The bell rang at sunrise. It was soft, not loud, but it reached every corner of the mountain village where I lived. Some people said it had been ringing every day for a hundred years. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know the bell was always there—rain or shine, cold or hot.
I was ten years old when I first wanted to stop the bell.
It was the middle of winter, and I didn’t want to get out of bed. The blankets felt warm, and my toes didn’t. When the bell rang, I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. “Why does it have to ring every single day?” I muttered.
That day, I asked my grandfather—a quiet old man who drank warm tea and never seemed in a hurry—"Who rings the bell?”
He smiled. “No one does, child,” he said. “The wind rings it.”
I blinked. “It rings itself?”
He nodded. “The bell is hung so gently that when the wind passes through the trees and dances down the path, it brushes against the bell, and it sings.”
“That’s silly,” I said. “It should only ring when someone pulls a rope. Bells are for order. Timing. Schedules!”
Grandfather chuckled and poured some tea into my cup. “The bell rings when it is meant to,” he said. “Not too soon. Not too late.”
Days passed, then weeks, and I kept thinking about the bell. I noticed how it didn’t always ring at the same time. If the sunrise was quiet, the bell might take its time. But on windy mornings, it would ring early—sometimes before I even opened my eyes.
One afternoon, I walked by the old bell alone. It hung from a wooden beam near the edge of the forest. No ropes. No gears. Just a smooth metal shape gently moving with the breeze.
I stared at it and thought, “It doesn’t need to be pulled. It just… flows.”
That night, I sat with my grandfather by the fire. He saw I was thoughtful.
“Is something on your mind?” he asked.
“I think I understand the bell now,” I said. “It doesn’t try hard. It doesn’t force anything. It just waits until the wind comes.”
Grandfather sipped his tea and smiled. “That is the way of the Tao," he said. "The Way is not about forcing things but moving with them. Like the bell. Like the breeze. When we live in balance, everything becomes simpler.”
I looked into the fire. “So when I rush or worry, I’m just pushing too hard?”
“Yes,” he said. “And when you let go, you’ll find that everything begins to ring on its own—as it should.”
From then on, I stopped being angry at the bell. In fact, I started to love it. Its soft sound reminded me not to rush, not to fight the day, but to meet it like the wind meets the bell—with no effort, but full of grace.
Now, whenever I hear it, I smile.
It reminds me that in stillness, in balance, in doing less—we can find much more.
The bell rang at sunrise. It was soft, not loud, but it reached every corner of the mountain village where I lived. Some people said it had been ringing every day for a hundred years. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know the bell was always there—rain or shine, cold or hot.
I was ten years old when I first wanted to stop the bell.
It was the middle of winter, and I didn’t want to get out of bed. The blankets felt warm, and my toes didn’t. When the bell rang, I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. “Why does it have to ring every single day?” I muttered.
That day, I asked my grandfather—a quiet old man who drank warm tea and never seemed in a hurry—"Who rings the bell?”
He smiled. “No one does, child,” he said. “The wind rings it.”
I blinked. “It rings itself?”
He nodded. “The bell is hung so gently that when the wind passes through the trees and dances down the path, it brushes against the bell, and it sings.”
“That’s silly,” I said. “It should only ring when someone pulls a rope. Bells are for order. Timing. Schedules!”
Grandfather chuckled and poured some tea into my cup. “The bell rings when it is meant to,” he said. “Not too soon. Not too late.”
Days passed, then weeks, and I kept thinking about the bell. I noticed how it didn’t always ring at the same time. If the sunrise was quiet, the bell might take its time. But on windy mornings, it would ring early—sometimes before I even opened my eyes.
One afternoon, I walked by the old bell alone. It hung from a wooden beam near the edge of the forest. No ropes. No gears. Just a smooth metal shape gently moving with the breeze.
I stared at it and thought, “It doesn’t need to be pulled. It just… flows.”
That night, I sat with my grandfather by the fire. He saw I was thoughtful.
“Is something on your mind?” he asked.
“I think I understand the bell now,” I said. “It doesn’t try hard. It doesn’t force anything. It just waits until the wind comes.”
Grandfather sipped his tea and smiled. “That is the way of the Tao," he said. "The Way is not about forcing things but moving with them. Like the bell. Like the breeze. When we live in balance, everything becomes simpler.”
I looked into the fire. “So when I rush or worry, I’m just pushing too hard?”
“Yes,” he said. “And when you let go, you’ll find that everything begins to ring on its own—as it should.”
From then on, I stopped being angry at the bell. In fact, I started to love it. Its soft sound reminded me not to rush, not to fight the day, but to meet it like the wind meets the bell—with no effort, but full of grace.
Now, whenever I hear it, I smile.
It reminds me that in stillness, in balance, in doing less—we can find much more.
