The destiny

The Destiny

By: John Kazerooni

Once upon a time, in a quiet cradle of earth, there stood a tree—majestic, wise, and full of grace. Her roots ran deep into the soil of memory, and her branches reached like prayers toward the skies. Beside her flowed a shimmering river, whose waters murmured lullabies of ancient times. Together, they existed in a quiet harmony, a sacred duet of strength and softness, stillness and song.

The tree was alive with purpose. Her boughs offered shade to the weary, her fruits fed the hungry, and her heart radiated a quiet love for all beings that sought comfort in her arms. She gave without asking, grew without fear. Every bird that nestled in her limbs, every creature that paused beneath her canopy, knew they had found sanctuary.

The river, her lifelong companion, sang to her as it passed—songs of forgotten lands, tales of mountains and meadows, of storms survived and suns endured. The wind joined too, brushing her leaves like fingertips across a harp, whispering stories carried from the farthest corners of the earth.

And when harvest time arrived, the tree rejoiced. With the music of the river and the dance of the wind, she let her seeds fly. She did not clutch them close, nor ask where they would go. With joy, she released thousands of her children into the world—small, tender vessels of hope. The river carried them. The wind scattered them. She trusted the rhythm of nature.

Some seeds fell on thirsty earth and never stirred again. Some were devoured by hungry birds or fish beneath the stream. Others wandered far and vanished. A few—a precious few—found fertile soil, where land and light and water cradled them gently. And from those few grew new trees, tall and vibrant, who in time learned to dance with the wind and listen to the river’s song.

But not all who sprouted survived.

Some seeds grew in hunger and could not endure the pleasures of passing beings—plucked, used, and left to wither. Some grew tall and proud, only to be broken—cut down by human hands or felled by nature’s storms. Others became sick, their roots rotting with disease, their young leaves withering before they ever saw the sun. Most never reached their fullness, demolished before their time. Their promise dissolved quietly into the dust.

This is not just the story of a tree.

It is the story of all of us.

We often celebrate success as if it were solely born of our own hands—of our labor, our dreams, our struggle. But the truth is softer, deeper, and more humbling. The vast portion of our growth—of what we become—is rooted not in effort alone, but in the unseen grace of where and when we are planted.

Eighty percent of our becoming lies in the soil and season—the time and place of our lives, the rivers that pass beside us, and the winds that carry our voices. Only a sliver—perhaps twenty percent—is carved by our own hands: the work we do, the attention we give, the choices we make.

And even within that twenty percent, nearly all—ninety-nine percent—is shaped not by action alone, but by attitude: the way we open to the wind, the way we listen to the river, the way we trust the unseen and keep giving, even when we do not know what will grow.

So, when you look at your own success, growth, health, happiness, and progress of life, pause.

Feel the soil beneath your feet. Notice the winds that carried you. Listen for the music of your own river.

And remember:

You did not do it alone.

None of us ever do.

And now, linger with these questions:

Were you planted, or did you choose where to root?

How many winds have carried you, without your knowing?

What unseen hands shaped your story, while you believed you were writing it alone?

Which seeds have you scattered—knowingly or not—and where might they be growing now?

Have you thanked the river?

When pride rises, do you remember the rain?

What kind of tree are you becoming?

And what music does your life sing into the lives of others?

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