The sky rumbled gently above the valley, its voice soft like a whisper. I stood with my grandfather beneath the old pear tree, watching raindrops fall from the clouds like tears from a giant’s eyes.
“Grandfather,” I said, tugging gently at his sleeve, “why do you always watch the rain like this? Don’t you want to go inside where it’s dry?”
He smiled, his eyes still on the sky. “Shan, do you hear the sky rushing? Do you see the wind boasting?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s quiet,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied with a nod. “The rain falls, the wind blows, but they make no fuss. They simply do what they do. That’s the way of the Tao.”
I didn’t understand then. I was a boy who liked answers, not riddles. I wanted to know how to be strong, how to be smart, how to win. I thought doing more was always better. Run faster, speak louder, try harder.
But Grandfather didn’t hurry. He didn’t boast. He didn’t push. He would sit and sip tea for hours, hum to the bees, and listen to the silence like it was a song.
One day, I came home angry. I had raced the other boys and lost. “It’s not fair,” I said. “I trained. I stretched. I even skipped my nap!”
Grandfather handed me a warm rice bun and waited.
“I tried so hard, but they still ran faster,” I said, my face red with frustration.
He leaned back and looked at the mountains. “Did the river race the wind?” he asked.
“No,” I said grumpily. “Rivers don’t run races.”
“But they still reach the sea,” he said with a smile.
I blinked. “So… I shouldn’t try?”
“You should flow,” he said. “Like the river. The Tao doesn’t hurry, yet everything gets done.”
That night, I lay in bed with my hands behind my head, listening to the wind pass through the trees. I thought about the rain, about how it fell without a plan, without a prize. It just fell where it was welcome.
The next day, I didn’t race my friends. I walked beside them. I laughed more. I breathed easier. And though I didn’t win the race, I didn’t feel like I lost. I felt… calm.
Over time, I began to understand Grandfather’s favorite saying, which came from Laozi, the ancient teacher who wrote the Tao Te Ching: “Therefore those who follow the way do not speak much. Those who speak much do not follow the way.”
Now, when trouble stirs inside me, I remember to be like the sky—quiet. Like the rain—gentle. Like the Tao—unrushed.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel the urge to push or shout or prove something, I listen to the silence first. I don’t always win, but I always find peace. And that, I think, is what Grandfather meant all along.
The sky rumbled gently above the valley, its voice soft like a whisper. I stood with my grandfather beneath the old pear tree, watching raindrops fall from the clouds like tears from a giant’s eyes.
“Grandfather,” I said, tugging gently at his sleeve, “why do you always watch the rain like this? Don’t you want to go inside where it’s dry?”
He smiled, his eyes still on the sky. “Shan, do you hear the sky rushing? Do you see the wind boasting?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s quiet,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied with a nod. “The rain falls, the wind blows, but they make no fuss. They simply do what they do. That’s the way of the Tao.”
I didn’t understand then. I was a boy who liked answers, not riddles. I wanted to know how to be strong, how to be smart, how to win. I thought doing more was always better. Run faster, speak louder, try harder.
But Grandfather didn’t hurry. He didn’t boast. He didn’t push. He would sit and sip tea for hours, hum to the bees, and listen to the silence like it was a song.
One day, I came home angry. I had raced the other boys and lost. “It’s not fair,” I said. “I trained. I stretched. I even skipped my nap!”
Grandfather handed me a warm rice bun and waited.
“I tried so hard, but they still ran faster,” I said, my face red with frustration.
He leaned back and looked at the mountains. “Did the river race the wind?” he asked.
“No,” I said grumpily. “Rivers don’t run races.”
“But they still reach the sea,” he said with a smile.
I blinked. “So… I shouldn’t try?”
“You should flow,” he said. “Like the river. The Tao doesn’t hurry, yet everything gets done.”
That night, I lay in bed with my hands behind my head, listening to the wind pass through the trees. I thought about the rain, about how it fell without a plan, without a prize. It just fell where it was welcome.
The next day, I didn’t race my friends. I walked beside them. I laughed more. I breathed easier. And though I didn’t win the race, I didn’t feel like I lost. I felt… calm.
Over time, I began to understand Grandfather’s favorite saying, which came from Laozi, the ancient teacher who wrote the Tao Te Ching: “Therefore those who follow the way do not speak much. Those who speak much do not follow the way.”
Now, when trouble stirs inside me, I remember to be like the sky—quiet. Like the rain—gentle. Like the Tao—unrushed.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel the urge to push or shout or prove something, I listen to the silence first. I don’t always win, but I always find peace. And that, I think, is what Grandfather meant all along.
