I was just a boy who liked to climb trees.
In the village where I grew up, people chopped trees for building houses, boats, and furniture. Big, straight trees were the first to go. Small ones, too. But not the one I loved most.
At the far end of the field stood a crooked, knotted tree. Its branches twisted and curled like a sleepy snake, and its trunk looked like it had grown in a hundred directions at once. No one wanted it. Papa said it was “useless timber.” But to me, it was perfect. I could slip into its hammock-shaped limbs and lie there for hours, where the wind whispered through the leaves like a song only I could hear.
I called it my Secret Tree.
One summer day, my uncle came to visit from the city. He was a busy man who always seemed to walk faster than the wind. “What’s that ugly thing?” he asked, pointing his chin at my tree.
“That’s the—” I stopped myself. I didn’t want to share its name. “Just a tree,” I said instead.
“Must be useless,” he said, laughing. “See how twisted it is? No one can build with that.”
Later that evening, I lay in the tree’s arms, thinking. Was it really useless? I wondered why something so peaceful could be thought of as having no value. That’s when Grandpa sat beside me under the tree. He was one of the few people who walked slow on purpose. He looked up at the leaves swaying quietly above.
“Did you know,” Grandpa said gently, “that a great teacher once talked about a tree just like this?”
I turned to him. “Really?”
“Long, long ago, there was a wise man named Zhuangzi. He told a story of an old, twisted tree no one would cut. People called it useless. But it lived because of that.”
“That’s just like my tree,” I whispered.
Grandpa nodded slowly. “Some things stay standing because they have no use in the eyes of the world. But is that so bad? This tree gives you shade. It gives you quiet. You come here to think, don’t you?”
I did. I came when I was angry, confused, or simply tired of the noise. Up there, the sky felt closer. I didn’t need to do anything. I didn’t need anything done to me. I just… was.
Grandpa leaned back on the grass and smiled toward the stars beginning to show. “In Taoism, we call this wu wei. It means effortless action—doing by not forcing. This tree doesn’t grow straight, but it grows just fine. No need to chase purpose. Just be.”
I tucked that thought deep in my chest. I didn’t fully understand it then. I only knew I felt lighter.
Over time, I grew older. The busy world pulled me in many directions like it had pulled others before me. But whenever I felt lost, I returned to my Secret Tree. By simply being there, it reminded me I didn’t need to prove my worth. I didn’t have to rush. I didn’t even have to understand everything.
I just had to be.
And like the tree, that was more than enough.
I was just a boy who liked to climb trees.
In the village where I grew up, people chopped trees for building houses, boats, and furniture. Big, straight trees were the first to go. Small ones, too. But not the one I loved most.
At the far end of the field stood a crooked, knotted tree. Its branches twisted and curled like a sleepy snake, and its trunk looked like it had grown in a hundred directions at once. No one wanted it. Papa said it was “useless timber.” But to me, it was perfect. I could slip into its hammock-shaped limbs and lie there for hours, where the wind whispered through the leaves like a song only I could hear.
I called it my Secret Tree.
One summer day, my uncle came to visit from the city. He was a busy man who always seemed to walk faster than the wind. “What’s that ugly thing?” he asked, pointing his chin at my tree.
“That’s the—” I stopped myself. I didn’t want to share its name. “Just a tree,” I said instead.
“Must be useless,” he said, laughing. “See how twisted it is? No one can build with that.”
Later that evening, I lay in the tree’s arms, thinking. Was it really useless? I wondered why something so peaceful could be thought of as having no value. That’s when Grandpa sat beside me under the tree. He was one of the few people who walked slow on purpose. He looked up at the leaves swaying quietly above.
“Did you know,” Grandpa said gently, “that a great teacher once talked about a tree just like this?”
I turned to him. “Really?”
“Long, long ago, there was a wise man named Zhuangzi. He told a story of an old, twisted tree no one would cut. People called it useless. But it lived because of that.”
“That’s just like my tree,” I whispered.
Grandpa nodded slowly. “Some things stay standing because they have no use in the eyes of the world. But is that so bad? This tree gives you shade. It gives you quiet. You come here to think, don’t you?”
I did. I came when I was angry, confused, or simply tired of the noise. Up there, the sky felt closer. I didn’t need to do anything. I didn’t need anything done to me. I just… was.
Grandpa leaned back on the grass and smiled toward the stars beginning to show. “In Taoism, we call this wu wei. It means effortless action—doing by not forcing. This tree doesn’t grow straight, but it grows just fine. No need to chase purpose. Just be.”
I tucked that thought deep in my chest. I didn’t fully understand it then. I only knew I felt lighter.
Over time, I grew older. The busy world pulled me in many directions like it had pulled others before me. But whenever I felt lost, I returned to my Secret Tree. By simply being there, it reminded me I didn’t need to prove my worth. I didn’t have to rush. I didn’t even have to understand everything.
I just had to be.
And like the tree, that was more than enough.
