In winter Tai’an, the bald cypress lets go first—russet leaves falling like feathers, quiet and unresisting. Misnamed a pine, it does not care. Underfoot, leaves whisper; above, color gathers into a circle—time rushing at the edges, stillness at the center. Not emptiness, but a pause. So is life: not every step must advance, not every moment speak. Like the cypress, we can let go—and keep a quiet space within.