The wind blew softly across the mountain path as I climbed, my sandals dusted with dry earth. I was just a messenger boy from the village below, no one special. But Master Zhen had asked me to bring a scroll to the Hermit of the West. He lived far away, where the path becomes sky and stone forgets its own shape. They said he once served in the Emperor’s court, but left everything behind to follow something he called the Tao.
I didn’t know what the Tao was. I only knew I had a job to do. But that day, I would learn far more than I expected.
When I finally reached the top, I stood before a small hut made of bamboo and earth. Birds sang nearby, peacefully, and water trickled from a tiny spring like laughter.
An old man sat outside, carving a walking stick. His hair was white like clouds, and his hands were slow but sure.
“You’ve brought something?” he asked without looking up.
I nodded and handed him the scroll.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat on a flat stone.
“You climbed a long way,” he said. “Why?”
“Because Master Zhen told me to,” I said. “I follow orders.”
“Do you?” he said gently. “Even when they lead you far from comfort?”
I didn’t answer. I was already tired and sore. My feet ached and my belly grumbled. But something about the way he asked made me wonder.
Just then, a squirrel dropped a pinecone from the tree and it bounced beside us. The old man chuckled.
“Even the squirrel knows when to let go,” he said. “But people try to hold onto everything—control, plans, even themselves.”
I blinked. “How can someone let go of themselves?”
“Ah,” he said, “that’s the hardest part. But it’s also the easiest. Like breathing—when you stop thinking about it, it flows on its own.”
He stood slowly and dipped a cup into the spring, then handed it to me. “Drink.”
I drank. The water was cool as shade and clearer than glass.
“You carried a burden all the way up the mountain,” he said, gazing at me, “but the mountain didn’t ask you to.”
I looked down at my pack, heavy with my lunch, my tools, and a second scroll I thought I might deliver on the way down.
Suddenly, it felt very heavy.
“If we try to shape the world,” the old man said, “we break it. If we try too hard to help a flower bloom, we tear the petals. The Tao teaches: Act without forcing. Guide without controlling. Be like water—flowing, not pushing.”
He wasn’t commanding me. He just spoke like one speaks of the sun rising.
I left an hour later, my feet lighter, though I carried the same load. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe the load had changed.
As I walked, I noticed the way the trees leaned into the wind, not against it. I saw how the stream curved around stones without complaint.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel I had to control every step, every word, every thought.
I still didn’t understand everything about the Tao. But as I returned to the village, I knew one thing:
Letting go didn't mean giving up.
It meant becoming part of something bigger.
And that’s how I began to forget my self—and remember the Way.
The wind blew softly across the mountain path as I climbed, my sandals dusted with dry earth. I was just a messenger boy from the village below, no one special. But Master Zhen had asked me to bring a scroll to the Hermit of the West. He lived far away, where the path becomes sky and stone forgets its own shape. They said he once served in the Emperor’s court, but left everything behind to follow something he called the Tao.
I didn’t know what the Tao was. I only knew I had a job to do. But that day, I would learn far more than I expected.
When I finally reached the top, I stood before a small hut made of bamboo and earth. Birds sang nearby, peacefully, and water trickled from a tiny spring like laughter.
An old man sat outside, carving a walking stick. His hair was white like clouds, and his hands were slow but sure.
“You’ve brought something?” he asked without looking up.
I nodded and handed him the scroll.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat on a flat stone.
“You climbed a long way,” he said. “Why?”
“Because Master Zhen told me to,” I said. “I follow orders.”
“Do you?” he said gently. “Even when they lead you far from comfort?”
I didn’t answer. I was already tired and sore. My feet ached and my belly grumbled. But something about the way he asked made me wonder.
Just then, a squirrel dropped a pinecone from the tree and it bounced beside us. The old man chuckled.
“Even the squirrel knows when to let go,” he said. “But people try to hold onto everything—control, plans, even themselves.”
I blinked. “How can someone let go of themselves?”
“Ah,” he said, “that’s the hardest part. But it’s also the easiest. Like breathing—when you stop thinking about it, it flows on its own.”
He stood slowly and dipped a cup into the spring, then handed it to me. “Drink.”
I drank. The water was cool as shade and clearer than glass.
“You carried a burden all the way up the mountain,” he said, gazing at me, “but the mountain didn’t ask you to.”
I looked down at my pack, heavy with my lunch, my tools, and a second scroll I thought I might deliver on the way down.
Suddenly, it felt very heavy.
“If we try to shape the world,” the old man said, “we break it. If we try too hard to help a flower bloom, we tear the petals. The Tao teaches: Act without forcing. Guide without controlling. Be like water—flowing, not pushing.”
He wasn’t commanding me. He just spoke like one speaks of the sun rising.
I left an hour later, my feet lighter, though I carried the same load. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe the load had changed.
As I walked, I noticed the way the trees leaned into the wind, not against it. I saw how the stream curved around stones without complaint.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel I had to control every step, every word, every thought.
I still didn’t understand everything about the Tao. But as I returned to the village, I knew one thing:
Letting go didn't mean giving up.
It meant becoming part of something bigger.
And that’s how I began to forget my self—and remember the Way.
