Program

Long ago, in a valley where wind rehearsed its strength every afternoon, a young tree asked the ground what it should become.

“I want to be tall,” said the tree. “I want to touch the sun and be seen.”

The ground replied, “Then begin where no one is looking.”

The first season, the winds came early and sharp. They bent the tree until its leaves scraped the earth. Frightened, the tree pushed its roots outward, not down, but wide. It reached sideways into the soil, learning the names of neighboring stones and the patience of moss. When the wind returned, it found the tree harder to tip. The tree learned its first lesson: to stand, you must belong to more than one place.

The next season brought drought. The wide roots found only dust and old promises of rain. Thirst gnawed at the tree, and it reached again, this time downward. Past cool layers of silence, past the memory of rivers, until it found water hiding in the dark. From then on, even when the valley cracked with heat, the tree drank calmly. The second lesson took hold: what sustains you is often buried beneath discomfort.

Years passed. The soil grew poor. What little nourishment remained was scattered, hard-won. The tree’s roots thickened, slow and deliberate, swelling where effort met reward. They learned to hold onto fragments of goodness and make something lasting from them. The third lesson settled in the wood: strength is not speed, but accumulation.

When the greatest storm finally came, the one the valley still speaks of, the wind howled with confidence. It toppled trees that had grown fast and narrow, proud and hollow.

But this tree stayed.

Its roots were wide enough to share the burden of the wind, deep enough to endure thirst, and thick enough to feed a long life. Above ground, it was tall, yes, but not because it had rushed. It had listened.

And so the fable ends with a truth the ground keeps repeating:

What holds you upright is not what others see.