The sun was high, and the village buzzed with noise. I ran through the dusty streets, my arms full of scrolls, my mind full of worry. My name is Bo, and I was the fastest messenger in the town of Chengxia. But that day, no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I wasn’t doing enough.
I believed if I moved more, worked harder, and spoke louder, I would be successful. I wanted everyone to know my name. That’s how I ended up rushing through the courtyard of the old temple and bumping into the quiet gardener—Master Shen.
Scrolls spilled from my arms and fluttered like birds. I grumbled and bent down to grab them.
"Always in a hurry, young Bo?" Master Shen asked. He was old and gentle, with gray robes stained by earth and green leaves. He moved slowly, like the wind through trees—easy and calm.
“I must deliver all these by sunset,” I said, annoyed. “There’s no time!”
Master Shen only smiled and picked up a fallen scroll.
“Sometimes,” he said, “the more you do, the less you get done.”
That didn’t make sense to me. How could doing less help? I mumbled thanks and rushed off.
But over the next few days, those words stuck in my head. I began to notice things: my legs ached, but I didn’t get more done. I forgot messages, made mistakes. I was always out of breath, and still not at peace.
One evening, I passed Master Shen’s garden again. The sunset painted everything gold. He nodded to me and pointed to a clay pot on a tall rock. Water silently spilled from the pot’s brim, trickling down the sides.
"Why don't you fill it more?” I asked.
“It’s already full,” he said. “Fill too much—and it spills. Sharpen a blade too far—and it snaps. Hold on too tightly—and you miss the flow.”
I watched the water glisten and drip.
“What should I do then?” I whispered.
“Let things be,” he said. "That is Wu Wei—doing without forcing.”
That night, I walked slowly home. I let the wind blow through my fingers. I didn't rush. The next day, I tried something new. I walked calmly. I listened more. I didn’t speak unless it mattered. And you know what? I remembered the messages better. People smiled at me more.
Little by little, I began to understand: life didn’t need to be a race. It was like tending a garden—you move with care, not force. You follow the flow, not fight it.
I still had the same job, but it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. I had started to find the Way—the Tao—not by doing more, but by knowing when to stop, when to be quiet, and when to move like water.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel rushed, I think of the spilling pot, and I breathe. The Tao doesn’t shout. It whispers. And now, I listen.
The sun was high, and the village buzzed with noise. I ran through the dusty streets, my arms full of scrolls, my mind full of worry. My name is Bo, and I was the fastest messenger in the town of Chengxia. But that day, no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I wasn’t doing enough.
I believed if I moved more, worked harder, and spoke louder, I would be successful. I wanted everyone to know my name. That’s how I ended up rushing through the courtyard of the old temple and bumping into the quiet gardener—Master Shen.
Scrolls spilled from my arms and fluttered like birds. I grumbled and bent down to grab them.
"Always in a hurry, young Bo?" Master Shen asked. He was old and gentle, with gray robes stained by earth and green leaves. He moved slowly, like the wind through trees—easy and calm.
“I must deliver all these by sunset,” I said, annoyed. “There’s no time!”
Master Shen only smiled and picked up a fallen scroll.
“Sometimes,” he said, “the more you do, the less you get done.”
That didn’t make sense to me. How could doing less help? I mumbled thanks and rushed off.
But over the next few days, those words stuck in my head. I began to notice things: my legs ached, but I didn’t get more done. I forgot messages, made mistakes. I was always out of breath, and still not at peace.
One evening, I passed Master Shen’s garden again. The sunset painted everything gold. He nodded to me and pointed to a clay pot on a tall rock. Water silently spilled from the pot’s brim, trickling down the sides.
"Why don't you fill it more?” I asked.
“It’s already full,” he said. “Fill too much—and it spills. Sharpen a blade too far—and it snaps. Hold on too tightly—and you miss the flow.”
I watched the water glisten and drip.
“What should I do then?” I whispered.
“Let things be,” he said. "That is Wu Wei—doing without forcing.”
That night, I walked slowly home. I let the wind blow through my fingers. I didn't rush. The next day, I tried something new. I walked calmly. I listened more. I didn’t speak unless it mattered. And you know what? I remembered the messages better. People smiled at me more.
Little by little, I began to understand: life didn’t need to be a race. It was like tending a garden—you move with care, not force. You follow the flow, not fight it.
I still had the same job, but it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. I had started to find the Way—the Tao—not by doing more, but by knowing when to stop, when to be quiet, and when to move like water.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel rushed, I think of the spilling pot, and I breathe. The Tao doesn’t shout. It whispers. And now, I listen.
