The Twisted Old Tree or the Art of Purposelessness

At night, lying in bed, I go over the day. I ask myself if I have been productive enough, and almost always the answer feels like no. I could have written longer, trained harder, eaten less. I might have answered an email with more care. I even question my down time; I would have been better off reading a novel than watching YouTubes ranging from airline reviews to gossip about the British Royal Family and introductions to ancient Chinese philosophy.

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Before closing my eyes, I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll do better. The next evening, the results are the same, and once again I vow to improve my life. All of this leaves me with that all too familiar feeling of falling short.

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But one of those many videos stayed with me. It spoke about the Taoist preference for spontaneity over striving, about purposelessness as something sincere. Actions without calculation, without the desire for reward or recognition, are considered more genuine because they are free of intention.

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Dancing and walking without a destination were given as examples—acts that lead nowhere and therefore need no justification. The joy is in the doing.

 

I recognized myself in that. I love to dance, often alone, listening to Sly and the Family Stone or Chaka Khan, moving without thinking why. I also love to walk without knowing where I am going. When I travel, this is how I discover places that stay with me: a hidden temple in Taipei, a food market at the end of an alley in Bangkok, a bakery in Mexico City, seemingly untouched by time.

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I do the same at home in Barcelona. I step outside without a plan. I let my body choose—left or right—and I follow. As I walk, I notice the houses, the shifting clouds, and on especially beautiful days, the open blue of the sky.

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This intoxicating sense of freedom contrasts sharply with the world I return to—the videos, the posts, the constant emphasis on purpose as something to be cultivated and displayed. I see how deeply I have internalized the idea that my life must justify itself through productivity.

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In traditional Chinese thought, uselessness is valued. A twisted old tree is spared precisely because it cannot be used for timber. Its uselessness allows it to survive and grow in its own way.

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I am still learning how to live without constantly explaining myself through achievement. It does not come easily, but the idea comforts me. And now, as I approach seventy-two, I find myself willing to learn from a twisted old tree—and to allow myself, at least sometimes, to simply be.