The storm came quickly that afternoon. One minute, I was sitting on the hill watching the clouds, and the next, heavy rain washed over me. I ran through the forest, my feet slipping in the mud. I was angry—angry I got wet, angry my shoes were ruined, angry that my plans for the day were ruined too.
That’s when I found him.
He was sitting under an old maple tree, completely still, as though the storm hadn’t touched him at all. Rain dripped from the leaves above, but he didn’t move.
“Are you okay?” I called.
The old man opened one eye and smiled. “I am just as I need to be.”
His voice was calm, not even a hint of frustration. Water pooled around him, but he looked peaceful. I couldn’t understand it.
“I was just trying to get home,” I said, frowning. “Now I’m soaked, lost, and cold.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he patted the ground beside him. “Sit,” he said, “Hear what the rain is saying.”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to find warmth and a place to dry off. But something about his presence made me stay. I sat, grumpy and wet, but curious.
“You fight the weather,” he said gently. “You push against the world. Does that help you feel better?”
“No,” I admitted. “But what else am I supposed to do?”
He picked up a fallen leaf and let it float on the puddle beside him. “Sometimes,” he said, “peace doesn’t come from doing more. Sometimes it comes from doing less.”
He looked at me, not with scolding eyes, but like someone who knew.
“The Tao,” he continued, “is like water. It flows, it moves around stones, it fills what is empty without force. If you try to push the river, you’ll only tire yourself.”
I looked at the puddle, the swirling leaf, the trees that didn’t push back against the wind. I began to understand.
“You mean... let things be?”
He nodded slowly. “That is Wu Wei—effortless action. It’s not doing nothing at all. It’s doing what is needed by following the flow, not fighting it.”
We sat together, just listening. Rain softened into a gentle drizzle. The birds began to sing again.
When the sun peeked through the clouds, I felt different. Lighter. Like I had let go of something heavy.
I stood to leave. “Thank you,” I said quietly.
He nodded again. “Remember the leaf. Let the world unfold, and you will see its balance.”
As I walked back home, my wet clothes didn’t bother me anymore. I no longer rushed. Each step felt easy, like I was floating, just like the leaf.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel frustration rise, I think of the old man, the puddle, and the calm leaf. And I try to follow the Way—not by forcing, but by flowing. Like water. Like the Tao.
The storm came quickly that afternoon. One minute, I was sitting on the hill watching the clouds, and the next, heavy rain washed over me. I ran through the forest, my feet slipping in the mud. I was angry—angry I got wet, angry my shoes were ruined, angry that my plans for the day were ruined too.
That’s when I found him.
He was sitting under an old maple tree, completely still, as though the storm hadn’t touched him at all. Rain dripped from the leaves above, but he didn’t move.
“Are you okay?” I called.
The old man opened one eye and smiled. “I am just as I need to be.”
His voice was calm, not even a hint of frustration. Water pooled around him, but he looked peaceful. I couldn’t understand it.
“I was just trying to get home,” I said, frowning. “Now I’m soaked, lost, and cold.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he patted the ground beside him. “Sit,” he said, “Hear what the rain is saying.”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to find warmth and a place to dry off. But something about his presence made me stay. I sat, grumpy and wet, but curious.
“You fight the weather,” he said gently. “You push against the world. Does that help you feel better?”
“No,” I admitted. “But what else am I supposed to do?”
He picked up a fallen leaf and let it float on the puddle beside him. “Sometimes,” he said, “peace doesn’t come from doing more. Sometimes it comes from doing less.”
He looked at me, not with scolding eyes, but like someone who knew.
“The Tao,” he continued, “is like water. It flows, it moves around stones, it fills what is empty without force. If you try to push the river, you’ll only tire yourself.”
I looked at the puddle, the swirling leaf, the trees that didn’t push back against the wind. I began to understand.
“You mean... let things be?”
He nodded slowly. “That is Wu Wei—effortless action. It’s not doing nothing at all. It’s doing what is needed by following the flow, not fighting it.”
We sat together, just listening. Rain softened into a gentle drizzle. The birds began to sing again.
When the sun peeked through the clouds, I felt different. Lighter. Like I had let go of something heavy.
I stood to leave. “Thank you,” I said quietly.
He nodded again. “Remember the leaf. Let the world unfold, and you will see its balance.”
As I walked back home, my wet clothes didn’t bother me anymore. I no longer rushed. Each step felt easy, like I was floating, just like the leaf.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel frustration rise, I think of the old man, the puddle, and the calm leaf. And I try to follow the Way—not by forcing, but by flowing. Like water. Like the Tao.
