The sun was already high when I dropped the heavy buckets of water outside the kitchen hut. My face was hot, my arms ached, and I was tired of doing chores all morning while my younger brother chased butterflies in the field.
"Why do I have to do everything around here?" I muttered, crossing my arms and scowling at the clear blue sky.
That was when Grandpa Wen shuffled out of the garden, carrying a basket of sweet melons. Grandpa had always lived with us, ever since he left the mountains. He was quiet most mornings, but this time, he spoke.
“Sometimes,” he said, gently placing the melons on the stone table, “when we try to bend the world our way, we end up breaking ourselves instead.”
I rolled my eyes. “Grandpa, I don’t know what that means! I’m just tired of doing all the work.”
He sat on the low bench and smiled. “Come. Let me tell you about the tree on the mountain.”
Grandpa’s stories were never like anyone else’s. They didn’t have punches or giant dragons. But somehow, they always stayed in my mind.
“Many years ago,” he began, “there was a mighty king who went into the forest to find the best wood for his throne. He sent his men to cut down the tallest, straightest trees. But as they climbed higher, they passed by one huge, leafy tree that stood alone on a hill.
‘Why haven’t you taken that one?’ the king asked. ‘It’s enormous!’
The woodcutter said, ‘That tree is useless. It’s not straight. Its wood is too soft for carving, and its branches twist like a snake. No one can use it.’
The king laughed and moved on. But that tree… that tree stayed. It grew and grew. While all the others were chopped down, it stood high, giving shade to tired travelers and rest for birds.”
I blinked. “So the tree was lucky because it was useless?”
Grandpa grinned. “Not useless. Just not shaped for what people expected. You see, that tree followed the Way. It didn’t try to be straight or strong. It didn’t try to be anything. It just grew, slowly, in its own time.”
I thought about that tree while I helped Mama cook, and again later when my brother spilled grain all over the floor and everyone laughed — even Mama.
I didn’t laugh. I still felt a little upset. But I didn’t yell either. I just watched as the grains scattered, and I imagined water flowing over rocks, bending and swirling, never fighting.
That night, I went out alone and lay beneath Grandpa’s favorite tree.
The breeze was soft. Leaves rustled above me like gentle whispers.
I closed my eyes and thought, maybe I’ve been trying too hard to be the tallest tree. Maybe it’s okay to just be the one still growing.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the river.
And in that quiet space, I find peace.
The sun was already high when I dropped the heavy buckets of water outside the kitchen hut. My face was hot, my arms ached, and I was tired of doing chores all morning while my younger brother chased butterflies in the field.
"Why do I have to do everything around here?" I muttered, crossing my arms and scowling at the clear blue sky.
That was when Grandpa Wen shuffled out of the garden, carrying a basket of sweet melons. Grandpa had always lived with us, ever since he left the mountains. He was quiet most mornings, but this time, he spoke.
“Sometimes,” he said, gently placing the melons on the stone table, “when we try to bend the world our way, we end up breaking ourselves instead.”
I rolled my eyes. “Grandpa, I don’t know what that means! I’m just tired of doing all the work.”
He sat on the low bench and smiled. “Come. Let me tell you about the tree on the mountain.”
Grandpa’s stories were never like anyone else’s. They didn’t have punches or giant dragons. But somehow, they always stayed in my mind.
“Many years ago,” he began, “there was a mighty king who went into the forest to find the best wood for his throne. He sent his men to cut down the tallest, straightest trees. But as they climbed higher, they passed by one huge, leafy tree that stood alone on a hill.
‘Why haven’t you taken that one?’ the king asked. ‘It’s enormous!’
The woodcutter said, ‘That tree is useless. It’s not straight. Its wood is too soft for carving, and its branches twist like a snake. No one can use it.’
The king laughed and moved on. But that tree… that tree stayed. It grew and grew. While all the others were chopped down, it stood high, giving shade to tired travelers and rest for birds.”
I blinked. “So the tree was lucky because it was useless?”
Grandpa grinned. “Not useless. Just not shaped for what people expected. You see, that tree followed the Way. It didn’t try to be straight or strong. It didn’t try to be anything. It just grew, slowly, in its own time.”
I thought about that tree while I helped Mama cook, and again later when my brother spilled grain all over the floor and everyone laughed — even Mama.
I didn’t laugh. I still felt a little upset. But I didn’t yell either. I just watched as the grains scattered, and I imagined water flowing over rocks, bending and swirling, never fighting.
That night, I went out alone and lay beneath Grandpa’s favorite tree.
The breeze was soft. Leaves rustled above me like gentle whispers.
I closed my eyes and thought, maybe I’ve been trying too hard to be the tallest tree. Maybe it’s okay to just be the one still growing.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the river.
And in that quiet space, I find peace.
