Imagine a gardener who has spent decades cultivating a rare and beautiful tree. They planted it as a seed, nurtured it through storms and droughts, shaped its branches with care, and watched it grow into something breathtaking.

At first, only a few people noticed the tree, and their appreciation filled the gardener with joy. Over time, more came, marveling at its beauty, sitting in its shade, carving their initials into its bark. Eventually, it became a gathering place, a landmark, something beloved by many.

But as the tree aged, its growth changed. Some branches became twisted, some leaves fell in odd seasons, and the once-admiring crowd began to complain. They said the tree was no longer as grand, that the gardener had neglected it, that it should have grown differently. Some even shouted that the gardener had failed, though they themselves had never planted a thing.

The gardener, who once loved the tree above all else, now looked at it with tired eyes. Their hands, once eager to prune and shape, now hesitated, weighed down by resentment. Why care for something when those who claim to love it also despise what it has become? The gardener began to close themselves off, tending less and less, feeling bitterness coil around their heart like ivy, choking the love they once had.

The gardener must remember why they planted the tree in the first place. It was never for the crowd. It was never for praise. It was for the sheer joy of creation, the wonder of watching something grow. If the tree is still alive, if its roots still dig deep into the earth, then there is still something there worth tending.

To remove the bitterness, the gardener must let go of ownership—not of the tree itself, but of others’ perceptions of it. The tree belongs to the world now, but the act of care, of shaping, of creation—that belongs to the gardener alone.

-Evoked while Meditating in Divinia.