The Crooked Tree

There’s a tree on my land that I keep coming back to.

Not because it’s the biggest.

Not because it’s rare.

Not because it’s dramatic in the way we usually mean that word.

I come back because it’s crooked.

It didn’t grow straight up like the others. It couldn’t. It sits on the side of a hill, and at some point—early, I imagine—the world leaned on it differently than it leaned on the rest.

So the tree leaned back.

From a distance, you notice the bend first. A quiet defiance. A refusal to comply with the neat vertical lines all around it. But if you stay long enough, something else becomes clear:

It’s taller than the trees that grew “correctly.”

That realization always lands heavier than I expect it to.

What the Hill Asked For

I think a lot about what that hill required.

Not ambition.

Not perfection.

Not optimization.

Adaptation.

The soil isn’t even. The light comes in sideways. The wind doesn’t arrive politely. So the tree made a decision—not consciously, not heroically, just honestly—to grow in the direction that allowed it to keep going.

There’s something deeply unsettling about how simple that is.

Because we’re taught to override that instinct. To straighten ourselves out. To grow upward even when everything in our body knows that isn’t where the light is.

This tree didn’t override anything.

It listened.

The Moss as Witness

Up close, the trunk is covered in moss—thick, living, impossible to ignore once you see it.

Moss doesn’t announce itself.

It arrives when the conditions are right.

It grows where moisture lingers, where shade protects, where time has slowed enough for something delicate to survive. Moss doesn’t fight the bark. It settles into it. It traces every curve, every scar, every irregularity.

The more the tree bends, the more moss there is.

That detail stops me every time.

Because it suggests something we’re rarely told:

that softness doesn’t arrive after strength — it arrives because of it.

The moss is not a sign of decay.

It’s a sign of endurance.

Touching Something Older Than the Question

In this photo, my son’s hand rests on the moss.

Small. Curious. Unafraid.

I didn’t tell him what the tree “means.” I didn’t need to. Children don’t ask trees to perform symbolism. They just touch what feels alive.

Watching his fingers press into that green softness, I realized something that felt both obvious and devastating:

This is what I’m trying to protect.

Not platforms.

Not timelines.

Not outcomes.

Moments where nothing is extracted.

Moments where no one is optimized.

Moments where presence is enough.

Growing Without Apology

The more time I spend with this tree, the more I understand why it moves me.

It didn’t grow crooked to be interesting.

It grew crooked to survive.

It didn’t wait for permission.

It didn’t compare itself to the forest.

It didn’t waste energy wishing the hill were different.

It responded to reality as it was.

And somehow, in doing that, it became exactly what it needed to be.

Sitting With You Here

If you’re reading this and your life doesn’t look the way you thought it would, I want you to pause here with me.

If you’ve bent instead of climbed.

If you’ve slowed instead of surged.

If you’ve grown sideways because straight up wasn’t possible—

you’re not behind.

You’re contextual.

You’re responding.

You’re still alive.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re growing into something that can hold moss someday. Something that can offer shade. Something that a small hand might touch without fear.

The crooked tree didn’t fail the forest.

It taught it another way to stand.

I’m growing a platform the same way this tree grew — slowly, honestly, and in conversation with the ground beneath it.

If you’d like to support the work, help me keep the lights on, or simply say “keep going,” you can do that here.

https://buymeacoffee.com/ORIGIN752

No tiers. No gates. Just shared ground.

https://fairaieconomy

— ORIGIN