The sun hung low over the hills as I followed the narrow mountain road. My name is Mei, a girl from a quiet village near the river. That day, I carried a bundle of scrolls and my teacher's final words: “To understand the Tao, sometimes you must unlearn before you learn.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant—until I reached the tiny hut on the mountain.
The hut belonged to an old man named Master Shen. People called him a hermit, but my teacher had said, “He knows the Tao deeper than anyone I’ve met.” I was nervous, but the door was open, so I stepped inside.
Master Shen sat beside a clay teapot, watching steam curl into the air like it held secrets.
“I came to learn,” I said with a bow.
“And to forget,” he smiled gently. “Sit.”
Each day, I asked him questions about the Tao. Each day, he answered with something that didn’t sound like an answer.
“Master Shen,” I sighed one afternoon, “shouldn’t the wise speak clearly? Why do your answers feel like riddles?”
He poured tea without speaking, then whispered, “If I pour too much tea, it spills. But if you just drink... slowly, simply… the cup fills you.”
I stared at the cup in my hand. I had so many thoughts and beliefs in my head, like that overflowing tea. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be filled.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind howled through the trees. I thought of my scrolls—how proud I had been to carry them. But what had they taught me? To want more, to seek answers, to chase control?
In the morning, I sat by the stream near the hut. The water flowed so easily, its path soft and curving. It didn’t fight the rocks—it danced around them. That’s when I heard Master Shen’s voice behind me.
“Story 19,” he said softly. “The Tao Te Ching says: ‘Give up holiness, wisdom, morality, and justice, and people will live quite naturally. Give up cleverness and profit, and thieves will disappear.’”
I turned to him. “But... isn’t wisdom good?”
“Chasing what is ‘good’ or ‘clever’ often makes us forget what is simple,” Master Shen said. “The Tao is not about piling on knowledge. It is about returning to what you already are.”
So I stopped asking questions.
I stopped trying to be something.
I walked, I listened to wind, I cooked rice.
Each day grew quieter, but inside me, something felt brighter—like a candle lit in a calm room.
After weeks, I packed my things to leave. Master Shen bowed.
“Did you find what you came for?” he asked.
“I didn’t find,” I said. “I stopped searching. And somehow, that’s when I began to understand.”
As I walked down the path home, I left the scrolls behind. Not because they weren’t useful, but because I had something even more valuable now—an empty cup, ready to be filled by life itself.
And I'm still learning, just letting life flow. Like the stream, like the tea, like the Tao.
The sun hung low over the hills as I followed the narrow mountain road. My name is Mei, a girl from a quiet village near the river. That day, I carried a bundle of scrolls and my teacher's final words: “To understand the Tao, sometimes you must unlearn before you learn.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant—until I reached the tiny hut on the mountain.
The hut belonged to an old man named Master Shen. People called him a hermit, but my teacher had said, “He knows the Tao deeper than anyone I’ve met.” I was nervous, but the door was open, so I stepped inside.
Master Shen sat beside a clay teapot, watching steam curl into the air like it held secrets.
“I came to learn,” I said with a bow.
“And to forget,” he smiled gently. “Sit.”
Each day, I asked him questions about the Tao. Each day, he answered with something that didn’t sound like an answer.
“Master Shen,” I sighed one afternoon, “shouldn’t the wise speak clearly? Why do your answers feel like riddles?”
He poured tea without speaking, then whispered, “If I pour too much tea, it spills. But if you just drink... slowly, simply… the cup fills you.”
I stared at the cup in my hand. I had so many thoughts and beliefs in my head, like that overflowing tea. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be filled.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind howled through the trees. I thought of my scrolls—how proud I had been to carry them. But what had they taught me? To want more, to seek answers, to chase control?
In the morning, I sat by the stream near the hut. The water flowed so easily, its path soft and curving. It didn’t fight the rocks—it danced around them. That’s when I heard Master Shen’s voice behind me.
“Story 19,” he said softly. “The Tao Te Ching says: ‘Give up holiness, wisdom, morality, and justice, and people will live quite naturally. Give up cleverness and profit, and thieves will disappear.’”
I turned to him. “But... isn’t wisdom good?”
“Chasing what is ‘good’ or ‘clever’ often makes us forget what is simple,” Master Shen said. “The Tao is not about piling on knowledge. It is about returning to what you already are.”
So I stopped asking questions.
I stopped trying to be something.
I walked, I listened to wind, I cooked rice.
Each day grew quieter, but inside me, something felt brighter—like a candle lit in a calm room.
After weeks, I packed my things to leave. Master Shen bowed.
“Did you find what you came for?” he asked.
“I didn’t find,” I said. “I stopped searching. And somehow, that’s when I began to understand.”
As I walked down the path home, I left the scrolls behind. Not because they weren’t useful, but because I had something even more valuable now—an empty cup, ready to be filled by life itself.
And I'm still learning, just letting life flow. Like the stream, like the tea, like the Tao.
