The wind carried the scent of old wood and fresh grass as I wandered into the village where my uncle lived. I was only ten, and my parents had sent me to stay for the summer. “To learn something new,” they had said. I thought they meant studying or chopping wood. But I learned something far stranger—something I would remember all my life.
My uncle was a quiet man. He didn’t rush, didn’t shout—he did things slowly, like the river flowing beside his garden. He had one very strange job: he carved bell stands. Not bells—just the wooden stands that held them up.
One morning, I watched him as he sat before a huge block of wood, not carving, just staring.
“Aren’t you going to start?” I asked after a long while.
He looked at me, eyes calm. “I already have.”
“But you’re not doing anything,” I said.
He smiled. “Sometimes, the best doing is not doing.”
I didn’t get it. I thought grown-ups were supposed to do things. But he just sat there. For days, he sat with the wood. Then one afternoon, he picked up his carving tools and began. His hands moved gently, like clouds brushing a mountain. In a few hours, a delicate, perfect bell stand took shape—curved like waves, with edges as smooth as river stones.
“How did you know what to make?” I asked.
He pointed at the leftover wood. “It was already in there. I just followed what the wood wanted to be.”
That night, something strange happened. I dreamed I was a butterfly, fluttering through the sky. It felt so real. The flowers, the wind—I wasn’t me at all. I was light and free. When I woke up, I sat straight up in bed, heart racing. Was I a boy who had dreamed he was a butterfly—or a butterfly now dreaming he was a boy?
I told my uncle. He nodded, not surprised. “That was Zhuangzi’s dream,” he said. “He was a great sage of the Tao. One day, he dreamed he was a butterfly. Then he wondered if he had always been a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.”
“So… which is it?” I asked.
“Who’s to say?” he said quietly. “But either way, both are just part of the Way.”
I didn’t understand everything he meant, but over that summer, I changed. When I saw ants building a tunnel, I didn’t try to stop them. When my wooden toy broke, I didn’t cry. I just sat with it. Sometimes, not fixing was the fix.
When I returned home, I wasn’t the same. If something didn’t go my way, I didn’t fight it right away. I remembered the butterfly. I remembered the bell stand. I had learned that sometimes, standing still was more than enough—and that waiting, like carving, could reveal something beautiful within.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel myself rushing too much, I breathe. I listen. I wait. And deep inside, I hear the whisper of the butterfly’s wings.
The wind carried the scent of old wood and fresh grass as I wandered into the village where my uncle lived. I was only ten, and my parents had sent me to stay for the summer. “To learn something new,” they had said. I thought they meant studying or chopping wood. But I learned something far stranger—something I would remember all my life.
My uncle was a quiet man. He didn’t rush, didn’t shout—he did things slowly, like the river flowing beside his garden. He had one very strange job: he carved bell stands. Not bells—just the wooden stands that held them up.
One morning, I watched him as he sat before a huge block of wood, not carving, just staring.
“Aren’t you going to start?” I asked after a long while.
He looked at me, eyes calm. “I already have.”
“But you’re not doing anything,” I said.
He smiled. “Sometimes, the best doing is not doing.”
I didn’t get it. I thought grown-ups were supposed to do things. But he just sat there. For days, he sat with the wood. Then one afternoon, he picked up his carving tools and began. His hands moved gently, like clouds brushing a mountain. In a few hours, a delicate, perfect bell stand took shape—curved like waves, with edges as smooth as river stones.
“How did you know what to make?” I asked.
He pointed at the leftover wood. “It was already in there. I just followed what the wood wanted to be.”
That night, something strange happened. I dreamed I was a butterfly, fluttering through the sky. It felt so real. The flowers, the wind—I wasn’t me at all. I was light and free. When I woke up, I sat straight up in bed, heart racing. Was I a boy who had dreamed he was a butterfly—or a butterfly now dreaming he was a boy?
I told my uncle. He nodded, not surprised. “That was Zhuangzi’s dream,” he said. “He was a great sage of the Tao. One day, he dreamed he was a butterfly. Then he wondered if he had always been a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.”
“So… which is it?” I asked.
“Who’s to say?” he said quietly. “But either way, both are just part of the Way.”
I didn’t understand everything he meant, but over that summer, I changed. When I saw ants building a tunnel, I didn’t try to stop them. When my wooden toy broke, I didn’t cry. I just sat with it. Sometimes, not fixing was the fix.
When I returned home, I wasn’t the same. If something didn’t go my way, I didn’t fight it right away. I remembered the butterfly. I remembered the bell stand. I had learned that sometimes, standing still was more than enough—and that waiting, like carving, could reveal something beautiful within.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel myself rushing too much, I breathe. I listen. I wait. And deep inside, I hear the whisper of the butterfly’s wings.
