The wind whispered through the tall grasses as I sat on the riverbank, skipping small stones over the still water. I was only twelve, but I felt like I carried grown-up worries in my chest. My name is Lin, and I lived in a small village at the foot of the Wu Mountains. My father was a strong fisherman, always busy, always rushing. I thought being like him—fast, loud, always doing something—was the way to live.
One day, everything changed.
That morning, I had tried to help my little brother build a kite, but it kept falling apart. I became angry, yelled at him, and stomped away. I ran into the forest, where the trees always listened better than people. That was where I found Grandfather Yun.
Grandfather Yun wasn’t really my grandfather, but everyone called him that. He was old, quiet, and didn’t speak unless needed. He wore simple robes and carried a bamboo staff. Most thought he was just an odd hermit, but the elders said he had studied the Tao—the Way—with monks in the mountains.
I sat near him while he meditated by the stream. I huffed, hoping he’d ask what was wrong. He didn’t. So I started talking.
“I tried to help,” I said, arms crossed. “But no matter how hard I worked, the kite broke. My brother cried, and I got mad. Maybe I just need to work harder.”
Still, he didn’t look at me. He only dropped a leaf onto the stream and watched it float.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I finally asked.
He looked at me gently. “Do you see that leaf?”
I nodded.
“It flows with the stream,” he said. “It doesn’t push the water or fight the current. Still, it travels far.”
“But how does that help me?” I asked, confused.
Grandfather Yun smiled. “The Tao teaches Wu Wei—non-action. That doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. When we force, like pounding a broken kite, we forget the nature of things. Sometimes, less doing brings more success.”
I didn’t understand then. But I followed him through the forest anyway. We reached a clearing where bamboo trees grew strong and tall.
“Look at these,” he said, placing his hand on one of them. “They bend with the wind, not against it. That is their strength.”
Over the next few days, I returned to the forest. I listened, not just to Grandfather Yun, but to the wind, the water, the quiet. I helped my brother again—this time moving slowly, letting him try, letting the kite take shape at its own pace. It didn’t fly high right away, but it did rise, soft and steady.
That day, I understood a little more about the Tao. I didn’t need to rush, yell, or force things. I just needed to flow, like the stream and the leaf.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel myself pushing too hard, I remember the leaf. I sit, breathe, and wait. In doing less, I began to see more.
And in that quiet, I found peace that stayed with me.
The wind whispered through the tall grasses as I sat on the riverbank, skipping small stones over the still water. I was only twelve, but I felt like I carried grown-up worries in my chest. My name is Lin, and I lived in a small village at the foot of the Wu Mountains. My father was a strong fisherman, always busy, always rushing. I thought being like him—fast, loud, always doing something—was the way to live.
One day, everything changed.
That morning, I had tried to help my little brother build a kite, but it kept falling apart. I became angry, yelled at him, and stomped away. I ran into the forest, where the trees always listened better than people. That was where I found Grandfather Yun.
Grandfather Yun wasn’t really my grandfather, but everyone called him that. He was old, quiet, and didn’t speak unless needed. He wore simple robes and carried a bamboo staff. Most thought he was just an odd hermit, but the elders said he had studied the Tao—the Way—with monks in the mountains.
I sat near him while he meditated by the stream. I huffed, hoping he’d ask what was wrong. He didn’t. So I started talking.
“I tried to help,” I said, arms crossed. “But no matter how hard I worked, the kite broke. My brother cried, and I got mad. Maybe I just need to work harder.”
Still, he didn’t look at me. He only dropped a leaf onto the stream and watched it float.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I finally asked.
He looked at me gently. “Do you see that leaf?”
I nodded.
“It flows with the stream,” he said. “It doesn’t push the water or fight the current. Still, it travels far.”
“But how does that help me?” I asked, confused.
Grandfather Yun smiled. “The Tao teaches Wu Wei—non-action. That doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. When we force, like pounding a broken kite, we forget the nature of things. Sometimes, less doing brings more success.”
I didn’t understand then. But I followed him through the forest anyway. We reached a clearing where bamboo trees grew strong and tall.
“Look at these,” he said, placing his hand on one of them. “They bend with the wind, not against it. That is their strength.”
Over the next few days, I returned to the forest. I listened, not just to Grandfather Yun, but to the wind, the water, the quiet. I helped my brother again—this time moving slowly, letting him try, letting the kite take shape at its own pace. It didn’t fly high right away, but it did rise, soft and steady.
That day, I understood a little more about the Tao. I didn’t need to rush, yell, or force things. I just needed to flow, like the stream and the leaf.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel myself pushing too hard, I remember the leaf. I sit, breathe, and wait. In doing less, I began to see more.
And in that quiet, I found peace that stayed with me.
