It simply is

A traveler wandered through a valley where a great tree stood alone on a hillside.

The tree was ancient beyond memory. Its roots gripped the earth like old hands. Its branches stretched into the sky as though they had forgotten where wood ended and clouds began.

People often came to sit beneath it.

One day a scholar arrived carrying many books.

He looked up at the tree and said, "Tell me, what philosophy do you follow?"

The tree rustled softly in the wind.

The scholar waited.

No answer came.

After several hours he left, disappointed.

A week later a priest arrived.

He bowed deeply and asked, "What is your sacred teaching?"

The tree swayed.

A few leaves drifted to the ground.

The priest listened carefully for hidden wisdom.

There was only the sound of the breeze.

He too left unsatisfied.

Years passed.

Poets, kings, monks, and beggars all visited the tree.

Some believed it was teaching silence.

Others believed it was teaching patience.

Others claimed it symbolized eternity, enlightenment, or the secret nature of existence.

Arguments broke out.

Books were written.

Schools of thought emerged.

Disciples debated which interpretation was correct.

All the while, the tree continued growing.

One spring morning, a young child wandered up the hill carrying no books and no questions.

The child sat beneath the branches and watched sunlight dance across the grass.

After a long while, the child smiled and said,

"You look happy."

The tree trembled gently in the breeze.

The child smiled again.

Neither spoke another word.

From a distance, an old monk watched the scene.

A student standing beside him asked,

"Master, what did the child understand that the others missed?"

The monk pointed toward the tree.

"The scholars wanted the tree to become an idea."

"The priests wanted it to become a doctrine."

"The philosophers wanted it to become an answer."

He paused as a leaf drifted through the air.

"But the tree was busy being a tree."

The student frowned.

"Is that all?"

The monk laughed.

"What more has the oak ever needed?"

At that moment, a gust of wind moved through the valley.

The tree bent.

The grass bent.

The monk bent.

The student bent.

Then all returned to stillness.

No sermon was given.

No doctrine was established.

Yet the hillside remained full of wisdom.

For the tree had never spent a single day trying to become enlightened.

It had simply stood in the rain, reached toward the sun, and allowed each season to come and go.

And in doing so, it had understood what humans so often forget:

The river does not study flowing.

The moon does not practice shining.

The tree does not believe in being.

It simply is.