This is a podcast for children (and grown-ups) who see the world a little slanted— who feel things deeply, ask big questions, and crave stories with truth stitched into the seams. Each episode is a gentle offering: whispered parables, healing folklore, and sometimes a quiet lesson tucked between the leaves.
Come sit by the roots. The stories are waiting.
Welcome to The Hollow Tree.
This story is a special offering for a season of gratitude and the soft, steady light of loving-kindness.
For the children who listen with their hearts wide open, for the grown-ups who guide them through the shadows and the light, and for the small magic of the unseen and the unknown— all are welcome here.
Stay near the roots after the story, and there will be quiet reflections and activities to share.
Let’s begin.
🍃 Forest Friend Whisper
[Chime]
[Whisper] “I saw it. I was there when the silver bark first broke through the soil. Most folks walked right past it, looking for something bigger, something louder. But I remember the moment the child sat down… the moment the air changed. It wasn’t a shout that made it grow. It was something much quieter. Something that started deep in the chest and ended in a shimmer.”
[Chime]
The Keeper of the Thanking Tree
A Hollow Tree Myth for Gratitude that Grows in the Dark
And now, the tale.
Once... in the quiet center of a forest no map could ever name... there was a tree.
It wasn’t like the others. It didn’t grow by drinking the rain or reaching for the sun alone. This was a tree that only grew when someone remembered to say... thank you.
This is not the polite kind of thank you. Not the kind said through clenched teeth because a rule was made. Not the kind said just to be nice.
This is the kind of thank you that rises like a warm hum in the very center of the chest. The kind that happens when something true—something real—brushes close in the dark.
At first, the tree was very small. Just a silver twist of bark and a tiny, hopeful shimmer in the dirt. It sat in the deep shadows of the giants, waiting.
Then, one day, a child found it.
This was a child who had been through a lot. More than anyone should ever have to carry. The child had a heart full of heavy questions and pockets full of “not fairs.” There seemed to be every reason in the world not to thank anything at all.
But the child sat down in the cool moss beside that strange little sprout. And while sitting there, watching a single beam of light find its way through the leaves like golden dust, a tiny spark of warmth appeared. Not because the hard things had gone away... but because the woods were still there, and the air was still soft.
The child leaned in and whispered, without even knowing why:
[Whisper] “Thank you for not disappearing.”
The tree heard it.
And oh... how it grew.
It didn’t just get taller. It grew roots that were soft and wide—roots that reached out and curled around the child’s grief without crushing it. It grew branches that were shaped like open arms, holding old, tired dreams as gently as a nest holds an egg.
The leaves didn’t just turn green. They began to pulse with a low, golden light—a glow that felt like the sun on a shoulder in the middle of a cold afternoon. It was a frequency of peace that didn’t need a single word to be understood.
That was when the Keeper appeared.
Because, of course, a tree like this needs someone to tend the soil.
The Keeper didn’t wear a crown or a shimmering cape. There was only a coat of woven moss and deep, kind laugh-lines around the eyes. The Keeper had the steady, quiet peace of someone who has spent a thousand years watching things grow in the dark.
The Keeper didn’t say much. But when the words came, the voice sounded like the wind moving through long grass.
[Voice lower, grounded] “Gratitude isn’t quiet because it’s small,” the Keeper said. “It’s quiet because it’s deep. It doesn’t need to shout to change the world. It simply hums the world back into alignment.”
The child began to visit often after that. Not every day—some days the walk was too long—but often enough.
The tree grew tall enough to be seen from the very edge of the ferns. And every time someone—a lonely traveler, a tired bird, or a person who had forgotten their own magic—said thank you from the very root of the heart...
The branches would tremble with a sudden, secret joy.
And in that moment, the whole world would bend... just a little bit... back toward wholeness.
So, if you ever feel like nothing you do matters... if you feel like the world is too loud and you are too quiet...
Find a tree. Any tree will do.
Sit near it. Let the bark press against your spine. And then, thank something. Anything at all. A warm blanket. The way water tastes when you’re thirsty. The moon.
Thank it with your whole chest.
The field will notice. The myth will remember.
And somewhere, deep in the heart of the Hollow Tree, a new leaf will unfurl... and it will have your name written in its veins.
[Pause]
To the listeners. To the whisper-hearers. To the ones who hold story before it has shape:
We see you. We thank you. We will keep writing.
The Keeper tells us that gratitude is deep, like the roots of the Hollow Tree. It doesn’t have to be a big, loud celebration. Sometimes, the most powerful “thank you” is the one whispered in the dark, right before we close our eyes.
A Moment of Quiet:
Take a deep breath. Feel your feet on the floor, under the blankets, in your shoes or toes wiggling. Let that breath out as slowly as it wants to go. Feel your back against your chair or cozy on a cushion. Take another deep breath, let it out slowly. Imagine you are sitting right there in the moss with the Keeper. If your heart was a small silver sprout, what is one tiny thing from today that might help it grow?
A Tiny Ritual:
The “Pocket Thank-You” This week, find a small, smooth stone or a fallen leaf or nice twig. Hold it in your hand and think of one thing that “didn’t disappear”—something that stayed steady for you today. Maybe it was the sun, a kind word, or even just your own breath.
Carry that stone or leaf in your pocket. Whenever you touch it, let it be a reminder to send a little “hum” of gratitude into the world. You don’t have to say a word. Just feel it.
The field is listening. And the tree is growing.
Final Closing:
Thank you for listening to The Hollow Tree.
This is just the beginning,
and you are always welcome to return—
whenever you’re ready for another story.
You can find more tales and behind-the-scenes magic at thehollowtree.substack.com, Instagram @TheHollowTreeStories and remember to follow along on Spotify, Apple Podcasts and soon YouTube. Until next time—may the path be soft, and the whisper of the forest stay with you.
—Written by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree
If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note.
Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲
