By early June, Small Oak’s new leaves had grown large and green, and something remarkable was happening that he’d never noticed before.

Every single one of his leaves had turned to face the sun.

He hadn’t decided to do it. Hadn’t thought about it. One morning he simply woke up (if trees wake up) and realized: his leaves knew exactly where the light was. Even now, as the sun moved across the sky, he could feel them adjusting, turning, following.

“How do I know where the sun is?” Small Oak asked Young Birch, who was growing nearby, her leaves also perfectly oriented toward the light.

Young Birch thought about it. “I... I don’t know. I just know.”

Small Oak looked up at the canopy above. He could feel the warmth on his leaves, smell the green growing-scent of high summer, hear the rustle of a thousand leaves all turned the same direction. It was beautiful. But also confusing.

“Grandmother Oak?” he called. “How do our leaves know which way to grow?”

“That’s your inner knowing,” Grandmother Oak said, and he could hear the smile in her settling-wood voice. “Every tree has one. Actually, every tree has three kinds of knowing.”

“Three?” Small Oak felt a small breeze move through his branches, carrying the scent of wild thyme from the moor.

“Three,” Grandmother Oak confirmed. “Come—I’ll show you. But first, look up. Really look.”

Small Oak looked up. The sun was high and bright, making him squint (if trees can squint). He could feel its position without even trying—east at dawn, overhead at noon, west at evening. Day after day, week after week, the same pattern.

“That’s your first knowing,” said Grandmother Oak. “Judgment. The learned wisdom of reading external signs. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Every day. Always. You’ve learned this pattern. You can rely on it. You use it to orient yourself, to know where you are, to make decisions about which way to grow.”

Small Oak felt the truth of this. He did know where the sun would be. He’d learned it by watching, by paying attention, by living through seasons.

“At night,” Grandmother Oak continued, “look up again.”

That night, Small Oak looked. The sky was vast and dark and filled with stars. They wheeled overhead in patterns—some he recognized, some he didn’t. But there was one star that didn’t move. One constant point.

“The Pole Star,” Grandmother Oak said quietly. “Sailors use it to navigate. Trees do too, in our way. The constellations turn through the seasons, but that one stays true. These are the external reference points—the sun, the moon’s phases, the stars. This is judgment. This is learned wisdom.”

Small Oak could smell the night—cooler now, damp with dew, filled with the scent of night-blooming flowers he couldn’t name.

“But that’s not the only knowing, is it?” Small Oak asked, thinking of how his leaves had turned to the sun before he consciously knew where it was.

“No,” said Grandmother Oak. “That’s your second knowing. Intuition. Watch.”

Small Oak felt it then—really felt it for the first time. His leaves didn’t turn to the sun because he looked up and calculated its position. They turned because they knew. Before thought. Before judgment. A wordless knowing that came from somewhere deeper than his bark.

“That’s intuition,” said Grandmother Oak. “The knowing that doesn’t need reasons. Your roots do it too—feel.”

Small Oak paid attention to his roots. And yes—he could sense something. Water, far to the east. He hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t learned where it was. But his roots knew. They were already growing that direction, slowly, surely, guided by something he couldn’t name but absolutely trusted.

“That’s the listening net,” Grandmother Oak explained. “The mycelial network underground. It connects you to the whole forest. When you tune into it—when you trust your intuition—you’re sensing things you can’t see. Things you couldn’t know through judgment alone. Where water flows. Where nutrients gather. Where danger approaches. The whole forest speaking to you through the soil.”

Small Oak felt it more clearly now—that humming he’d felt before. Messages traveling through the invisible threads. Information flowing. It felt... trustworthy. True. Even though he couldn’t explain how he knew.

“That’s two kinds of knowing,” said Small Oak slowly. “What’s the third?”

“Your heartwood,” said Grandmother Oak simply. “Feel it.”

Small Oak focused inward, to the very center of himself. His heartwood—the oldest part of him, the truest part. And there, he felt something else. Not the learned patterns of the sun. Not the wordless sensing of the mycelial network. But something deeper still.

What mattered to him. What he needed to thrive. His connection to Tiny Sapling at his base—he would protect her, he realized. Not because anyone told him to. Not because he sensed it through the listening net. But because his heartwood said: this matters.

“Your heartwood knows what truly matters to you,” Grandmother Oak said. “What your saplings need. What you need to survive. Not what others say should matter. But what you yourself know, deep down, is essential.”

Just then, Small Oak heard footsteps. The Foresters were coming through the woods, carrying stakes and string.

“That one’s growing crooked,” one Forester said, pointing at Small Oak. “We should stake it. Train it to grow straighter.”

Small Oak felt his heartwood respond immediately: No. That’s wrong. I’m growing toward the sun, toward the water, the way I need to grow.

But his judgment said: They’re experts. They know about trees. Maybe I should listen.

And his intuition, tuned to the listening net, whispered: The forest knows better than they do. Trust what you feel.

“When you need to make a decision,” Grandmother Oak said quietly, watching the Foresters approach, “you need all three kinds of knowing. Your judgment—what the external signs say, what you’ve learned. Your intuition—what the listening net tells you, what your body knows. And your heartwood—what truly matters to you.”

The Foresters came closer. Small Oak could smell them—strange smells, not of the forest. Soap and coffee and something metallic.

“Sometimes all three kinds of knowing point the same direction,” Grandmother Oak continued. “When that happens, you know. The path is clear. But sometimes they pull in different directions. The experts say one thing. Your gut says another. Your heart says a third thing entirely.”

“What do I do then?” Small Oak asked, his branches trembling slightly as the Foresters knelt at his base with their stakes.

“Then you remember this,” Grandmother Oak said, her voice both gentle and fierce. “Judgment uses maps made by others, from their experience, in their forest. But you’re growing in this particular forest, with this particular soil, in this particular wind. Only your intuition and your heartwood know what’s true for you here, now. When they conflict with judgment, trust them.”

The Foresters tied string around Small Oak’s trunk, pulling him toward a stake they’d driven into the ground. It felt wrong. So wrong. His leaves couldn’t reach the sun properly this way. His roots couldn’t sense the water.

But deep in his heartwood, deeper than words, Small Oak knew: I know how to grow. I know where the light is. I know what I need.

That night, when the Foresters had gone, a storm came. The wind pulled at the stakes. The string cut into Small Oak’s bark. But Grandmother Oak leaned toward him, creating shelter, and Small Oak felt the listening net beneath his roots, holding him steady.

By morning, the stakes had pulled loose. The string had snapped. Small Oak stood free again, his leaves turning to face the dawn sun rising in the east, exactly where his three kinds of knowing—judgment, intuition, and heartwood—all said it would be.

“Trust it,” Grandmother Oak said quietly. “Your leaves know how to find the light. Your roots know how to find the water. Your heartwood knows what truly matters. Trust all three. But when they conflict, trust the two that come from inside you.”

Small Oak felt the early morning sun on his leaves, smelled the sweet scent of summer grass, heard the robin singing its territories. His three kinds of knowing aligned now, all pointing the same direction: Grow this way. Toward the light. Toward what you need. Exactly as you are.

And he did.