Long ago, a weary seeker left his village to find the meaning of life. He traveled through cities, temples, and libraries, asking sages, priests, and scholars:

“Who am I?”

Each gave him words, but none gave him peace.

One day, exhausted, he collapsed in a forest. He lay under a great banyan tree, too tired to think. Slowly, he began to notice the world around him.

The tree whispered:

“I am strong because I go deep into the Earth. My roots are unseen, but they hold me. Find your roots—your values, your truth.”

A river nearby laughed as it flowed:

“I never resist. When rocks block me, I flow around them. Self-discovery is not control—it is flowing with life.”

The wind brushed his face and said:

“You cannot see me, yet you feel me. Thoughts and dreams are the same. Do not fear them—let them move freely.”

Then the sun broke through the clouds and warmed his skin:

“I give light to all, not just a few. When you discover yourself, you too will shine without asking who deserves your light.”

At last, the seeker felt a gentle presence. A radiant woman emerged from the forest—clothed in vines, crowned with flowers, lions at her side, and birds circling her head. She smiled.

“I am Mother Nature,” she said. “And you are my child. You search outside for yourself, yet you are made of me. The earth is your body, the water your blood, the fire your spirit, the air your breath. Return to me, and you will know who you are.”

In that moment, the seeker understood: Self-discovery was not finding something new—it was remembering what he already was.