The Totality in a Twig
Why nothing is 'too small' to matter
For many of us, our self-worth is tied to what we do. Our job. Our projects. Our ability to “contribute.” When we’re forced to stop—due to depression, illness, or burnout—we don’t just feel sick; we feel useless.
This “sick leave from the world” can be agonizing. We feel we should be doing something—saving the world, or at least ourselves. And if we are trying to build something, we worry it’s not big enough, not fast enough, not important enough.
The world is burning. People are suffering. The systems are broken. And here we are, unable to do much of anything, or doing things that feel laughably small in comparison to the enormity of it all.
But what if this “unproductive” time is not a void, but a different kind of being?
What if our “service” isn’t measured by its size, but by its truth?
The Trap of “Grand Service”
There’s a hidden assumption many of us carry: that to be meaningful, our actions must be big.
We look at the world’s problems—climate collapse, inequality, war, suffering—and we think we need to build a global framework, lead a movement, create systemic change, or at least do something that makes a visible dent in these massive challenges.
This creates a terrible pressure.
When we’re in a state of incapacity—depressed, burned out, exhausted—the gap between “what we should be doing” (this grand service) and “what we can do” (which feels like nothing) becomes a source of deep shame.
We tell ourselves:
- “I should be doing more.”
- “This is too small to matter.”
- “Who am I to rest when the world is falling apart?”
- “My little actions are meaningless.”
Let me be clear: If you have the energy to build something big, that is a beautiful and valid path. If you’re called to activism, to creating systems, to organizing movements—that is sacred work.
But it is not the only path.
And it is not more spiritual than any other.
The Totality in the Twig
During a period of my life when I was living very simply—some might say barely living at all—I had a profound insight.
I was outside, sitting in the quiet. There wasn’t much to do. There wasn’t much I could do. My life had shrunk to something very small.
I picked up a twig. A small, dead twig. Nothing special. Just a piece of broken branch lying on the ground.
And as I held it, really looked at it, something shifted.
In that moment, I saw it all.
That little twig—that insignificant, dead piece of wood—was as meaningful, as complex, and as significant as a galaxy.
It held the totality of existence.
The tree it came from. The soil that fed that tree. The rain that fell. The sun that shone. The seasons that turned. The insects that crawled across it. The fungi breaking it down. The carbon it would return to the earth.
It was part of everything. Connected to everything. It was everything, just in this particular form.
There was no “big” or “small.”
There was no “important” or “insignificant.”
It just was, and in its “was-ness,” it was complete.
The twig didn’t need to be a tree to matter. It didn’t need to be alive. It didn’t need to be anything other than exactly what it was—a small, dead twig—to be utterly, perfectly whole.
And if this is true for a twig, what if it’s true for us?
What the Twig Teaches
What if the universe isn’t asking you to build a mountain?
What if it’s just inviting you to truly see the twig?
The assumption that “big” equals “meaningful” is a lie we’ve inherited from a culture obsessed with growth, scale, and achievement. We’ve been taught that only grand actions matter—that a speech to thousands is more valuable than a kind word to one person. That building an organization is more spiritual than sitting quietly and feeling the sun.
But meaning is not found in scale. It is found in presence.
A galaxy spinning in space and a twig lying on the ground are not different in their fundamental nature. They are both expressions of the same “isness”—the same existence, the same being.
When you are fully present with the twig—when you really see it, feel it, let it be exactly what it is—you are touching the infinite.
This is the secret the mystics have always known:
The extraordinary is hidden in the ordinary.
The infinite is found in the finite.
The whole is present in every single part.
You don’t need to change the world to be spiritual. You need to be with the world—this moment, this breath, this small thing in your hand.
Redefining Sacred Service
So what does this mean for “service”? For contribution? For meaning?
It means service is not about what you do. It’s about how you are.
If “grand service”—building websites like this one, creating frameworks for global change, organizing communities—comes from a place of aligned energy, clarity, and genuine calling, then yes, it is sacred work.
But if “tiny service”—truly listening to a friend, feeling the sun on your skin, compassionately noticing your own breath—is all you can do, it is also sacred.
They are the same.
The twig and the galaxy are one. Your one conscious breath is as much a part of “world healing” as an activist’s speech. Your moment of genuine presence is as valuable as a million-dollar donation.
The world doesn’t need more frantic doing. It needs more conscious being.
Perhaps your “sacred service” right now is simply to be in this state of incapacity. To be the person who is not doing. To be the fallow ground, resting.
This is a vital, necessary role in a world obsessed with constant, frantic growth.
Someone has to remember that rest is sacred.
Someone has to demonstrate that worth is not earned.
Someone has to be the proof that you don’t need to produce to deserve to exist.
Maybe that someone is you.
Your Service is Just What’s in Front of You
I’m not telling you to give up on your dreams of changing the world. If that call is real for you, follow it.
But I am saying this:
Your worth is not on a to-do list.
Your spiritual path is not measured in achievements.
It is measured in presence.
Don’t look for your “grand purpose” today. Just look for your twig.
What is the one, simple, “small” thing right in front of you that you can be fully present with, just for a moment?
Maybe it’s a cup of tea. Feel the warmth. Notice the steam rising.
Maybe it’s a leaf outside your window. See its shape, its color, the way the light hits it.
Maybe it’s the feeling of the blanket on your skin. Just that. Just this one small sensation.
Maybe it’s your own breath. One breath, fully noticed.
That is enough.
That is everything.
The twig doesn’t know it’s small. It doesn’t compare itself to the tree or the forest or the mountain. It simply is, and in that isness, it is complete.
You are the same.
Whatever you are doing, however “big” or “small,” it is okay.
You don’t need to save the world today.
You just need to see the twig.