The wind was soft that morning, brushing against the tall grasses like it was whispering secrets. I knelt along the edge of the field, sweaty palms gripping the broken handle of my hoe. I had been working since sunrise, trying to fix a gate for the irrigation canal. But every time I patched one leak, another would burst open. I grunted in frustration, wiping my brow.
My name is Tian, and I live in a small village just beyond the bamboo hills. I used to believe hard work solved everything. If something didn’t work, work harder. If a door wouldn’t open, push harder. But that belief started to change the day I met Old Shen.
Old Shen was a quiet man who lived near the forest trail. He wasn’t rich. He wore the same faded gray robe every day and walked slowly, always smiling like he knew something no one else did. People in our village called him “the one who walks with the wind.” I didn’t really pay him much attention—until he walked by me that day while I was struggling with the canal.
“You seem to be fighting quite a battle,” he said, his voice calm like still water.
“I need this gate fixed,” I huffed. “If I don’t stop the leaks, the water won’t reach the rice paddies.”
He looked at me but didn’t rush to offer help. Instead, he knelt nearby and watched the water gently spilling through the cracks.
“Sometimes,” he said, “too much effort builds more trouble.”
I frowned. “If I don’t act, nothing gets done.”
Old Shen ran his finger along the water’s edge, letting it flow around his hand. “You’ve seen the river, haven’t you? It never pushes. It never forces. But it carves through mountains.”
I didn’t understand. How could doing less help me fix the gate?
Then he showed me something. He took some loose twigs, leaves, and a flat stone and gently placed them along a crack. The water slowed, gently nudging around the new path. Then he widened another canal with ease, letting nature guide the flow.
“You see?” he said. “Let the water be your teacher.”
I sat quietly, watching it all. He didn’t fight the water. He moved with it—lightly, with care, like brushing dust from silk.
That evening, after I followed his example and let the water lead, the canal worked better than it ever had. I didn’t force it. I didn’t try to beat it. I just let it be and gently guided it where it needed to go.
That night, as light faded in the sky and frogs began to sing, I thought of what Old Shen had said. It reminded me of something my grandfather once told me—from the teachings of the ancient sage Laozi: “Fame or self, which is more dear? Gain or loss, which will bring more pain?”
I used to chase success and try to fix everything with force. But now, I was learning there was power in doing less—when doing less meant doing things in harmony with nature.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push too hard, I pause, breathe, and remember the water. Let it flow. Let life be. That—Old Shen taught me—is the quiet power of the Tao.
The wind was soft that morning, brushing against the tall grasses like it was whispering secrets. I knelt along the edge of the field, sweaty palms gripping the broken handle of my hoe. I had been working since sunrise, trying to fix a gate for the irrigation canal. But every time I patched one leak, another would burst open. I grunted in frustration, wiping my brow.
My name is Tian, and I live in a small village just beyond the bamboo hills. I used to believe hard work solved everything. If something didn’t work, work harder. If a door wouldn’t open, push harder. But that belief started to change the day I met Old Shen.
Old Shen was a quiet man who lived near the forest trail. He wasn’t rich. He wore the same faded gray robe every day and walked slowly, always smiling like he knew something no one else did. People in our village called him “the one who walks with the wind.” I didn’t really pay him much attention—until he walked by me that day while I was struggling with the canal.
“You seem to be fighting quite a battle,” he said, his voice calm like still water.
“I need this gate fixed,” I huffed. “If I don’t stop the leaks, the water won’t reach the rice paddies.”
He looked at me but didn’t rush to offer help. Instead, he knelt nearby and watched the water gently spilling through the cracks.
“Sometimes,” he said, “too much effort builds more trouble.”
I frowned. “If I don’t act, nothing gets done.”
Old Shen ran his finger along the water’s edge, letting it flow around his hand. “You’ve seen the river, haven’t you? It never pushes. It never forces. But it carves through mountains.”
I didn’t understand. How could doing less help me fix the gate?
Then he showed me something. He took some loose twigs, leaves, and a flat stone and gently placed them along a crack. The water slowed, gently nudging around the new path. Then he widened another canal with ease, letting nature guide the flow.
“You see?” he said. “Let the water be your teacher.”
I sat quietly, watching it all. He didn’t fight the water. He moved with it—lightly, with care, like brushing dust from silk.
That evening, after I followed his example and let the water lead, the canal worked better than it ever had. I didn’t force it. I didn’t try to beat it. I just let it be and gently guided it where it needed to go.
That night, as light faded in the sky and frogs began to sing, I thought of what Old Shen had said. It reminded me of something my grandfather once told me—from the teachings of the ancient sage Laozi: “Fame or self, which is more dear? Gain or loss, which will bring more pain?”
I used to chase success and try to fix everything with force. But now, I was learning there was power in doing less—when doing less meant doing things in harmony with nature.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push too hard, I pause, breathe, and remember the water. Let it flow. Let life be. That—Old Shen taught me—is the quiet power of the Tao.
