I asked an apple tree:"What is my purpose?"Confused, my voice dispersing in the moist air.I have pushed myself to strive, to excel at everything, untilsomething sucked the last remnants of energy out of me, leaving meweary, and depleted, and lost. Rustling leaves, shining to an almost golden hue, responded in breezes:When you spent years of striving,sucking every raindrop bestowed from above,enjoying every ray of sunshine piercing through the clouds.You endeavored so much, received so much from your surroundings, andnow it's time to give back. You owe the hiker a succulent apple in a sultry summer day.You owe the passerby a drop of shade under aggressively fiery sun.You owe a strong branch to the robins, back from the south.You owe a homey habitat to the playful squirrel, nibbling on your abundant fruits.  Then I bursted into a laughter of relief. If I cannot control the quantity of bestowment--air and rain and sun and everything from nature,at least I could choose to be an apple tree.Everybody loves an apple tree, because it gives.Nobody loves brambles and thorns, because not only theyspread an aura of unhappiness, but also they hurt,especially to those closest to them.