The sun was high in the sky when I wandered into the village. My clothes were dusty from the road, and my bag was light—just a bit of rice and some tea leaves. I was a traveler then, always moving, always chasing something. But that day, something new found me.
I had stopped to rest near a quiet courtyard. The breeze was soft, and the leaves above me whispered like old friends. Across the garden, sitting on a wooden bench, was an old man with a white beard and eyes full of calm. He wore simple clothes and held a scroll in his lap.
"Sit," he said with a gentle smile. So I did.
We said nothing for a long time. I was used to talk—lots of it. Back in the city, everyone rushed to share their views, argue, win. But this man, he just breathed. Quiet and steady. Like a mountain that had seen many rains and still stood.
Finally, I asked, “What are you reading?”
He looked at the scroll and chuckled softly. “Not reading. Just remembering.”
“Remembering what?” I pressed.
“Story 20,” he said, as if that explained it. “From Laozi. The one about how the wise man lives.”
At the time, I didn’t know who Laozi was. So the man told me gently. “Laozi was a wise man from long ago. He wrote the Dao De Jing, a book full of rivers and wind and truth. In Story 20, he says, ‘The others all rush about as if at a feast, or watching a parade. But I alone remain still, like a newborn not yet knowing to smile.’”
I frowned. “That sounds lonely.”
The old man didn’t answer right away. Then he pointed to the stones in the path, the trees swaying nearby, and the still pond at the edge of the garden.
“All are part of the Tao,” he said. “Each follows its own way. The stones do not try to be trees. The pond does not try to dance like the leaves. Laozi just walked quietly in the world, while others ran with noise. That’s all.”
I looked down at my hands, tired from carrying things I thought I needed.
“I always feel like I have to try harder,” I said. “To catch up. To be more.”
The old man tapped his heart gently. “The Tao isn’t something you chase. It’s like water—it flows where it flows. The harder you push, the more you splash. But if you sit still, you float.”
For the first time in a very long while, I had nothing to say. And for the first time, that felt right.
I stayed by that pond the whole afternoon. I didn’t plan my next stop. I didn’t count the coins in my bag. I just watched the light flicker on the water and listened to the breeze.
When I finally stood to go, the old man only said, “Don’t forget the child who doesn’t yet know how to smile.”
And I didn’t.
After that day, I walked slower. I spoke less. I noticed more. I had not changed overnight—but something inside me had begun to soften, like rocks made round by rivers. And whenever the world rushed by too fast, I remembered the story and how peace had found me—without me chasing it.
The sun was high in the sky when I wandered into the village. My clothes were dusty from the road, and my bag was light—just a bit of rice and some tea leaves. I was a traveler then, always moving, always chasing something. But that day, something new found me.
I had stopped to rest near a quiet courtyard. The breeze was soft, and the leaves above me whispered like old friends. Across the garden, sitting on a wooden bench, was an old man with a white beard and eyes full of calm. He wore simple clothes and held a scroll in his lap.
"Sit," he said with a gentle smile. So I did.
We said nothing for a long time. I was used to talk—lots of it. Back in the city, everyone rushed to share their views, argue, win. But this man, he just breathed. Quiet and steady. Like a mountain that had seen many rains and still stood.
Finally, I asked, “What are you reading?”
He looked at the scroll and chuckled softly. “Not reading. Just remembering.”
“Remembering what?” I pressed.
“Story 20,” he said, as if that explained it. “From Laozi. The one about how the wise man lives.”
At the time, I didn’t know who Laozi was. So the man told me gently. “Laozi was a wise man from long ago. He wrote the Dao De Jing, a book full of rivers and wind and truth. In Story 20, he says, ‘The others all rush about as if at a feast, or watching a parade. But I alone remain still, like a newborn not yet knowing to smile.’”
I frowned. “That sounds lonely.”
The old man didn’t answer right away. Then he pointed to the stones in the path, the trees swaying nearby, and the still pond at the edge of the garden.
“All are part of the Tao,” he said. “Each follows its own way. The stones do not try to be trees. The pond does not try to dance like the leaves. Laozi just walked quietly in the world, while others ran with noise. That’s all.”
I looked down at my hands, tired from carrying things I thought I needed.
“I always feel like I have to try harder,” I said. “To catch up. To be more.”
The old man tapped his heart gently. “The Tao isn’t something you chase. It’s like water—it flows where it flows. The harder you push, the more you splash. But if you sit still, you float.”
For the first time in a very long while, I had nothing to say. And for the first time, that felt right.
I stayed by that pond the whole afternoon. I didn’t plan my next stop. I didn’t count the coins in my bag. I just watched the light flicker on the water and listened to the breeze.
When I finally stood to go, the old man only said, “Don’t forget the child who doesn’t yet know how to smile.”
And I didn’t.
After that day, I walked slower. I spoke less. I noticed more. I had not changed overnight—but something inside me had begun to soften, like rocks made round by rivers. And whenever the world rushed by too fast, I remembered the story and how peace had found me—without me chasing it.
