Everyone is a tree

 　　I remember during a break from the Chengde writers' conference, we went sightseeing. The writers chatted and laughed, talking about everything under the

　　sun—stones, water, trees. We stopped beside an old tree along the mountain path. The tree was peculiar; its trunk was enormous, requiring two or three people to encircle it. Its trunk was strong and upright, crisscrossed with the marks of time, its bark bulging like sheet metal. Its crown hung low and heavy, like a vast, thick cloud. I said to my fellow writers, "Hey! Look at this tree. It's very, very old. Can you see its eyes? Can you see its expression? It's looking at us, smiling at us. It's speaking, it must be speaking, but we can't understand what it's saying."

　　Everyone stood beside the tree, a look of reverence on their faces. The laughter vanished, replaced by silence, as if listening to what the old tree was saying.

　　Trees that are so old become spirits. We can't understand the old tree's words. But we must listen, even if we can't understand—that's respect for the old tree.

　　People respect old trees.

　　One can imagine it like this: This old tree has been struck by lightning, burned by fire, frozen by snow, drenched by rain, and scorched by the sun. Countless birds have lived here, countless people, and countless days have passed before it, endlessly repeating. The old tree's form, color, and temperament no longer resemble a tree, but rather a fossil or a sculpture.

　　More than a decade later, I saw such an old tree again in the Temple of Heaven Park in Beijing.

　　It compelled me to stop beside it. I stood respectfully, paying homage to its majestic form, meeting its serene expression and gaze. Then, I stood beside it and took a photo. A towering man and a magnificent old tree, sharing the same sentiment of proudly facing the vicissitudes of life, were captured in the instant the camera clicked.

　　Trees have growth rings, one ring growing each year. The old tree beside me must have about five hundred rings. The rings of the old tree are real, without any shortcuts or trickery; there are no shortcuts to its life's growth. It has seen what people have never seen; it has heard what people have never heard; it has pondered what people have never pondered.

　　This is experience.

　　Humans are like trees; their value lies in experience.

　　To avoid being blown down by a storm, one must undergo the process of developing intricate roots; to avoid the destruction of one's fragile inner self, one must grow a layered, mottled outer armor; to avoid being misled by the superiority of lush foliage, one must cultivate the confidence of being dry yet not decaying, decaying yet not rotting, and sturdy yet not falling. Having experienced the natural storms of lightning, pain is no longer pain, but an immunity to pain; having experienced the man-made torment and suffering, humiliation is no longer humiliation, but a mockery of humiliation; having experienced the clamor and solitude of day and night, external influences are no longer influences, but a serene acceptance of the blooming and fading of flowers in the courtyard and the drifting of clouds in the sky.

　　Old trees can speak, but we cannot understand their words. Very, very old trees are no longer just trees, but Buddhas.

　　The elderly are like old trees, the elderly are like Buddhas. An elderly person doesn't easily get angry, nor does he easily feel fear or panic. He doesn't readily show his pride or shame. His state of mind is shaped by his experiences. An elderly person's mind is like an old tree: roots, trunk, leaves, and crown all combined with the same vigorous spirit and steady style—sparse yet not impoverished, dense yet not noisy, still yet not lonely, active yet not frivolous.

　　A young tree, if lucky, will inevitably become an old tree. But not all young trees can become old trees.

　　Young trees easily grow wildly, growing uncontrollably, branching out before becoming old trees, their branches overshadowing the trunk. Even trees without excessive branches or overshadowing the trunk mostly share the same fate—inescapable of being felled. Trees that are not useful, or even those that are, whether useful or not, will never grow very old.

　　People are like trees; the laws of human destiny are like the laws of tree growth.

　　For a tree, the most difficult life process is shedding the notion of being useless or useful to humans. It's like reaching the physical limit in a 10,000-meter race; if you can't reach it, you fail and drop out; if you do, you win a prize or become a champion.

　　Every very old tree is a champion.

　　The champion itself is useless; what's useful is the process of achieving that championship.

　　Champions are admired and respected. The significance of an old tree lies in being respected and admired. Standing before it, people are filled with contemplation and awe.

　　The meaning of human life lies in becoming like an old tree, an elder.

　　Old trees speak, but we cannot understand them; elders don't speak easily, but when they do, their words are always profound.