The Tree Hollow, The Medium Many of Us Find
In the Chinese folktale, “The Emperor Has Grown Donkey Ears”, whenever a barber took his sheers to the emperor’s head, they would discover the hair-hidden secret. Unable to keep such a scandalous discovery to themselves, they’d share, thus ensuring certain separation of head and body beneath the executioner’s axe. One particular barber was struggling to maintain the emperor’s oddity. Seemingly more attached to his head than previous clippers, he ran to the mountains, found a tree with a hole and quickly whispered the secret into its hollow. Head and body maintained an integral relationship. Ever since, the barber’s secret could only be revealed if a leaf of the tree was placed in one’s mouth, which at that point, when blown upon, it would whisper, “The emperor has grown donkey ears.” Pending an extraordinary series of coincidental events, the tree would never echo the ill-fated words.
A metaphor for the innate desire to share a particular insight, or as in the above, what may be considered a secret, creates a paradox for many of us on Medium: wanting to be heard, yet our message falling on deaf ears. Never ending in capital punishment, nor a world-shattering reveal, what is written is open to criticism. Perceptions, syntax and content are judged. Writers understand this, yet believing there is something worth sharing, we press ahead. While not all of what we pass on is a secret, Medium, and the internet in general becomes our virtual tree hollow whether we like it or not. If fortunate, with a click of the mouse, a leaf from our tree is picked. Scrolling downwards, the leaf is stroked into action and our thoughtscirculate, whistling outwards.
For the majority, we write for an audience. Though due to inexperience, lack of quality in our work, an over-abundance of options, algorithms, and/or policies, our words remain silent, trapped forever within the world’s largest tree hollow — the web. For the average writer, our readership is rather limited. Perhaps we are feeling blindly through a forest of trees, trying to find the one that is broad enough to echo our words to all that may listen. Yet, time and time again, we find one that it is hollow, absorbing our words, drowned out by the voices of others. Their messages may be stronger, better placed, more poignant or attractive to another audience. Yet, we persist. Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn, mediums to Medium, allow us to gently push plucked digital leaves into friends, families, followers and strangers mouths, which may remain shut or are quickly spat out. Spinning to the ground, stomped flat beneath the deluge of information piling down upon them, they do not flutter and the ‘emperor’s secret’ is unfortunately maintained.
There are those that write what they’ve kept close to their heart, perhaps in its deepest hollows, where light dares not shine. At times, the words to describe what has been unsuccessfully smothered beneath repressed emotions are often beyond our own conscious. Manifested, they take shape in the form of addictions, self-harm, and often fracture one’s mental health. When confronting the growing misery that continues to exert itself, finding the ‘right’ words are beyond the ability of most. Possessing the strength to utter those very thoughts over quivering lips and into the ears of another can be outright terrifying. There are those who write to express anguish, or to release pent up rage. Yet the worry of antagonizing those who contributed to the source of negativity, they prefer the hollow of a digital tree. A farewell message or a cry for help, unsure if they want to be heard or not. Digital leaves spin final acts of desperation. Sharing in the world’s largest tree hollows, there is a degree of anonymity. Unburdened of the shame and feelings of judgement that are experienced when sharing face to face, fingers write what the lips dare not speak. Inner demons are released into the virtual hollow. Taking shape on the screen, their dark dance becomes slightly more recognizable. Maybe it is the time to be heard.
Regardless if the reasons are therapeutic or altruistic; acts of arrogance, desperation or financial, we have an intrinsic need for another’s ear, even if many of us don’t know how to make it come true. Some share with a higher power, no matter at the feet of a Taoist god or within a priest’s confessional booth. Others whisper into the bottle that consumes them, nothing but mutterings. There’s the barkeep, who listens, their rag forever polishing the countertop, an ear the hollow, hearing yet careful not to share. Messages vanish in a puff of smoke. Young lovers etch their initials into the tree’s surface, believing the bond will last an eternity. From a psychotherapist’s couch, our hollows are interpreted. Across the local gossip’s flapping lips, our secrets are shouted and shared. Partners. Parents. Pets & plants. Some echo. Others remain hollow. We want to share, even if we do not know necessarily how to make it or ourselves accessible. For those on Medium, we write.
My own writings do not reveal the hidden peculiarities of any great figures, donkey ears or other. Partly cathartic, I take pleasure in creating an engaging piece, though its level of engagement is highly subjective. In a world heavily polarized, I attempt to act as a tiny window upon another world. The window cannot avoid its own biases or lack of professionalism. It may be slammed shut. It may accidentally come crashing down, bruising my fingertips. It may be opened, gaining a follower, attracting an interested reader. It may receive a rock, shattering the glass and the writer’s ego. That’s a chance we take on social platforms, putting ourselves out there.
We roll the linguistic dice, hoping they come up seven — “Big Red, baby!” and our words echo. Yet, they land before a tree that is hollow. It can reverberate sound to only those closest to it: family, friends and a few additional followers. The scientifically inclined will point out that we need a forest, one great in size and somewhat distant to effectively echo our words. The forest is the audience we seek. When little but a rattle is heard as the hollow tree does as it is told, absorbing yet another’s thoughts, we sigh. Rolling snake eyes, double ones, you could crap out, calling it a day. Or, take a step back, dig deep into whatever pockets contain your perseverance and wit. Locking eyes with the Medium pit boss and those around the craps table, potential readers, words your ante, you shout, “Let ’em roll, baby!” It is an outlet. One seemingly involving as much chance as a casino. Yet a medium for expression all the same.
We continue to write. It is our love, a passion that we want to share. Receiving support from others is often a motivation to continue, inspired through supportive comments and likes. Criticism may sting, but it allows us to evolve or at the very least, consider another angle. It is the medium we choose. A single tree can grow into that of a forest that echoes, where your words may last an eternity.
Now if only one of our leaves would catch a breeze and slip into the opened maw of a potential reader, who would at that very moment exhale, stirring the leaf to action. We strain our ears, clutching our necks, worried what the audience’s verdict will be when hearing for the words, “The emperor has grown donkey ears.”
Author’s Note: There are multiple versions of this folklore throughout time and from around the world —the Greeks and King Midas (whispering into a hole in the ground); Korea’s ancient Silla period and a King Gyeongmun; Central India’s Raja (buffalo horns replacing donkey ears); and of course what I have heard in China.
