I am enjoying re-reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra by the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. In Part I, in the chapter Of the Tree on the Mountainside“, he uses the image of a lonely tree growing high on a mountain to describe the fate of those who strive to rise above the ordinary. This simple symbol expresses a profound truth. After all, in any group of a hundred people, only a small fraction excel, while the majority drift through life without ever realising their potential

The modern education system, especially since its increasing commercialisation over the past few decades, has often produced shallow thinkers while cultivating an attitude of entitlement. I recently asked several young people—including professionally educated ones—a simple question: Where does a tree get its mass? The response was usually a puzzled stare, as if I had posed a metaphysical riddle.

Before I proceed further into philosophy, let me pause to consider a simple scientific phenomenon that unfolds before our eyes every day. It is the story of how the invisible becomes visible. Most of us remain oblivious to it, enthusiastically consuming endless public chatter about elections, celebrity fortunes, cricket auctions and currency fluctuations. At times, it seems as if a virus of triviality has infected our minds and eaten away at common sense.

One of the most surprising facts in biology is that most of a plant’s dry mass comes not from the soil but from the atmosphere. A tree may weigh several tons, and it is natural to assume that all that wood came from the ground. In reality, the bulk of the carbon in the wood was once carbon dioxide floating in the air.

Photosynthesis makes this possible. Using sunlight, plants take in carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, water from the soil, and small amounts of minerals such as nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium. The carbon atoms from carbon dioxide are assembled into sugars, cellulose, lignin, starches, oils and all the organic compounds that make up leaves, stems, roots, fruits and wood.

Modern measurements show that about 95 per cent of a plant’s dry mass comes from carbon, oxygen and hydrogen obtained from carbon dioxide and water. Only a small fraction comes from mineral nutrients absorbed from the soil. To put it differently, a wooden table is largely solidified air. The carbon in that wood was once present in the atmosphere as carbon dioxide.

The soil remains indispensable because it supplies nitrogen for proteins and DNA, phosphorus for energy transfer and genetic material, potassium for cellular regulation, and trace elements such as iron, zinc, copper and molybdenum. Without these minerals, plants cannot thrive. Yet, they contribute only a small fraction of the plant’s total mass.

Forests are gigantic atmospheric carbon-capture systems. Every trunk, branch, and leaf is a record of carbon removed from the air and stored in living tissue. Yet most of this labour remains invisible to us. It sustains life itself, especially human beings, who inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide roughly 12 to 20 times per minute, every day of their lives.

The next time you sit with a friend over a cup of coffee, ask a simple question: Where does the wood used to make this table and chair come from? Most people will confidently answer, “From wood.” Press a little further, and they may say, “From trees.” But ask the next question—how is wood made?—and a curious silence often follows.

And, by the way, a coffee bean is itself a marvel. It contains more than a thousand chemical compounds, of which a few dozen are chiefly responsible for its aroma, flavour and stimulating effect. Every sip is a small chemical symphony, yet most of us drink it without ever wondering what lies within.

The same happens with countless things that surround us every day. Where does salt come from? Why are spices added to food? Why are fruits essential to our health? How does a seed become a tree, and a tree, a table? These are not difficult questions. They are small doors that open into a larger understanding of reality. However, many educated people pass through life without ever pausing to ask them.We have become skilled consumers of information but poor observers of reality. The wonder is not that the answers are difficult; the wonder is that we have stopped asking the questions. Science is born not in laboratories but in curiosity. Civilisation advances not because people know everything, but because someone asks “Why?” and refuses to stop until an answer emerges.

Why is such awareness—essential knowledge about our own lives and environment—so often missing from our education?Part of the answer lies in the way we have come to define education itself. We increasingly mistake information for knowledge, credentials for understanding, and employability for wisdom. Students are trained to pass examinations, but not always encouraged to ask simple questions. The child who asks, “Why am I me and not someone else?” has already begun a philosophical journey that has occupied humanity’s greatest minds. Yet such questions rarely find a place in the classroom. Instead of cultivating wonder, we often reward memorisation. Slowly, the habit of inquiry withers.

Yet, I do not share the fashionable pessimism that everything is lost. Every generation inherits its limitations, but every generation also receives new tools. Ironically, at the very moment when attention is under assault from television noise, social media chatter, and endless streams of trivial information, humanity has acquired one of the greatest instruments for self-education ever created.

Today, any curious individual can ask a question and, within seconds, explore ideas that once required access to great libraries and learned scholars. One can discuss science, philosophy, history, literature and public affairs at any hour of the day. Yet the greatest obstacles to learning have never been technological. They are indifference, complacency, and the habit of letting others think for us. No individual can reform the education system single-handedly. Institutions change slowly. Bureaucracies move reluctantly. But no one can prevent a person from learning. No one can stop a family from discussing ideas over dinner. No one can stop friends from exchanging books, debating questions, or exploring knowledge together. The republic of learning has always been built from such everyday conversations. 

The real question, therefore, is not whether knowledge is available. It has never been more available. The question is whether we desire it. Why do so many of us willingly surrender our waking hours to idle television, endless scrolling, celebrity gossip, political shouting matches, and the commerce of outrage? Why do we spend precious years consuming noise when we could be cultivating understanding?

Nietzsche’s image of the tree on the mountainside offers a powerful metaphor. The higher a tree rises towards the light, the deeper its roots must penetrate the darkness below. Growth demands effort. It is easier to remain in the valley than to climb. It is easier to repeat opinions than to examine them. It is easier to seek distraction than to pursue self-transformation. Yet, every civilisation advances because a few individuals choose the harder path. They ask questions. They seek understanding. They refuse to be satisfied with appearances.Perhaps the task before us is not to complain about ignorance but to become examples of curiosity. A thoughtful conversation can inspire a child. A shared book can open a mind. A simple question—such as where a tree gets its mass—can awaken scientific wonder. Knowledge, like photosynthesis itself, transforms the invisible into the visible. An unseen idea becomes understanding; understanding becomes action; and action, sustained over time, becomes civilisation.

Nietzsche’s tree still stands on the mountainside. The tools for learning are now in our hands as never before in human history. The question is whether we are willing to trade distraction for discovery, noise for understanding, and idle opinion for the lifelong adventure of asking, “Why?”