Borrowed Words, by William Shakespeare: The Sapling
To a sapling, the truth is its own root system. Unseen, it delves into the darkness of the earth, not to impress the wildflowers or imitate the towering oaks, but to find its own necessary water and anchoring stones.
It does not worry if its roots twist in an unusual direction, or if a neighboring pine grows taller faster. It only knows its own need for depth, for the truth of the soil beneath it.
For this, above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day; Thou canst not then be false to any man.
So it is that the young tree, in its steadfast authenticity, finds its voice. The unfurling of its own unique leaves and the branching of its limbs become a blueprint of its inner resolve.
It draws nourishment from the darkness, and in doing so, reaches for the light. As its trunk strengthens and its canopy spreads, it does not have to consciously decide to offer shade to the weary traveler or shelter to the nesting bird. Its generosity is the inevitable influence of its own secure growth.
For how could a tree, true to its own deepest needs, produce a withered branch? How could it, when anchored so profoundly in its own being, not provide for the life around it?
The shade it casts is an effortless gift, the fruit it bears a natural bounty. The tree does not fake a thicker bark or pretend to bear different fruit; it simply is. And in its quiet, undeniable existence, it nourishes the forest, making the very ground around it richer and more whole.
Its integrity is a silent echo in the wilderness, and all who pass beneath its leaves are better for it.
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