The sky was full of golden clouds the day I wandered off the village path. I had been trying to remember something I had lost—something I wasn’t even sure I ever had. My name is Jun, and I was just a boy who asked too many questions. Everyone said so. “Why are trees shaped like this? Why do I have to do what others are doing?” The grownups would shrug and say, “That’s just the way things are, Jun.”
But that answer never felt right. So one morning, I packed a rice bun and left before the rooster crowed.
After hours of walking into the low hills, I saw a figure sitting quietly beneath an old ginkgo tree. He was a tiny man with a white beard as long as his robe. He looked up at me and smiled like he had been expecting me.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “I'm looking for something, but I don’t know what it is.”
He nodded, as if I had given the right answer. “Then come sit.”
We sat under the tree as the breeze danced through the branches. For a long time, neither of us spoke. I watched a tiny butterfly land on the man’s finger. It flapped its wings slowly, like it was breathing.
“Do you see the butterfly?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What is it doing?”
“Just sitting.”
He nodded. “It does not try to be a bee, or a bird, or even a different butterfly. It simply is.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had so many questions still, but something in me was quieting.
“I used to try so hard,” he continued. “I read hundreds of scrolls. I followed the great teachers. I planned, worked, argued. But the more I learned, the less I knew who I was. One day, I stopped trying so hard. I began to unlearn.”
“Unlearn?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yes, little one. In Tao, gaining means losing. Losing the need to control. Losing the thoughts that tangle the heart.”
He reached into his bag and handed me a pebble. It was perfectly smooth.
“This is like a mind that lets go,” he said. “It doesn’t grab or hold. It rests.”
“How do I do that?” I whispered.
“Walk slowly. Breathe deeply. Watch the clouds. Forget who you think you’re supposed to be, and the real you will rise like mist from the mountains.”
That night, I watched the stars from the hillside. I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t even want to. I just breathed.
Since then, life has felt different. I don’t rush to find answers. I walk slower. I listen more. I don't always know who I am—and that’s okay.
Like the butterfly, I try just to be.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel lost, I remember the old man and the soft wings of the butterfly. I try to forget a little more each day… and in that forgetting, I find peace.
The sky was full of golden clouds the day I wandered off the village path. I had been trying to remember something I had lost—something I wasn’t even sure I ever had. My name is Jun, and I was just a boy who asked too many questions. Everyone said so. “Why are trees shaped like this? Why do I have to do what others are doing?” The grownups would shrug and say, “That’s just the way things are, Jun.”
But that answer never felt right. So one morning, I packed a rice bun and left before the rooster crowed.
After hours of walking into the low hills, I saw a figure sitting quietly beneath an old ginkgo tree. He was a tiny man with a white beard as long as his robe. He looked up at me and smiled like he had been expecting me.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “I'm looking for something, but I don’t know what it is.”
He nodded, as if I had given the right answer. “Then come sit.”
We sat under the tree as the breeze danced through the branches. For a long time, neither of us spoke. I watched a tiny butterfly land on the man’s finger. It flapped its wings slowly, like it was breathing.
“Do you see the butterfly?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What is it doing?”
“Just sitting.”
He nodded. “It does not try to be a bee, or a bird, or even a different butterfly. It simply is.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had so many questions still, but something in me was quieting.
“I used to try so hard,” he continued. “I read hundreds of scrolls. I followed the great teachers. I planned, worked, argued. But the more I learned, the less I knew who I was. One day, I stopped trying so hard. I began to unlearn.”
“Unlearn?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yes, little one. In Tao, gaining means losing. Losing the need to control. Losing the thoughts that tangle the heart.”
He reached into his bag and handed me a pebble. It was perfectly smooth.
“This is like a mind that lets go,” he said. “It doesn’t grab or hold. It rests.”
“How do I do that?” I whispered.
“Walk slowly. Breathe deeply. Watch the clouds. Forget who you think you’re supposed to be, and the real you will rise like mist from the mountains.”
That night, I watched the stars from the hillside. I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t even want to. I just breathed.
Since then, life has felt different. I don’t rush to find answers. I walk slower. I listen more. I don't always know who I am—and that’s okay.
Like the butterfly, I try just to be.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel lost, I remember the old man and the soft wings of the butterfly. I try to forget a little more each day… and in that forgetting, I find peace.
