The stream fell from the cliff like a silver ribbon, twisting and turning as it dropped into the rocks below. I stood at the edge, my shoes muddy from the morning rain, staring down. My heart was as heavy as the gray clouds above. I had tried so hard to win the town's art contest—staying up late, working every day—and still, I lost. Again.
I kicked a small stone into the water, watching it disappear. “Does anything I do even matter?” I muttered.
That’s when I heard the soft footfalls behind me. I turned to see Old Jun. He was the town’s tea seller, known more for his kind eyes than his brewing skills. People said he had once lived in the mountains with monks, but no one knew for sure.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside me and looked at the falling stream. After a while, he spoke in his quiet voice. “The stream does not try to fall. And yet, it falls perfectly.”
I blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”
Jun smiled gently. “Zhuangzi, a wise man from long ago, told a story of a man who jumped into a waterfall and didn’t drown. People thought it was magic. But the man said he simply followed the flow—he didn’t fight it.”
“But if he didn’t try to swim, how did he not crash into the rocks?” I asked.
“He became like water. He let the current carry him,” Jun said. “That is wu wei—acting without forcing. Like the butterfly who flaps its wings to rise, not by pushing harder, but by moving with the air.”
I looked at the stream again. Its rushing water didn’t look weak. It looked full of purpose.
“But I tried really hard, and it still didn’t work out,” I sighed. “I painted every night…”
Jun sat on a mossy rock and poured tea from a small clay pot he always carried. “Trying isn't wrong. But sometimes, trying too hard pushes against the flow. Sometimes, you must trust your path—even if you can’t see where it ends.”
I took the tea cup he handed me. The warmth felt good in my cold hands.
“You are still learning,” he said kindly. “Even a stream doesn’t fall all at once. It moves with the mountain, finds its way, and becomes a river. All without shouting or rushing.”
That day, I didn’t become a better artist. But I became something more.
I started to paint not to win, but because I loved it. I stopped forcing things that didn’t feel right. And over time, I felt lighter, like a leaf floating on the wind.
Now, when I sit beside the cliff and hear the stream falling, I remember Zhuangzi’s man in the waterfall. He didn’t need to fight the water. He became part of it. And I smile, because I know—I, too, am learning to follow the Way.
The stream fell from the cliff like a silver ribbon, twisting and turning as it dropped into the rocks below. I stood at the edge, my shoes muddy from the morning rain, staring down. My heart was as heavy as the gray clouds above. I had tried so hard to win the town's art contest—staying up late, working every day—and still, I lost. Again.
I kicked a small stone into the water, watching it disappear. “Does anything I do even matter?” I muttered.
That’s when I heard the soft footfalls behind me. I turned to see Old Jun. He was the town’s tea seller, known more for his kind eyes than his brewing skills. People said he had once lived in the mountains with monks, but no one knew for sure.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside me and looked at the falling stream. After a while, he spoke in his quiet voice. “The stream does not try to fall. And yet, it falls perfectly.”
I blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”
Jun smiled gently. “Zhuangzi, a wise man from long ago, told a story of a man who jumped into a waterfall and didn’t drown. People thought it was magic. But the man said he simply followed the flow—he didn’t fight it.”
“But if he didn’t try to swim, how did he not crash into the rocks?” I asked.
“He became like water. He let the current carry him,” Jun said. “That is wu wei—acting without forcing. Like the butterfly who flaps its wings to rise, not by pushing harder, but by moving with the air.”
I looked at the stream again. Its rushing water didn’t look weak. It looked full of purpose.
“But I tried really hard, and it still didn’t work out,” I sighed. “I painted every night…”
Jun sat on a mossy rock and poured tea from a small clay pot he always carried. “Trying isn't wrong. But sometimes, trying too hard pushes against the flow. Sometimes, you must trust your path—even if you can’t see where it ends.”
I took the tea cup he handed me. The warmth felt good in my cold hands.
“You are still learning,” he said kindly. “Even a stream doesn’t fall all at once. It moves with the mountain, finds its way, and becomes a river. All without shouting or rushing.”
That day, I didn’t become a better artist. But I became something more.
I started to paint not to win, but because I loved it. I stopped forcing things that didn’t feel right. And over time, I felt lighter, like a leaf floating on the wind.
Now, when I sit beside the cliff and hear the stream falling, I remember Zhuangzi’s man in the waterfall. He didn’t need to fight the water. He became part of it. And I smile, because I know—I, too, am learning to follow the Way.
