The cave was cold and quiet when I first entered. My name is Le, and I was twelve years old when my father sent me to the mountain to reflect. “When the flame is too loud, it burns out quickly,” he said. “You must learn stillness, my son.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I wanted to prove I was strong and wise. So I climbed high into the hills, to a cave old travelers spoke of. Inside, I found nothing—just stone, wind, and shadow. I lit a small candle and sat beside it, thinking I had come to discover something big.
But after some time, I became restless. I picked up stones and moved them into shapes. I tried sitting different ways. I even hummed to break the silence. Still, the candle flickered the same. The wind still whispered through the cracks. Nothing changed.
“I should do more,” I mumbled. “Surely I must do something to understand.”
Hours passed. I stood up, crossed the cave, and moved my candle again and again, thinking it would shine brighter in another spot. But every time I did, the flame bent and shrank. Once, I walked too fast and it nearly went out. I crouched beside it quickly, shielding it with my hands. “Why won’t you glow like I want you to?” I whispered.
Then, I heard something strange. A voice. Gentle and low, like the cave itself was breathing.
“You rush, and the light hides. You still, and it grows.”
Startled, I looked around, but I saw no one. Just the candle, the cave.
I sat still. Very still.
The candle flickered but didn’t fade. I listened to the silence—and that’s when I started to see things differently. The cave wasn’t just stone. It was soft in its own quiet way. I no longer felt alone, just… calm.
That night, under the stars at the cave’s mouth, I thought of something my father once read to me from Zhuangzi, a Taoist teacher from long ago. Zhuangzi taught that flowing with the way of things—like water moving around rocks—was better than forcing our will on the world. He called it Wu Wei, which means “effortless action.”
I finally understood.
The more I tried to make the candle brighter, the dimmer it became because I fought what was. But when I let it be, it lit the whole cave with a quiet glow.
In the morning, I walked down from the mountain, the candle in my hand. The wind came. I didn’t block it. I didn’t rush. Still, the flame stayed lit.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel unsure, I remember that small light in the cave. I remind myself that sometimes, the best way to live is to stop trying so hard and let things be. Balance doesn’t come from fighting with the world—it comes from moving gently with it.
And that is how the candle taught me peace. One still moment at a time.
The cave was cold and quiet when I first entered. My name is Le, and I was twelve years old when my father sent me to the mountain to reflect. “When the flame is too loud, it burns out quickly,” he said. “You must learn stillness, my son.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I wanted to prove I was strong and wise. So I climbed high into the hills, to a cave old travelers spoke of. Inside, I found nothing—just stone, wind, and shadow. I lit a small candle and sat beside it, thinking I had come to discover something big.
But after some time, I became restless. I picked up stones and moved them into shapes. I tried sitting different ways. I even hummed to break the silence. Still, the candle flickered the same. The wind still whispered through the cracks. Nothing changed.
“I should do more,” I mumbled. “Surely I must do something to understand.”
Hours passed. I stood up, crossed the cave, and moved my candle again and again, thinking it would shine brighter in another spot. But every time I did, the flame bent and shrank. Once, I walked too fast and it nearly went out. I crouched beside it quickly, shielding it with my hands. “Why won’t you glow like I want you to?” I whispered.
Then, I heard something strange. A voice. Gentle and low, like the cave itself was breathing.
“You rush, and the light hides. You still, and it grows.”
Startled, I looked around, but I saw no one. Just the candle, the cave.
I sat still. Very still.
The candle flickered but didn’t fade. I listened to the silence—and that’s when I started to see things differently. The cave wasn’t just stone. It was soft in its own quiet way. I no longer felt alone, just… calm.
That night, under the stars at the cave’s mouth, I thought of something my father once read to me from Zhuangzi, a Taoist teacher from long ago. Zhuangzi taught that flowing with the way of things—like water moving around rocks—was better than forcing our will on the world. He called it Wu Wei, which means “effortless action.”
I finally understood.
The more I tried to make the candle brighter, the dimmer it became because I fought what was. But when I let it be, it lit the whole cave with a quiet glow.
In the morning, I walked down from the mountain, the candle in my hand. The wind came. I didn’t block it. I didn’t rush. Still, the flame stayed lit.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel unsure, I remember that small light in the cave. I remind myself that sometimes, the best way to live is to stop trying so hard and let things be. Balance doesn’t come from fighting with the world—it comes from moving gently with it.
And that is how the candle taught me peace. One still moment at a time.
