The wind blew gently across the hillside, and I watched as an ant crawled over a rock. It was tiny, almost nothing against the blue sky above, and yet it walked with such certainty. I was just a young monk back then, barely thirteen, always trying too hard to memorize scrolls and impress Master Lian with how much I knew.
One afternoon, after trying and failing to balance on one leg for too long, I sank down by the path, tired and grumpy. Master Lian sat nearby under a bent pine tree, carving a piece of wood in silence.
“Why must I practice so hard if I keep failing?” I asked, puffing my cheeks.
He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he reached down and pointed to the small ant I had been watching earlier. “Do you think it struggles to walk, or does it simply go?”
I stared. The ant didn’t wobble or complain. It moved over pebbles, stopped when it needed to, then kept going. It wasn’t trying to be anything. It just was.
"But it's just an ant,” I said.
Master Lian gave a tiny smile. “And yet that ant follows its path without rushing or fussing. It’s not worried about the sky being too big or the mountain too tall. It moves when it must, rests when needed. This is the Way.”
“But how can I be like an ant?” I asked, confused.
He rubbed the wooden carving with his sleeve and held it out. It was a tiny figure, smooth and quiet in my hand. “Tao is like the sky,” he said. “Vast and beyond us, yet it holds everything. The ant never tries to touch the sky. It just continues its walk, trusting the path under its feet.”
That night, I lay awake. My mind, usually tangled with thoughts, became quiet as I thought of the ant and the sky. I didn’t need to chase wisdom or fight for perfection. I only needed to be still, like the ant, moving simply and without force.
Over the years, I stopped trying so hard. I listened more. I breathed slower. I let each breath carry me like water down a stream. I still learned and trained, but it no longer felt like a struggle.
Sometimes now, when the younger monks worry about passing their tests or balancing on one leg, I smile and tell them about the ant. I tell them Tao is not something to win or catch. It's walked. Quietly. Like the ant on the stone hill.
I didn't change in one day. But now, whenever I feel rushed or not good enough, I remember the ant who never looked up at the sky in fear. It walked softly, surely, in the moment. Just as I try to do—one simple step at a time.
The wind blew gently across the hillside, and I watched as an ant crawled over a rock. It was tiny, almost nothing against the blue sky above, and yet it walked with such certainty. I was just a young monk back then, barely thirteen, always trying too hard to memorize scrolls and impress Master Lian with how much I knew.
One afternoon, after trying and failing to balance on one leg for too long, I sank down by the path, tired and grumpy. Master Lian sat nearby under a bent pine tree, carving a piece of wood in silence.
“Why must I practice so hard if I keep failing?” I asked, puffing my cheeks.
He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he reached down and pointed to the small ant I had been watching earlier. “Do you think it struggles to walk, or does it simply go?”
I stared. The ant didn’t wobble or complain. It moved over pebbles, stopped when it needed to, then kept going. It wasn’t trying to be anything. It just was.
"But it's just an ant,” I said.
Master Lian gave a tiny smile. “And yet that ant follows its path without rushing or fussing. It’s not worried about the sky being too big or the mountain too tall. It moves when it must, rests when needed. This is the Way.”
“But how can I be like an ant?” I asked, confused.
He rubbed the wooden carving with his sleeve and held it out. It was a tiny figure, smooth and quiet in my hand. “Tao is like the sky,” he said. “Vast and beyond us, yet it holds everything. The ant never tries to touch the sky. It just continues its walk, trusting the path under its feet.”
That night, I lay awake. My mind, usually tangled with thoughts, became quiet as I thought of the ant and the sky. I didn’t need to chase wisdom or fight for perfection. I only needed to be still, like the ant, moving simply and without force.
Over the years, I stopped trying so hard. I listened more. I breathed slower. I let each breath carry me like water down a stream. I still learned and trained, but it no longer felt like a struggle.
Sometimes now, when the younger monks worry about passing their tests or balancing on one leg, I smile and tell them about the ant. I tell them Tao is not something to win or catch. It's walked. Quietly. Like the ant on the stone hill.
I didn't change in one day. But now, whenever I feel rushed or not good enough, I remember the ant who never looked up at the sky in fear. It walked softly, surely, in the moment. Just as I try to do—one simple step at a time.
