The wooden cage sat on the windowsill, carved with great care, polished smooth like river stones. And inside, the little bird sang. Every morning, it filled the silence of our small home with its bright, soft notes. My father said the song made the tea taste sweeter and helped him think more clearly.
But I didn’t enjoy the bird’s music—not really. I was twelve and always curious. The bird was a myna, with black wings and a curious white ring around its eyes. It watched me while I did my chores, sharp and quiet. To me, that watchful eye held a secret.
One day, after finishing my duties early, I stared at the bird, hands behind my back. “Why do you sing?” I whispered. “You can’t fly. You can’t go home.”
That night at dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Father was a quiet man, a tea merchant who studied the writings of Master Zhuangzi, a great thinker who taught us about Tao—the Way.
"Father," I asked, "would you still love the bird if it didn’t sing?"
He looked up from his cup. “A bird does not sing because we like it. It sings because it is alive.”
“But it’s trapped,” I said. “What sort of life is that?”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe it is we who are trapped—by our wanting. Zhuangzi once wrote of a bird, free to soar in the sky, but caught and put in a cage for its song. The cage is safe, but the sky is wide.”
I frowned. “So should we open the cage?”
Father smiled. “You must decide that for yourself.”
That night, I dreamed of a bird flying over mountains and rivers, its wings stretched wide, its voice echoing in the wind.
The next morning, I stood in front of the cage as light poured in through the window. The bird looked at me, tilting its head. My heart was pounding.
I opened the cage.
The little myna stepped to the edge. But it didn’t fly out right away. It turned its head this way and that. Then, in one quiet moment, it stretched its wings and flew—out into the open sky, gone like a whisper.
The room felt quiet without its song, but also… lighter.
Father came in later and looked at the empty cage. He said nothing at first, just poured tea.
Then he said, with a small smile, “Sometimes, letting go is the truest form of keeping.”
I’m older now, but I remember that moment clearly. Not just the stillness of the room, but how I felt inside—like something inside me stretched its own wings.
I didn’t change overnight. But slowly, I stopped holding so tightly to things—not just cages, but worry, control, and fear. I learned that the Tao isn’t about forcing life, but letting it flow naturally.
Even now, when life feels heavy, I look to the sky. Somewhere, a bird is flying free. And I remember that moment when I let go—and felt the world open.
The wooden cage sat on the windowsill, carved with great care, polished smooth like river stones. And inside, the little bird sang. Every morning, it filled the silence of our small home with its bright, soft notes. My father said the song made the tea taste sweeter and helped him think more clearly.
But I didn’t enjoy the bird’s music—not really. I was twelve and always curious. The bird was a myna, with black wings and a curious white ring around its eyes. It watched me while I did my chores, sharp and quiet. To me, that watchful eye held a secret.
One day, after finishing my duties early, I stared at the bird, hands behind my back. “Why do you sing?” I whispered. “You can’t fly. You can’t go home.”
That night at dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Father was a quiet man, a tea merchant who studied the writings of Master Zhuangzi, a great thinker who taught us about Tao—the Way.
"Father," I asked, "would you still love the bird if it didn’t sing?"
He looked up from his cup. “A bird does not sing because we like it. It sings because it is alive.”
“But it’s trapped,” I said. “What sort of life is that?”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe it is we who are trapped—by our wanting. Zhuangzi once wrote of a bird, free to soar in the sky, but caught and put in a cage for its song. The cage is safe, but the sky is wide.”
I frowned. “So should we open the cage?”
Father smiled. “You must decide that for yourself.”
That night, I dreamed of a bird flying over mountains and rivers, its wings stretched wide, its voice echoing in the wind.
The next morning, I stood in front of the cage as light poured in through the window. The bird looked at me, tilting its head. My heart was pounding.
I opened the cage.
The little myna stepped to the edge. But it didn’t fly out right away. It turned its head this way and that. Then, in one quiet moment, it stretched its wings and flew—out into the open sky, gone like a whisper.
The room felt quiet without its song, but also… lighter.
Father came in later and looked at the empty cage. He said nothing at first, just poured tea.
Then he said, with a small smile, “Sometimes, letting go is the truest form of keeping.”
I’m older now, but I remember that moment clearly. Not just the stillness of the room, but how I felt inside—like something inside me stretched its own wings.
I didn’t change overnight. But slowly, I stopped holding so tightly to things—not just cages, but worry, control, and fear. I learned that the Tao isn’t about forcing life, but letting it flow naturally.
Even now, when life feels heavy, I look to the sky. Somewhere, a bird is flying free. And I remember that moment when I let go—and felt the world open.
