The wind was gentle that morning, blowing softly through the reeds by the river. I sat by the water, my legs crossed and my hands resting in my lap. My name is Chen, and I was once a man who wanted to be the best at everything—faster, smarter, stronger. But that was before I met the man who forgot himself.
He was called Master Lin. No one knew where he came from. He lived in a tiny straw hut at the edge of the village, where the mountains touched the clouds. He did not seek fame, but people came from far away just to sit and listen to him say nothing.
That puzzled me.
“How can someone who says so little be so wise?” I asked my teacher at the academy.
“Because,” he smiled, “he lives the Tao.”
I didn’t understand. So I went to find Master Lin myself.
When I arrived, Master Lin was sweeping dirt from his doorstep. I bowed low.
“I have come for wisdom,” I said. “Teach me how to be great.”
He looked up and gently nodded but said nothing.
A whole hour passed.
I grew fidgety. “Aren’t you going to teach me?” I asked.
Master Lin looked at the wind blowing through a tree nearby. “That tree grows tall,” he said, “not by trying to be tall, but by being what it is.”
That was all he said.
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He smiled kindly. “That’s because your cup is full.”
“Full?”
“You are already so full of your own ideas, there is no room for new ones,” he said, handing me a cup of water. “Try walking with me for a while.”
So I did.
Each day we walked through the quiet woods or sat by the river. He never told me what to do. He didn’t give speeches. But I noticed he moved like water—flowing, calm, never hurrying. He didn’t force anything. He let things happen.
One day, while we picked wild herbs, I asked, “Who are you really, Master Lin?”
“I don’t remember,” he said with a laugh. “One day, I stopped trying to be ‘someone.’ That’s when I began to live.”
“But… don’t you miss being important?”
He looked over the hills. “I’ve gained everything by losing the need to be something.”
At first, I didn’t understand. But slowly, the meaning unfolded.
I watched how Master Lin lived simply. He wasn’t lazy, but he didn’t push. He didn’t try to win or stand out. He did what needed doing—but he didn't cling to results.
That’s when I remembered what Laozi once wrote in the Dao De Jing: “He who knows others is wise; he who knows himself is enlightened. He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.”
Master Lin had forgotten who he “should” be—and in doing so, had become free.
I eventually returned to the city, but I stopped chasing titles. I still work, I still do things—but now, I flow with life instead of fighting it.
Sometimes, I sit by the river and close my eyes, remembering the man who forgot himself. And when I open them again, the world looks a little simpler... and a whole lot more peaceful.
I haven’t learned everything yet. But I’ve made space in my cup.
And slowly, I’m beginning to understand.
The wind was gentle that morning, blowing softly through the reeds by the river. I sat by the water, my legs crossed and my hands resting in my lap. My name is Chen, and I was once a man who wanted to be the best at everything—faster, smarter, stronger. But that was before I met the man who forgot himself.
He was called Master Lin. No one knew where he came from. He lived in a tiny straw hut at the edge of the village, where the mountains touched the clouds. He did not seek fame, but people came from far away just to sit and listen to him say nothing.
That puzzled me.
“How can someone who says so little be so wise?” I asked my teacher at the academy.
“Because,” he smiled, “he lives the Tao.”
I didn’t understand. So I went to find Master Lin myself.
When I arrived, Master Lin was sweeping dirt from his doorstep. I bowed low.
“I have come for wisdom,” I said. “Teach me how to be great.”
He looked up and gently nodded but said nothing.
A whole hour passed.
I grew fidgety. “Aren’t you going to teach me?” I asked.
Master Lin looked at the wind blowing through a tree nearby. “That tree grows tall,” he said, “not by trying to be tall, but by being what it is.”
That was all he said.
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He smiled kindly. “That’s because your cup is full.”
“Full?”
“You are already so full of your own ideas, there is no room for new ones,” he said, handing me a cup of water. “Try walking with me for a while.”
So I did.
Each day we walked through the quiet woods or sat by the river. He never told me what to do. He didn’t give speeches. But I noticed he moved like water—flowing, calm, never hurrying. He didn’t force anything. He let things happen.
One day, while we picked wild herbs, I asked, “Who are you really, Master Lin?”
“I don’t remember,” he said with a laugh. “One day, I stopped trying to be ‘someone.’ That’s when I began to live.”
“But… don’t you miss being important?”
He looked over the hills. “I’ve gained everything by losing the need to be something.”
At first, I didn’t understand. But slowly, the meaning unfolded.
I watched how Master Lin lived simply. He wasn’t lazy, but he didn’t push. He didn’t try to win or stand out. He did what needed doing—but he didn't cling to results.
That’s when I remembered what Laozi once wrote in the Dao De Jing: “He who knows others is wise; he who knows himself is enlightened. He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.”
Master Lin had forgotten who he “should” be—and in doing so, had become free.
I eventually returned to the city, but I stopped chasing titles. I still work, I still do things—but now, I flow with life instead of fighting it.
Sometimes, I sit by the river and close my eyes, remembering the man who forgot himself. And when I open them again, the world looks a little simpler... and a whole lot more peaceful.
I haven’t learned everything yet. But I’ve made space in my cup.
And slowly, I’m beginning to understand.
