A Christmas Tree, A Crooked Branch, and the Hidden Beauty of Imperfection

There is a quiet kind of magic that happens when you begin to see life not through the lens of perfection, but through the wisdom of what has been overlooked, broken, or misunderstood. This Christmas, as I stood in front of a bustling market full of trees, I wasn’t drawn to the tallest or most symmetrical. I was drawn to something else entirely—a slightly crooked tree, a leftover beech branch, and a feeling deep within my chest that whispered, “this is the one.”

I have always felt a deep connection to the rejected things of this world—the potted plants at the back of the supermarket, drying out and unloved. The forgotten corners of dry soil where neighbors said, “nothing will grow.” I’ve come to understand that I see myself reflected in them. Not because I am broken, but because I, too, have known what it means to feel unseen, to hold silent potential, to need a little love to bloom.

Over time, I’ve made it my quiet mission to respond with tenderness where others pass by. I’ve brought those nearly wilted houseplants home, speaking words of care, feeding them sunlight and patience, and watching them slowly, but surely, come back to life. One spring, I buried kitchen scraps into what everyone called “dead earth” and turned it into a garden so full of color, it bloomed well into fall. It was no miracle. It was belief—and effort, and love.

This is what I see in that crooked little Christmas tree. It needed a friend. It needed the beech branch to steady it. Together, they created something striking. Something bold. Something honest.

And isn’t that what we all need? Someone—or something—to lean on while we find our shape? A chance to be held while we grow?

We live in a time that celebrates symmetry, speed, and glossy finishes. But this season, I invite you to consider another way. What if, instead of reaching for what appears perfect, we began choosing what speaks to us at a deeper level? What if we honored the strength it takes for anything—plant or person—to survive its way to us?

The lesson from this tree is not just about decor. It is about the kind of world we want to nurture. A world that embraces imperfection not as failure, but as a form of sacred becoming. A world where people, ideas, and ecosystems are not discarded when they are different or “difficult,” but seen, supported, and invited to thrive.

This is what my path is about. And I know, deep in my bones, that others are waking up to it too.

Ultimately, it is essential to inspire others to embrace this philosophy—not through lofty talk, but through humble actions. By sharing our experiences, choosing the unloved tree, or hosting intentional conversations over tea and soil-stained hands, we create something beautiful together: an environment that celebrates patience, care, and a collective commitment to seeing worth where others see waste.

As we journey through today’s challenges—from spiritual disconnect to environmental destruction—may we remember that every action, however small, holds the power to influence change. Even choosing a crooked tree can be an act of resistance. A celebration of life’s raw, untouched beauty. A gentle revolution.

Let us walk this season not in pursuit of perfection, but in quiet reverence for what is real.

And may your home, like mine, be lit not just by bulbs and ornaments, but by the knowing that something imperfect, when loved, can become something divine.

May we listen. May we trust.

— Elizabeth Iember