These were 2 Musang King graft, bought by me almost 10 years ago. These gratings were planted to the ground on 11 September 2016, with an intention to demonstrate something to myself.








Yet as the time passed, some unexpected observations arises. These were the photos on the growth of the tree over the years. The tree successfully bear the fruits last year.







I recalled the yesteryears generation teaching - be observant, the answer will be revealed in the form of pattern from our surrounding. This very photo showed the low hanging fruits within my reach.



Probably there are some of them are like the low hanging fruits - waiting to compare their observations with the others.

Observation 1: The Experiment, and the Answer That Followed

Planting was my way of responding to disagreement.

Throughout my life, there were times when my views did not align with those around me — including my own parents and family. Instead of arguing or trying to win the discussion, I chose to act quietly. I planted.

Over time, I realized that people often speak from what they have seen, heard, or believed. Some speak to warn you. Some speak to persuade you. But both are still speaking from their own experience — not yours.

When I was young, I was told that dividing my attention would lead to failure. The concern was sincere. I did not argue. I continued to work and observe.

Years later, the failure that was predicted did not happen. The result came from what I had done, not from what was said. The result itself answered the disagreement.

That was when I understood something important: listening is useful, but experience teaches more clearly.

Later in life, I saw the other side. Instead of warnings, there were promises. Successful people promoted investments and opportunities. Because they appeared confident and established, many believed them without question.

It was about ten years ago, during one such period, a respected figure spoke about “heavenly returns” from an investment. That was when I planted two durian grafts.

This time, I wanted to see whether the durian tree would bear fruit first or whether the investment would deliver its promised return.

Ten years passed. The trees bore fruit. The investment disappeared.







It was not luck. One decision was grounded in something I could see, touch, and manage.

That is what planting taught me.

Planting means taking responsibility to test and understand something yourself. It means not stopping only because someone says it is dangerous. If everyone avoided danger completely, many useful professions would not exist today.

At the same time, planting also means not moving forward only because someone promises success. Even confident people can be wrong.

When we plant, we accept that the result — good or bad — belongs to us. When we rely only on other people’s words, the result still belongs to us, but the understanding does not.

In life, many voices will surround us. Some will discourage. Some will persuade.

But only what we plant ourselves will truly teach us.


This post has been edited by nihility: Feb 13 2026, 02:38 PM

A Walk at Childhood Home

I took a walk three nights ago,
along the road I have always known.
I glanced to the left and right—
the village houses stood unchanged,
yet something no longer felt the same.

I paused.

The people of your generation
are no longer around.
Their descendants have moved to the city,
and fewer return for the Spring Festival.

There was a time
when the whole street was filled with cars,
children running and chasing,
laughter rising above the sound
of firecrackers bursting without rest.
Some rode bicycles through the narrow lane.

Your generation would step out to greet us—
“Grandson of MC, have you eaten?”
A simple question,
yet it carried the warmth of belonging.

Neighbours knew one another through their elders—
always someone’s child,
someone’s grandchild.
That way of addressing has grown quiet.

A sudden cold breeze brushed past me.
It carried no voices with it.
It drew my gaze back to the street.
The aliveness that once lingered
was no longer there.
Only a foreign couple walked by.

Perhaps I have not fully accepted
that your generation is gone.
Perhaps part of me still lingers
in that earlier place.
You might have called it childish—
hesitating, unwilling to grow.

Once, there was always someone ahead to guide.
Now the street waits.

The coming generation
will need what yours once gave.
Some roles, perhaps, cannot remain empty.

This quiet street—
I will find a way
to bring warmth back to it.

I told myself this
as I continued my walk home.

2nd : When the Bark Begins to Crack

The First Accidental Discovery

As a tree matures,
its inner wood widens.
Ring upon ring settles quietly beneath the surface —
strength forming where no eye can see.

But bark does not stretch forever.
Pressure gathers.
What once fit begins to tighten.
Fine lines surface.

And then — it splits.



From afar, the fracture looks like damage.
For a moment, the trunk stands exposed.

Yet this is not decay.
It is growth.
Without fissures, the trunk would choke itself,
unable to bear heavier branches.

So it is with us.

When responsibility deepens,
when roles expand beyond what we once carried,
the inner frame must widen.
Old definitions narrow.
Former habits restrain.

Transition is seldom comfortable.
We cling to the familiar — accountable, predictable —
afraid that stepping forward may cost us stability.
Yet staying too long in a smaller shape
brings its own quiet suffocation.

There is hesitation.
A silent doubt before entering wider ground.
A question of whether the structure will hold.

Stretching feels like instability.
Like loss of control.

But if the widening is endured,
strength consolidates.
Boundaries clarify.
Steadiness deepens.
Identity thickens, ring by ring.

If resisted, the pressure remains.
Capacity stays small.
The trunk bears only light branches.

The pattern repeats —
in the workplace,
in the home,
in the shift from independence
to partnership,
to parenthood.

Growth is not gentle.
It unsettles before it steadies.
It asks us to relinquish the shape that once felt enough
so that something wider can stand.

3rd: The Slow Strengthening of the Trunk

The growth of a tree is gradual. Over the last ten years, the planted tree has grown taller. Before it can carry heavier branches, the main trunk must thicken — unseen, ring by ring.

In the short term, nothing appears to change. To the passing eye, little seems different. Yet when we look back at photographs taken across the years, the steady widening becomes unmistakable.














Human relationships and organizations unfold in much the same way. Change rarely arrives in dramatic moments; more often, it accumulates. A salesperson may follow up this year, while the confirmation of an order only comes several years later. Self-cultivation and the refinement of relationships do not transform overnight, but through repeated, almost unnoticed adjustments over time.

