The Monk and the Virtue of Uselessness

When Living Less Means Better

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Dear Friends,

The latest essay in my Carefree Monk series is here, featuring a contemplative journey through the wisdom of embracing what the world deems "useless."

Through encounters with the teachings of Laozi, Yang Zhu, and Zhuangzi, this essay explores how stepping away from the current paradigm will lead you toward a richer and more authentic existence.

In a world obsessed with optimization and output, sometimes the most radical act is simply learning to be.

Subscribe now to read the full essay and gain access to the complete Carefree Monk series. (Plus, subscribers receive my latest book "Peaceful: 7 Taoist Lessons to Inner Ease" )

With Gratitude,

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At dawn, long before the merchants opened their shops or the village bells awakened the valley, the monk stood before the giant ailanthus. It had risen there for decades, twisted and foul-smelling, avoided by all travelers who preferred to walk on the other side of the path. Its deformed branches could never serve as beams, its spongy trunk would never make good planks. Carpenters despised it, lumberjacks ignored it. It was, in the eyes of the world, perfectly useless.

And it was precisely for this reason that the monk loved it.

He sat against its rough bark, feeling beneath his palms the scars of a tree that had survived not despite its uselessness, but because of it. In a world where everything had to serve, produce, and profit, this ailanthus had discovered the secret of freedom: to be worth nothing in the eyes of those who count everything.

A traveler passed by, hurried, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He noticed the old man sitting against the twisted tree and shook his head with pity. "Poor old man," he murmured, "wasting his time against a dead tree."

The monk smiled. He remembered the words of his master, who often quoted Zhuangzi: "Why not plant your useless tree in the land of Nothing-at-All, in the wilds of vast emptiness, and hang out doing nothing by its side or meander about and fall asleep beneath it?"

The tree was not dead. It was alive with a life the world no longer knew how to recognize. A life without purpose, without project, without ambition. A life that was content to be, to breathe, to offer shade to those who took the time to stop.

The monk closed his eyes and listened to the tree's silence. In that silence, he heard a lesson it had taken him years to understand: sometimes, the greatest utility is born from assumed uselessness. Sometimes, true wealth is found in what cannot be counted, measured, or sold.