed. “Take what you need, good man,” it said.
“With that branch,” Ananda said, pausing with meaning, “the woodsman made an axe. He returned days later—not to ask, but to cut. His blade bit deep into the tree’s bark, again and again, until the proud tree began to weaken.”
I was shocked. “But why would he do that? The tree helped him.”
Ananda smiled sadly. “It is a lesson, Nadhi. Sometimes, harm is born not from others’ strength, but from what we give without wisdom. The Buddha used this parable to remind us that suffering often arises when we feed the causes of our own destruction.”
He paused, letting the words settle like falling leaves.
“Even compassion,” he added, “must be guided by mindfulness, insight, and balance. Without wisdom, kindness can lead to harm—for others and ourselves.”
That night, I could not sleep. I thought of the tree, the woodsman, and the sharp pain that came not from the world, but from the tree’s own offering. I began to see how I too had given to emotions like anger and worry—letting them shape the axe that chopped down my peace.
From that day forward, I practiced with greater mindfulness. I listened to my breath, to the silence inside. I learned to offer my energy where it nourished, not where it destroyed.
And so I grew, not as a tree that gave its branch to the axe, but as one who shaded all beneath with wisdom, peace, and steady roots.
That one teaching—so simple, spoken beneath the evening stars—reshaped my heart. I saw at last that true compassion is not just about giving, but about knowing how and when to give, so that suffering is not invited, but healed.
In the quiet of the monastery, I found inner power—not in strength, but in peace.
