The morning air smelled of dew and plum blossoms as I sat under the old peach tree in our garden. My name is Mei, and I was only ten when I had a dream that changed everything. Not the kind of dream that fades when you wake—but the kind that lives deep in your heart.
That spring, I had been feeling troubled. My older brothers were already learning to use swords, and everyone seemed to know what they were meant to become. I tried to practice calligraphy, but my brush always splattered ink. I tried helping Mother in the kitchen, but I spilled the rice more times than I counted. I felt like I was trying so hard—but never quite right.
One night, after I had cried quietly into my pillow so no one would hear, I dreamed I was a butterfly.
In the dream, I floated gently from flower to flower. I didn't think about flying, or where I had to go next. I just followed the wind, dancing through light and color. The world was quiet and bright, and I felt… free.
When I woke up, I sat up in bed. For a moment, I couldn't tell if I was a girl who dreamed she was a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming she was a girl.
I told my grandfather, who was an old Taoist gardener. He had silver hair and soft eyes, and though he didn’t say much, his words always stayed in my head long after.
He chuckled and said, “Ah, the butterfly dream. Many years ago, a great sage named Zhuangzi had that dream too. And just like you, he wondered if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.”
I blinked. “But which one was real, Grandpa?”
He smiled and patted the earth beside him. “That is not the point, little plum blossom. What matters is what the dream showed you.”
I thought about it. In the dream, I had not tried to fly… I just flew. The butterfly didn’t worry about tomorrow. It simply danced in that moment.
“Do I try too hard all the time?” I asked, leaning against him.
Grandpa nodded gently. “Sometimes, the way to move forward is by not pushing at all. This is Wu Wei, the Taoist way of non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing—it means flowing with the world, not fighting it.”
For many days, I stopped rushing. I let the brush glide when I wrote, instead of forcing perfect lines. I helped in the garden without worrying if I was doing it perfectly. The strange thing was… I felt more peaceful. And without trying so hard, I did things better.
Now, years later, I still remember that dream. I don’t know if I’m still the butterfly, or the girl. But I do know this: when I stop trying so hard and let things be, life becomes simple, like the wind lifting a butterfly’s wings.
And each time I feel lost, I close my eyes and listen for the quiet flapping of wings.
The morning air smelled of dew and plum blossoms as I sat under the old peach tree in our garden. My name is Mei, and I was only ten when I had a dream that changed everything. Not the kind of dream that fades when you wake—but the kind that lives deep in your heart.
That spring, I had been feeling troubled. My older brothers were already learning to use swords, and everyone seemed to know what they were meant to become. I tried to practice calligraphy, but my brush always splattered ink. I tried helping Mother in the kitchen, but I spilled the rice more times than I counted. I felt like I was trying so hard—but never quite right.
One night, after I had cried quietly into my pillow so no one would hear, I dreamed I was a butterfly.
In the dream, I floated gently from flower to flower. I didn't think about flying, or where I had to go next. I just followed the wind, dancing through light and color. The world was quiet and bright, and I felt… free.
When I woke up, I sat up in bed. For a moment, I couldn't tell if I was a girl who dreamed she was a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming she was a girl.
I told my grandfather, who was an old Taoist gardener. He had silver hair and soft eyes, and though he didn’t say much, his words always stayed in my head long after.
He chuckled and said, “Ah, the butterfly dream. Many years ago, a great sage named Zhuangzi had that dream too. And just like you, he wondered if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.”
I blinked. “But which one was real, Grandpa?”
He smiled and patted the earth beside him. “That is not the point, little plum blossom. What matters is what the dream showed you.”
I thought about it. In the dream, I had not tried to fly… I just flew. The butterfly didn’t worry about tomorrow. It simply danced in that moment.
“Do I try too hard all the time?” I asked, leaning against him.
Grandpa nodded gently. “Sometimes, the way to move forward is by not pushing at all. This is Wu Wei, the Taoist way of non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing—it means flowing with the world, not fighting it.”
For many days, I stopped rushing. I let the brush glide when I wrote, instead of forcing perfect lines. I helped in the garden without worrying if I was doing it perfectly. The strange thing was… I felt more peaceful. And without trying so hard, I did things better.
Now, years later, I still remember that dream. I don’t know if I’m still the butterfly, or the girl. But I do know this: when I stop trying so hard and let things be, life becomes simple, like the wind lifting a butterfly’s wings.
And each time I feel lost, I close my eyes and listen for the quiet flapping of wings.
