The wind was quiet that morning, and the early sun painted gold across the hills. I was just a boy, the son of a fisherman, always eager to know more, to do more, to be more. My father said I would learn patience one day. I didn’t believe him.
That morning, I was in the village square when I met an old man sitting under the plum tree. He was dressed in simple robes, his feet bare, and his eyes full of peace. Some called him Laozi. Others called him the Old Master.
He didn’t speak at first. Just sat there, breathing slowly like the breeze. After a while, I got tired of waiting and asked, “Wise one, what must I do to become great like you?”
The old man looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled gently and said, “Forget yourself.”
I blinked. “What do you mean? How can I forget myself? If I forget, then who am I?”
He chuckled. “That is a question you must answer by living, not by thinking. But let me tell you about a man, long ago, who truly forgot his self.”
And so, the Old Master began his tale.
“There was once a man who lived by a flowing river. He was not rich or famous. He did not chase rewards or climb ladders. Instead, he watched the water each day and listened to the wind. Slowly, he began to live like the river—flowing, moving without forcing.
“At first, people laughed at him. They said he was lazy. But when their crops failed, his garden thrived. When storms came, his quiet home stood strong. He had no name grander than ‘neighbor,’ but people came to him when they were tired of running, tired of pretending.
“One day, someone asked him, ‘What is your secret?’ The man replied, ‘I do not try to be anything. I follow the Tao—the Way of nature. A bird does not try to fly. It just flies. I do not try to be wise. I just listen more and want less.’
“Over time, the man forgot his pride, forgot his fears, and even forgot his plans. But he gained peace, balance, and joy. He had forgotten his small self and remembered the great self that is part of everything.”
When Laozi ended the story, I sat there quiet for a long while, watching leaves rustle in the tree above us.
“I think I understand,” I whispered. “He didn’t lose himself. He found something deeper.”
The old man nodded slowly. “Yes. When we let go of pushing, grabbing, and proving, we begin to truly live.”
Years later, I still remember that story. I still forget sometimes—forget to be calm, forget to listen. But on quiet mornings by the water, I rest and breathe like the Old Master taught me.
Maybe I haven’t fully forgotten myself yet. But I’m learning. And every time I let go a little more, peace finds me again.
The Tao, I’ve come to see, is not something to chase. It's something to join—just like the river, flowing softly, perfectly, as it is.
The wind was quiet that morning, and the early sun painted gold across the hills. I was just a boy, the son of a fisherman, always eager to know more, to do more, to be more. My father said I would learn patience one day. I didn’t believe him.
That morning, I was in the village square when I met an old man sitting under the plum tree. He was dressed in simple robes, his feet bare, and his eyes full of peace. Some called him Laozi. Others called him the Old Master.
He didn’t speak at first. Just sat there, breathing slowly like the breeze. After a while, I got tired of waiting and asked, “Wise one, what must I do to become great like you?”
The old man looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled gently and said, “Forget yourself.”
I blinked. “What do you mean? How can I forget myself? If I forget, then who am I?”
He chuckled. “That is a question you must answer by living, not by thinking. But let me tell you about a man, long ago, who truly forgot his self.”
And so, the Old Master began his tale.
“There was once a man who lived by a flowing river. He was not rich or famous. He did not chase rewards or climb ladders. Instead, he watched the water each day and listened to the wind. Slowly, he began to live like the river—flowing, moving without forcing.
“At first, people laughed at him. They said he was lazy. But when their crops failed, his garden thrived. When storms came, his quiet home stood strong. He had no name grander than ‘neighbor,’ but people came to him when they were tired of running, tired of pretending.
“One day, someone asked him, ‘What is your secret?’ The man replied, ‘I do not try to be anything. I follow the Tao—the Way of nature. A bird does not try to fly. It just flies. I do not try to be wise. I just listen more and want less.’
“Over time, the man forgot his pride, forgot his fears, and even forgot his plans. But he gained peace, balance, and joy. He had forgotten his small self and remembered the great self that is part of everything.”
When Laozi ended the story, I sat there quiet for a long while, watching leaves rustle in the tree above us.
“I think I understand,” I whispered. “He didn’t lose himself. He found something deeper.”
The old man nodded slowly. “Yes. When we let go of pushing, grabbing, and proving, we begin to truly live.”
Years later, I still remember that story. I still forget sometimes—forget to be calm, forget to listen. But on quiet mornings by the water, I rest and breathe like the Old Master taught me.
Maybe I haven’t fully forgotten myself yet. But I’m learning. And every time I let go a little more, peace finds me again.
The Tao, I’ve come to see, is not something to chase. It's something to join—just like the river, flowing softly, perfectly, as it is.
