The wind rustled through the tall bamboo, and I felt like the world was breathing all around me. I was ten years old, grouchy, and tired from walking. My sandals were muddy, and my rice cake was soggy from the rain. Grandpa kept walking ahead, humming a soft tune, as if none of this bothered him in the slightest.
“Grandpa,” I huffed, dragging my feet, “why do we have to visit this bamboo grove every year? It’s just sticks and leaves.”
He chuckled and stopped under a large, green bamboo stalk. “It’s not just sticks and leaves if you know how to listen,” he said, resting a hand on the smooth trunk.
I crossed my arms, feeling like no one listened to me. “We could’ve gone to the city instead. There are sweet buns and music there!”
Grandpa crouched low and patted the ground. “Sit. Let the wind speak.”
I rolled my eyes but sat next to him. The grove was quiet except for the rustling sounds above. Slowly, something inside me calmed.
“You see how the bamboo bends with the wind?” Grandpa asked.
I nodded, not really understanding.
“It bends,” he said, “but it does not break. That’s what the Tao teaches. To be strong, we must learn how to bend.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He looked at me kindly. “When you try to fight the wind, you fall. But when you let go, you stay rooted. That’s called Wu Wei — effortless action. It means doing without forcing.”
The breeze blew again, and we watched the bamboo sway. I didn’t say anything. But I thought about the argument I had with my brother that morning. I had yelled and forced my way to be right. And yet, I still didn’t feel better.
Grandpa stood and began walking slowly. “Come,” he said.
We walked deeper into the grove. He stopped at one cluster of very tall bamboo. Some were thin and hollow inside.
“These look empty,” I said, knocking on one.
“And yet, they grow the fastest,” Grandpa said. “Because they are empty, they can move with the wind. That’s the secret most people don’t see — emptiness is not weakness. It creates space for new things.”
I didn’t speak, but the quiet all around me filled my heart. I started to understand. Letting go… might be stronger than holding on. Being still… might be braver than shouting.
When we walked home, I didn’t complain. The mud didn’t matter anymore. My heart felt lighter, like I had space inside me, like the bamboo.
That night, I picked up my drawing brush and painted a tall bamboo waving in the wind. Underneath it, I wrote only one thing: “Bend. Don’t break.”
I think I’ll always come back to the bamboo grove. Not for the trees—but for the peace that grows inside me, quiet and strong. Just like the Tao.
The wind rustled through the tall bamboo, and I felt like the world was breathing all around me. I was ten years old, grouchy, and tired from walking. My sandals were muddy, and my rice cake was soggy from the rain. Grandpa kept walking ahead, humming a soft tune, as if none of this bothered him in the slightest.
“Grandpa,” I huffed, dragging my feet, “why do we have to visit this bamboo grove every year? It’s just sticks and leaves.”
He chuckled and stopped under a large, green bamboo stalk. “It’s not just sticks and leaves if you know how to listen,” he said, resting a hand on the smooth trunk.
I crossed my arms, feeling like no one listened to me. “We could’ve gone to the city instead. There are sweet buns and music there!”
Grandpa crouched low and patted the ground. “Sit. Let the wind speak.”
I rolled my eyes but sat next to him. The grove was quiet except for the rustling sounds above. Slowly, something inside me calmed.
“You see how the bamboo bends with the wind?” Grandpa asked.
I nodded, not really understanding.
“It bends,” he said, “but it does not break. That’s what the Tao teaches. To be strong, we must learn how to bend.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He looked at me kindly. “When you try to fight the wind, you fall. But when you let go, you stay rooted. That’s called Wu Wei — effortless action. It means doing without forcing.”
The breeze blew again, and we watched the bamboo sway. I didn’t say anything. But I thought about the argument I had with my brother that morning. I had yelled and forced my way to be right. And yet, I still didn’t feel better.
Grandpa stood and began walking slowly. “Come,” he said.
We walked deeper into the grove. He stopped at one cluster of very tall bamboo. Some were thin and hollow inside.
“These look empty,” I said, knocking on one.
“And yet, they grow the fastest,” Grandpa said. “Because they are empty, they can move with the wind. That’s the secret most people don’t see — emptiness is not weakness. It creates space for new things.”
I didn’t speak, but the quiet all around me filled my heart. I started to understand. Letting go… might be stronger than holding on. Being still… might be braver than shouting.
When we walked home, I didn’t complain. The mud didn’t matter anymore. My heart felt lighter, like I had space inside me, like the bamboo.
That night, I picked up my drawing brush and painted a tall bamboo waving in the wind. Underneath it, I wrote only one thing: “Bend. Don’t break.”
I think I’ll always come back to the bamboo grove. Not for the trees—but for the peace that grows inside me, quiet and strong. Just like the Tao.