If a tree is made to bear more than its trunk can sustain, branches break. In the same way, when a person steps into a role before their inner strength has fully formed, pressure has a way of revealing what was not yet ready.

When the foundation is weak, the dynamic eventually fractures. At times, advancement without grounding carries consequences that only become visible later.

Growth that endures is seldom hurried.
Time is not delay.
It is structure being formed.

4th — Nurturing What We Care

Initially, I thought planting was simple. Just dig a hole, place the graft in position, press back the soil, and do some initial watering — done. I assumed the tree would grow on its own, running on autopilot.

I expected natural rainwater to be sufficient. Yet the rain did not come as expected. The drought lasted longer than anticipated. When I checked on the trees’ condition, one of them had died.



The surviving tree’s leaves were turning yellowish. It was not dramatic — just weaker. It felt like a quiet cry from the tree, asking for water to survive. I quickly intervened and watered the tree with care. Fortunately, the intervention came in time. A tragedy was avoided.

After that came the rainy season. I assumed the tree would be doing fine and left it unchecked.
When I returned, I saw the tree had been outgrown by unwanted weeds, competing for space and sunlight. The tree’s growth was constrained because of this competition. In haste, I cut down the weeds, creating breathing room and allowing sunlight to warm the tree again.





With time, the pattern altered. This time it was not about watering or weeds. The leaves responded first. There was yellowing (chlorosis) on the older leaves and browning along the edges. It was a sign of fertiliser deficiency. Again, I assumed the soil would provide sufficient nutrients to support the tree’s growth. Had I not reacted promptly, valuable time for productive growth could have been lost.



In the next season, another issue appeared. The growing leaves were covered with a powder-like whitish substance. At first glance, it looked like snow had accumulated on them — though we do not have a winter season here. The tree was under attack by woolly aphids — parasitic insects that suck out the tree sap. Assuming natural immunity would have led to its decline in no time. Pesticide was sprayed to facilitate recovery from the infestation.



Then, as the season changed again, the tree experienced unrestricted growth with no shortage of water, space, fertiliser, or health issues. The branches sprouted at every angle, occupying every available space.

However, uncontrolled growth is equally non-productive. With unfocused expansion, no branch becomes strong enough to bear and carry fruit. Pruning became necessary to keep the tree structured and to nurture a few strong branches for productive cultivation. Growth alone does not guarantee fruit.

Looking back, the work never truly ended. Each time I thought stability had been secured, something else required attention. I had underestimated how much maintenance was needed to nurture what we care.

Footnotes:



This post has been edited by nihility: Feb 25 2026, 08:47 AM

5th The Lesson Lost When We Buy the Fruit

The planting of the tree was not emotionally smooth.

Across ten years, discouragement arrived more than once. If such words had come from strangers, they would have dissolved easily. But they came from someone within the household — a generation before me, my own mother.

“Don’t plant. Use money and buy the fruit. Why waste time and effort?”
“By the time the tree bears fruit, we may not even be here to taste it.”
“Why spend years waiting?”



I do not blame her. In this life, I came into the world as her child.

Growing up, I learned to recognize both her strengths and her limitations.
She prefers immediacy. She trusts visible outcomes.
What can be bought today feels safer than what must be cultivated over years.

And there are moments when she is not wrong.

Buying fruit is simple.
The result is immediate.
The sweetness is instant.
In certain seasons, that clarity brings relief.

Had you still been around, you would have corrected her sharply, as before.
I chose another approach. I let her words pass like wind through branches.
She knows that once I have decided, persuasion changes nothing.
Yet she continues to speak.
Perhaps that is simply her way of caring — through caution, through urging efficiency.

Still, I remained with the tree.

Not because waiting is always superior.
But because planting teaches something that purchasing cannot.

But when we outsource the harvest, we also outsource the discipline of planting.

We outsource the patience of waiting.
We outsource the vigilance against pests, drought, and decay.

The fruit is obtained.
The formation is not.

Planting teaches sequence —
root before trunk,
trunk before branch,
branch before bloom.

Waiting teaches restraint.
Failure teaches adjustment.

Yet planting also teaches humility —
that not every season answers effort.

These lessons do not remain in the orchard. They transfer.

Footnotes:



This post has been edited by nihility: Mar 4 2026, 09:27 PM

6th What Survives Follows Nature’s Law

Two trees were planted. Only one survived. The surviving tree was placed nearer to the house and closer to the water source. The one planted further away gradually died.

Human nature is not exempt from natural law. What is easier to care for tends to receive more attention. What is difficult often becomes neglected.



Compatibility increases survival. Constant strain increases failure.

Not every planting thrives.

Some placements quietly decide the outcome from the beginning.

7th — Nature Works in Silence
Sunday, 8 March 2026

Around September 2025, oval-shaped pods began appearing on the tree branches.



In less than 30 days, the bloom season arrived.



Durian flowers bloom at night.
That night, I sat beneath the tree, waiting for the arrival of the nocturnal “cherry blossoms.”



As night deepened, a quiet scene slowly unfolded.

In the silence, the flowers on the tree bloomed.
There was no debate about right or wrong.






Yet within that stillness,
another form of life appeared — bats.

The tree offered nectar.
The bats consumed it.
Unaware, pollination took place.

The tree fulfilled its role.
The bats received nourishment.
Both benefited.

How profound the scene was.

Without a single word, everything was accomplished.

Humans, on the other hand,
argue about right and wrong.
We speak so much.

Yet instead of getting things done,
relationships within the same species grow strained,
and little is accomplished.

That night beneath the tree,
I simply watched.

The flowers bloomed.
The bats came and went.

And without a single word spoken,
everything that needed to happen
happened.