By mid-autumn, the wheat stalks were tall and golden, bending in the breeze like dancers. My name is Li Jun, and I lived in a small village at the edge of the valley. I was only twelve that season, and I had one goal—harvest more grain than anyone else. I thought if I worked the hardest, people would praise me. Then maybe someone would finally notice me.
Every morning, I woke up before the sun and ran to the fields. I pulled weeds faster, plucked wheat quicker, and carried the bundles with sore arms and a proud heart. But no matter how much I gathered, I felt tired and heavy inside. My friend Mei ran across the field laughing, her basket bouncing loosely beside her.
“You’re always racing,” she said with a grin. “Don’t you want to walk with me?”
“I can’t!” I snapped. “If I stop, someone else will outwork me.”
She only smiled and said, “Then maybe you’re missing the real harvest.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Mei’s words echoed in my mind. What does she mean—the real harvest? I had the wheat. I had blisters from working every day. Still, I didn’t feel full inside. I felt... hollow.
The next morning, I wandered into the hills instead of the fields, not knowing why. The wind was gentle; the leaves rustled like whispers. A little further up I saw an old man sitting beneath a crooked pine, sipping tea like he had all the time in the world. I'd seen him before around the village. People called him Elder Shao, and they said he had traveled far and learned from ancient teachers like Liezi.
He looked up and noticed me staring.
“Too young to be lost,” he said.
“I’m not lost,” I replied. “I just don’t feel like harvesting today.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “The harvest that echoes louder than grain. Tell me, have you ever chased a butterfly?”
I frowned. “Yes, but they just fly away.”
He pointed to a white butterfly dancing above a flower nearby. “You chase it, and it slips away. But if you sit still, it may land on your shoulder.”
I didn’t quite understand. So, I asked, “What does that have to do with harvesting wheat?”
He laughed lightly. “Nothing. And everything. When we try so hard to catch life, we miss the point. The Tao is like the wind and the butterfly—flowing, soft, and without force. When we let go, we find balance.”
I sat beside him, not saying a word. We watched the butterfly land on a petal, then float gently upward. And for the first time in weeks, I felt... peaceful.
When I returned home, I didn’t rush. The fields were still golden. The sky was still wide. But inside, something had changed.
From then on, I harvested when it felt right. I laughed with Mei. I walked slower. And strangely, I found more joy, more meaning—even if my baskets weren’t always the fullest.
The echoing grain, I realized, wasn’t in the field. It was in my heart.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to force things, I remember Elder Shao’s butterfly. I take a breath, and I let it be.
By mid-autumn, the wheat stalks were tall and golden, bending in the breeze like dancers. My name is Li Jun, and I lived in a small village at the edge of the valley. I was only twelve that season, and I had one goal—harvest more grain than anyone else. I thought if I worked the hardest, people would praise me. Then maybe someone would finally notice me.
Every morning, I woke up before the sun and ran to the fields. I pulled weeds faster, plucked wheat quicker, and carried the bundles with sore arms and a proud heart. But no matter how much I gathered, I felt tired and heavy inside. My friend Mei ran across the field laughing, her basket bouncing loosely beside her.
“You’re always racing,” she said with a grin. “Don’t you want to walk with me?”
“I can’t!” I snapped. “If I stop, someone else will outwork me.”
She only smiled and said, “Then maybe you’re missing the real harvest.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Mei’s words echoed in my mind. What does she mean—the real harvest? I had the wheat. I had blisters from working every day. Still, I didn’t feel full inside. I felt... hollow.
The next morning, I wandered into the hills instead of the fields, not knowing why. The wind was gentle; the leaves rustled like whispers. A little further up I saw an old man sitting beneath a crooked pine, sipping tea like he had all the time in the world. I'd seen him before around the village. People called him Elder Shao, and they said he had traveled far and learned from ancient teachers like Liezi.
He looked up and noticed me staring.
“Too young to be lost,” he said.
“I’m not lost,” I replied. “I just don’t feel like harvesting today.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “The harvest that echoes louder than grain. Tell me, have you ever chased a butterfly?”
I frowned. “Yes, but they just fly away.”
He pointed to a white butterfly dancing above a flower nearby. “You chase it, and it slips away. But if you sit still, it may land on your shoulder.”
I didn’t quite understand. So, I asked, “What does that have to do with harvesting wheat?”
He laughed lightly. “Nothing. And everything. When we try so hard to catch life, we miss the point. The Tao is like the wind and the butterfly—flowing, soft, and without force. When we let go, we find balance.”
I sat beside him, not saying a word. We watched the butterfly land on a petal, then float gently upward. And for the first time in weeks, I felt... peaceful.
When I returned home, I didn’t rush. The fields were still golden. The sky was still wide. But inside, something had changed.
From then on, I harvested when it felt right. I laughed with Mei. I walked slower. And strangely, I found more joy, more meaning—even if my baskets weren’t always the fullest.
The echoing grain, I realized, wasn’t in the field. It was in my heart.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to force things, I remember Elder Shao’s butterfly. I take a breath, and I let it be.
