I had wandered far from my village, following the quiet path through the woods. My basket was still empty, though I had hoped to gather some herbs for tea. Frustration bubbled in my chest, and my feet kicked at the fallen leaves. “Why is it,” I muttered, “that I search and search, but find nothing?”
The sun had just begun to dip behind the mountains when I saw him—an old man sitting beneath a crooked tree. His eyes were closed, his face calm. He seemed to be listening—not with his ears, but with something deeper.
I stopped a few paces away, unsure if I should speak. Before I could decide, he opened his eyes and smiled.
"Looking for something?" he asked.
I sighed. “Herbs. Answers.” I paused. “Maybe peace.”
He nodded, as if he had heard such things many times. “And what did you find?”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice sharp with annoyance. “Just this tree and… you.”
He laughed gently and patted the ground beside him. “Sit a while.”
I sat. The forest was quiet. The breeze rustled leaves overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out softly.
We said nothing for a long time.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered at last.
I listened. “Just the wind in the branches.”
He smiled again. “That ‘just the wind’ has more to teach us than you might think.”
I blinked, unsure of what he meant.
He leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Trees do not chase the wind. They bend and sway. They do not seek, yet everything comes to them in time.”
I looked up at the tree. Its roots were thick and still, but its branches danced gently with the breeze.
“I used to chase things, too,” he said. “Answers. Riches. Approval. One day, I grew tired and sat beneath this tree. I listened. Not with ears. Just with quiet.”
I tilted my head. “And did you find answers?”
“No,” he said, “I lost questions.”
His words made no sense at first. Then, slowly, I began to understand. Sitting still under that tree, the ache in my heart softened. I no longer needed to find something. I just needed… to be.
Even my stomach, which had felt tight and knotted all day, began to relax. Silence filled the space where worries had been.
The day faded and the stars blinked into view.
“I should go,” I said, standing slowly.
He nodded but said nothing.
As I walked back through the forest, I looked at the trees differently. Not as things standing in my way, but as gentle teachers—showing me how to stand still, how to listen, how to wait.
That night, I brewed a simple cup of hot water, with no herbs at all. I sat in silence and sipped.
And for the first time in a long while, that emptiness I used to fear felt like peace.
I didn’t change overnight. But after meeting the listener beneath the tree, I understood something new—sometimes, the answers we need come when we stop trying so hard to find them.
I had wandered far from my village, following the quiet path through the woods. My basket was still empty, though I had hoped to gather some herbs for tea. Frustration bubbled in my chest, and my feet kicked at the fallen leaves. “Why is it,” I muttered, “that I search and search, but find nothing?”
The sun had just begun to dip behind the mountains when I saw him—an old man sitting beneath a crooked tree. His eyes were closed, his face calm. He seemed to be listening—not with his ears, but with something deeper.
I stopped a few paces away, unsure if I should speak. Before I could decide, he opened his eyes and smiled.
"Looking for something?" he asked.
I sighed. “Herbs. Answers.” I paused. “Maybe peace.”
He nodded, as if he had heard such things many times. “And what did you find?”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice sharp with annoyance. “Just this tree and… you.”
He laughed gently and patted the ground beside him. “Sit a while.”
I sat. The forest was quiet. The breeze rustled leaves overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out softly.
We said nothing for a long time.
“Do you hear that?” he whispered at last.
I listened. “Just the wind in the branches.”
He smiled again. “That ‘just the wind’ has more to teach us than you might think.”
I blinked, unsure of what he meant.
He leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Trees do not chase the wind. They bend and sway. They do not seek, yet everything comes to them in time.”
I looked up at the tree. Its roots were thick and still, but its branches danced gently with the breeze.
“I used to chase things, too,” he said. “Answers. Riches. Approval. One day, I grew tired and sat beneath this tree. I listened. Not with ears. Just with quiet.”
I tilted my head. “And did you find answers?”
“No,” he said, “I lost questions.”
His words made no sense at first. Then, slowly, I began to understand. Sitting still under that tree, the ache in my heart softened. I no longer needed to find something. I just needed… to be.
Even my stomach, which had felt tight and knotted all day, began to relax. Silence filled the space where worries had been.
The day faded and the stars blinked into view.
“I should go,” I said, standing slowly.
He nodded but said nothing.
As I walked back through the forest, I looked at the trees differently. Not as things standing in my way, but as gentle teachers—showing me how to stand still, how to listen, how to wait.
That night, I brewed a simple cup of hot water, with no herbs at all. I sat in silence and sipped.
And for the first time in a long while, that emptiness I used to fear felt like peace.
I didn’t change overnight. But after meeting the listener beneath the tree, I understood something new—sometimes, the answers we need come when we stop trying so hard to find them.
