The snow crunched under my boots as I walked along the mountain path. I had left the noisy village behind, hoping to clear my head. I was just a potter—not anyone special—but something in me felt heavy. Lately, I had been trying so hard to do everything right. Work faster. Be better. Finish more pots, sell more in the market. But no matter how much I did, I felt empty. Tired. Like I was pushing with all my strength, and the world was pushing back.
As I reached a bend in the trail, I saw him—an old man sitting under a pine tree. He was wrapped in a thick robe, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his knees. The snow fell gently around him, but he didn’t move.
He opened one eye slowly. “You seem troubled,” he said.
I was surprised, but something about his voice was calm, like water trickling over stones. I sat down near him.
“I try and try,” I said, “but it never feels like enough. If I work harder, things will get better, won’t they?”
The old man smiled. “Did you know,” he said, “that the tallest tree grows without effort? It follows the sun, drinks the rain, and lets the wind bend it when needed.”
I frowned. “But trees don’t make pottery.”
“No,” he said with a small laugh, “but like trees, we grow best when we stop fighting everything.”
I looked at my hands. They were cracked and sore from shaping clay day and night. “That sounds nice," I said. “But I don’t have time to sit like the trees.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small cup. It was plain. No paints. No marks. Just smooth and simple.
“This,” he said, “was made by doing less. The clay was soft, not forced. The fire was gentle, not rushed. And yet, it holds water, does it not?”
I took the cup and ran my fingers over the curved edge. It felt whole—complete, even without decoration.
“What if,” he continued, “doing less isn’t giving up—but making space for things to happen more naturally?”
The wind blew through the trees, and for a moment, everything felt still. I thought about all the hours I had spent trying to prove myself. Maybe I had been shaping my pots too hard. Maybe I had even been shaping my life too hard.
When I stood to leave, I thanked the old man. “I’m not sure I understand everything,” I said, “but I think I know what to try.”
He nodded. “Let your hands listen to the clay. Let your heart be quiet like still water. Then you’ll find the Way.”
I walked back down to the village, holding the simple cup. The snow still fell, but it no longer felt cold. Back in my workshop, I touched the wet clay not with force, but with care. And something new began to form.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or push, I remember the old man and the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are—trusting that the Tao is already flowing, and I don’t need to fight the river.
Sometimes, doing less is the first step toward everything.
The snow crunched under my boots as I walked along the mountain path. I had left the noisy village behind, hoping to clear my head. I was just a potter—not anyone special—but something in me felt heavy. Lately, I had been trying so hard to do everything right. Work faster. Be better. Finish more pots, sell more in the market. But no matter how much I did, I felt empty. Tired. Like I was pushing with all my strength, and the world was pushing back.
As I reached a bend in the trail, I saw him—an old man sitting under a pine tree. He was wrapped in a thick robe, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his knees. The snow fell gently around him, but he didn’t move.
He opened one eye slowly. “You seem troubled,” he said.
I was surprised, but something about his voice was calm, like water trickling over stones. I sat down near him.
“I try and try,” I said, “but it never feels like enough. If I work harder, things will get better, won’t they?”
The old man smiled. “Did you know,” he said, “that the tallest tree grows without effort? It follows the sun, drinks the rain, and lets the wind bend it when needed.”
I frowned. “But trees don’t make pottery.”
“No,” he said with a small laugh, “but like trees, we grow best when we stop fighting everything.”
I looked at my hands. They were cracked and sore from shaping clay day and night. “That sounds nice," I said. “But I don’t have time to sit like the trees.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small cup. It was plain. No paints. No marks. Just smooth and simple.
“This,” he said, “was made by doing less. The clay was soft, not forced. The fire was gentle, not rushed. And yet, it holds water, does it not?”
I took the cup and ran my fingers over the curved edge. It felt whole—complete, even without decoration.
“What if,” he continued, “doing less isn’t giving up—but making space for things to happen more naturally?”
The wind blew through the trees, and for a moment, everything felt still. I thought about all the hours I had spent trying to prove myself. Maybe I had been shaping my pots too hard. Maybe I had even been shaping my life too hard.
When I stood to leave, I thanked the old man. “I’m not sure I understand everything,” I said, “but I think I know what to try.”
He nodded. “Let your hands listen to the clay. Let your heart be quiet like still water. Then you’ll find the Way.”
I walked back down to the village, holding the simple cup. The snow still fell, but it no longer felt cold. Back in my workshop, I touched the wet clay not with force, but with care. And something new began to form.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or push, I remember the old man and the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are—trusting that the Tao is already flowing, and I don’t need to fight the river.
Sometimes, doing less is the first step toward everything.
