The bells in the temple rang out softly. I stood there, broom still in hand, watching dust dance in the beams of morning light. I had been sweeping the same floor every day for twelve years. My name is Ping, and I was the keeper of the great temple atop Cloud Peak.
People always thought I was unimportant. “Just a sweeper,” they’d say, walking past me like I was part of the stone floor. But I didn’t mind. Long ago, I wanted to be seen. I used to shout loudly during prayers and sweep extra hard when visitors arrived, hoping someone would notice.
Then one day, Master Yuan came to teach me something I would never forget.
Master Yuan was an old monk with a long white beard and quiet eyes. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it often sounded like riddles. That morning, he sat beside me while I swept, saying nothing. Just when I began wondering why, he pointed to a butterfly resting near the temple gate.
“You see how it does nothing,” he whispered. “But it moves the air with its wings and dances with the world around it.”
I blinked. “But Master, it’s just... being.”
“Exactly,” he smiled.
I didn’t understand. Was he telling me not to try so hard?
Time passed. I kept sweeping. But now, I watched more—watched clouds come and go, birds perch and fly, the butterfly visiting flowers again and again. Slowly, I noticed something strange begin happening.
One morning, a traveler came up the temple steps. He was tired, upset, and pushed past me. I said nothing. But I looked at him gently and kept sweeping.
He stopped. “Why are you so calm?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I just sweep, and the wind takes care of the rest.”
He stared at me, then sat down. We talked for a long time. More people came like him. They didn’t come for the high priests’ loud wisdom—they came quietly, to sit with the sweeper and breathe.
I hadn’t tried to become someone wise. I had forgotten that I even wanted to be important. But people came to me, not because I had joined the world with effort, but because I was in the world without fighting it.
Many years later, Master Yuan returned.
“You’ve forgotten something,” he teased.
I raised an eyebrow. “What did I forget?”
“Your self,” he said, smiling. “And by doing so, you found the Tao.”
That day, I finally understood what he meant.
To follow the Tao is not to try harder. It’s not to push or pull. It is to become part of the world, like a breeze, like a butterfly—doing nothing, yet leaving everything better than before.
I still sweep the same steps. But now when I do, my heart is light, and my thoughts are still. People still come—some stop, some don’t. But it doesn’t matter.
The butterfly never worries who is watching. It just dances because the wind is there.
The bells in the temple rang out softly. I stood there, broom still in hand, watching dust dance in the beams of morning light. I had been sweeping the same floor every day for twelve years. My name is Ping, and I was the keeper of the great temple atop Cloud Peak.
People always thought I was unimportant. “Just a sweeper,” they’d say, walking past me like I was part of the stone floor. But I didn’t mind. Long ago, I wanted to be seen. I used to shout loudly during prayers and sweep extra hard when visitors arrived, hoping someone would notice.
Then one day, Master Yuan came to teach me something I would never forget.
Master Yuan was an old monk with a long white beard and quiet eyes. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it often sounded like riddles. That morning, he sat beside me while I swept, saying nothing. Just when I began wondering why, he pointed to a butterfly resting near the temple gate.
“You see how it does nothing,” he whispered. “But it moves the air with its wings and dances with the world around it.”
I blinked. “But Master, it’s just... being.”
“Exactly,” he smiled.
I didn’t understand. Was he telling me not to try so hard?
Time passed. I kept sweeping. But now, I watched more—watched clouds come and go, birds perch and fly, the butterfly visiting flowers again and again. Slowly, I noticed something strange begin happening.
One morning, a traveler came up the temple steps. He was tired, upset, and pushed past me. I said nothing. But I looked at him gently and kept sweeping.
He stopped. “Why are you so calm?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I just sweep, and the wind takes care of the rest.”
He stared at me, then sat down. We talked for a long time. More people came like him. They didn’t come for the high priests’ loud wisdom—they came quietly, to sit with the sweeper and breathe.
I hadn’t tried to become someone wise. I had forgotten that I even wanted to be important. But people came to me, not because I had joined the world with effort, but because I was in the world without fighting it.
Many years later, Master Yuan returned.
“You’ve forgotten something,” he teased.
I raised an eyebrow. “What did I forget?”
“Your self,” he said, smiling. “And by doing so, you found the Tao.”
That day, I finally understood what he meant.
To follow the Tao is not to try harder. It’s not to push or pull. It is to become part of the world, like a breeze, like a butterfly—doing nothing, yet leaving everything better than before.
I still sweep the same steps. But now when I do, my heart is light, and my thoughts are still. People still come—some stop, some don’t. But it doesn’t matter.
The butterfly never worries who is watching. It just dances because the wind is there.
