I wasn’t a hero, but I learned something that day that would change how I saw the world forever.
It happened on a hot summer afternoon. I was working in the field, trying to pull weeds from the rice paddies. Sweat ran into my eyes, and my back hurt with every move. I grumbled to myself, “If I work harder, I’ll finish faster.”
But no matter how fast I went, the weeds seemed to grow twice as fast. I huffed and puffed, dirt sticking to my knees. That’s when I saw Old Nan, the quiet man who lived by the bamboo grove. He walked by slowly, his hands behind his back, looking at clouds like he had all the time in the world.
“Don’t you ever hurry?” I called out.
Old Nan smiled but said nothing at first. He looked at the sky again and said, “The clouds never hurry, yet everything gets done.”
That made no sense to me. “Clouds don’t have weeds to pull,” I muttered.
He chuckled softly. “Maybe not. But tell me, why are you fighting the weeds with such force?”
I frowned. “Because I want to finish fast! If I don’t work hard, nothing will change.”
“Hmmm,” said Old Nan, rubbing his chin. “Did you know, there once was a man who forgot his Self?”
I blinked. “Forgot… himself?”
He nodded and sat beneath a tree. “He lived a long time ago, in a mountain village. He worked harder than anyone else—built the tallest walls, grew the biggest garden, and led every town meeting. But no matter how much he did, he was never happy. His mind was always full.”
“What did he do?” I asked, curious now.
“One day,” said Old Nan, “he met a traveler who told him, ‘You are carrying too much. Put some of it down.’ So, the man stopped building. He took silent walks. He listened to the birds. Slowly, he stopped thinking about being the best or the fastest. He forgot his Self—the part that always had to win. And in forgetting, he became free."
I sat still, the wind brushing my face. “What happened to his garden?”
“It grew on its own,” Old Nan said with a grin. “He tended it gently, not obsessively. The birds sang, the sun shined, the rain came. The man did less—but noticed more.”
I looked at my muddy hands. “So... I don’t have to fight the weeds?”
“Try dancing with them,” he said, standing up. “Flow around them, not against.”
From that day, I tried something new. I moved slowly. I paused to hear the wind between the stalks. I pulled weeds gently, not like they were enemies. I stopped when I grew tired. And somehow, the field still got done.
I didn’t change overnight. But little by little, I stopped trying to be the fastest. I learned that doing less didn’t mean doing nothing—it meant letting life move naturally.
And now, when the world feels heavy and loud, I remember the man who forgot his Self.
And I smile, and let go.
I wasn’t a hero, but I learned something that day that would change how I saw the world forever.
It happened on a hot summer afternoon. I was working in the field, trying to pull weeds from the rice paddies. Sweat ran into my eyes, and my back hurt with every move. I grumbled to myself, “If I work harder, I’ll finish faster.”
But no matter how fast I went, the weeds seemed to grow twice as fast. I huffed and puffed, dirt sticking to my knees. That’s when I saw Old Nan, the quiet man who lived by the bamboo grove. He walked by slowly, his hands behind his back, looking at clouds like he had all the time in the world.
“Don’t you ever hurry?” I called out.
Old Nan smiled but said nothing at first. He looked at the sky again and said, “The clouds never hurry, yet everything gets done.”
That made no sense to me. “Clouds don’t have weeds to pull,” I muttered.
He chuckled softly. “Maybe not. But tell me, why are you fighting the weeds with such force?”
I frowned. “Because I want to finish fast! If I don’t work hard, nothing will change.”
“Hmmm,” said Old Nan, rubbing his chin. “Did you know, there once was a man who forgot his Self?”
I blinked. “Forgot… himself?”
He nodded and sat beneath a tree. “He lived a long time ago, in a mountain village. He worked harder than anyone else—built the tallest walls, grew the biggest garden, and led every town meeting. But no matter how much he did, he was never happy. His mind was always full.”
“What did he do?” I asked, curious now.
“One day,” said Old Nan, “he met a traveler who told him, ‘You are carrying too much. Put some of it down.’ So, the man stopped building. He took silent walks. He listened to the birds. Slowly, he stopped thinking about being the best or the fastest. He forgot his Self—the part that always had to win. And in forgetting, he became free."
I sat still, the wind brushing my face. “What happened to his garden?”
“It grew on its own,” Old Nan said with a grin. “He tended it gently, not obsessively. The birds sang, the sun shined, the rain came. The man did less—but noticed more.”
I looked at my muddy hands. “So... I don’t have to fight the weeds?”
“Try dancing with them,” he said, standing up. “Flow around them, not against.”
From that day, I tried something new. I moved slowly. I paused to hear the wind between the stalks. I pulled weeds gently, not like they were enemies. I stopped when I grew tired. And somehow, the field still got done.
I didn’t change overnight. But little by little, I stopped trying to be the fastest. I learned that doing less didn’t mean doing nothing—it meant letting life move naturally.
And now, when the world feels heavy and loud, I remember the man who forgot his Self.
And I smile, and let go.
