The fog that morning curled low over the rice fields, bending between the trees like smoke from an old man’s pipe. I pulled my coat tighter and stepped forward, the path ahead barely visible. My name is Xiaolan, a young girl from the village by the river. That was the day I met Master Liezi.
I wasn't supposed to be walking alone. My grandmother had warned me, "The fog is heavy. Wait until the sun lifts it." But something heavy sat in my heart. I had argued with my brother, Lin, again. He always wanted things his way, and I always pushed back. I was angry, and the fog outside matched the fog inside me.
I wandered into the woods, hoping to cool off. But nothing changed. I just kept getting lost—on the path and in my thoughts—until I reached a clearing where an old man sat quietly on a flat stone.
He didn’t look surprised to see me. He simply smiled and nodded. His beard was long, and soft white hair floated around his shoulders like clouds. His eyes were deep, like he had seen all the seasons a thousand times.
“Why are you walking blind through the bending fog?” he asked.
“I had to get away,” I answered. “Everything feels wrong.”
The man looked around at the trees swaying gently. “Does the tree fight the wind when it’s strong?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I don’t understand what that has to do with my brother.”
“You are angry,” he said, “but anger isn’t straight. It bends you, like this fog. You think it hides the road, but really, it shows you how much you fear not being in control.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a faded butterfly. It fluttered its wings—a pale pattern of black, white, and gold.
“Master Zhuang, my teacher, once dreamed he was a butterfly,” he said softly. “When he woke, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.”
I blinked, not understanding.
He smiled kindly. “Sometimes, little one, you must stop clinging to what’s ‘you’ and ‘not you.’ Let go. Let the world move naturally. The Tao doesn’t pull or push. It flows. Like this butterfly. Like this fog.”
“But what if everything’s still unfair?” I asked.
He gently touched the butterfly’s wing. “The butterfly never forces the flower to bloom. Yet it finds nectar all the same.”
I stared at the butterfly, amazed by how still it stayed in his hand.
When I turned to look again at the fog, it no longer felt heavy. I could see the shine of the river and the hint of the rice fields beyond.
“Go home,” he said. “Do nothing—but not out of laziness. Do nothing because sometimes, that is where all the doing hides.”
I walked back slowly. Lin was waiting at the gate, frowning. For once, I didn’t try to explain or argue. I simply smiled, and he softened.
That day, I didn’t fix everything. But I began to understand the way of things—that like fog, the world bends and flows. And when I stopped trying to push through it, I could finally see.
I still wander sometimes, especially when my heart feels foggy. But I remember the butterfly, and the man on the stone, and how stillness taught me more than shouting ever could.
The fog that morning curled low over the rice fields, bending between the trees like smoke from an old man’s pipe. I pulled my coat tighter and stepped forward, the path ahead barely visible. My name is Xiaolan, a young girl from the village by the river. That was the day I met Master Liezi.
I wasn't supposed to be walking alone. My grandmother had warned me, "The fog is heavy. Wait until the sun lifts it." But something heavy sat in my heart. I had argued with my brother, Lin, again. He always wanted things his way, and I always pushed back. I was angry, and the fog outside matched the fog inside me.
I wandered into the woods, hoping to cool off. But nothing changed. I just kept getting lost—on the path and in my thoughts—until I reached a clearing where an old man sat quietly on a flat stone.
He didn’t look surprised to see me. He simply smiled and nodded. His beard was long, and soft white hair floated around his shoulders like clouds. His eyes were deep, like he had seen all the seasons a thousand times.
“Why are you walking blind through the bending fog?” he asked.
“I had to get away,” I answered. “Everything feels wrong.”
The man looked around at the trees swaying gently. “Does the tree fight the wind when it’s strong?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I don’t understand what that has to do with my brother.”
“You are angry,” he said, “but anger isn’t straight. It bends you, like this fog. You think it hides the road, but really, it shows you how much you fear not being in control.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a faded butterfly. It fluttered its wings—a pale pattern of black, white, and gold.
“Master Zhuang, my teacher, once dreamed he was a butterfly,” he said softly. “When he woke, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.”
I blinked, not understanding.
He smiled kindly. “Sometimes, little one, you must stop clinging to what’s ‘you’ and ‘not you.’ Let go. Let the world move naturally. The Tao doesn’t pull or push. It flows. Like this butterfly. Like this fog.”
“But what if everything’s still unfair?” I asked.
He gently touched the butterfly’s wing. “The butterfly never forces the flower to bloom. Yet it finds nectar all the same.”
I stared at the butterfly, amazed by how still it stayed in his hand.
When I turned to look again at the fog, it no longer felt heavy. I could see the shine of the river and the hint of the rice fields beyond.
“Go home,” he said. “Do nothing—but not out of laziness. Do nothing because sometimes, that is where all the doing hides.”
I walked back slowly. Lin was waiting at the gate, frowning. For once, I didn’t try to explain or argue. I simply smiled, and he softened.
That day, I didn’t fix everything. But I began to understand the way of things—that like fog, the world bends and flows. And when I stopped trying to push through it, I could finally see.
I still wander sometimes, especially when my heart feels foggy. But I remember the butterfly, and the man on the stone, and how stillness taught me more than shouting ever could.
