The morning wind was sharp and cool as I stepped outside, pulling my coat around my shoulders. I looked at the gate to my small farm and sighed. It had fallen off its hinges during the storm last night. Now it lay crooked on the dirt path, one side dipping sadly into the mud.
I could hear the goats already beginning to wander. This wasn’t how I wanted to start the day. With a grunt, I picked up the gate and tried to force it back into its frame, but it didn’t budge. I pushed harder. Still nothing.
Just then, Old Shen came walking by. He lived at the far end of the village and was known for smiling at things most people got upset about. His cart creaked behind him, pulled by a slow, sleepy-looking ox.
“Trouble with the gate?” he asked.
I looked up, sweating and red-faced. “Yes, and it won’t go back in. I don’t have time for this today.”
Shen nodded and stepped closer. “Maybe the gate doesn’t feel like standing today,” he said with a chuckle.
I frowned. “What kind of answer is that? It’s a gate, not a person!”
He smiled again. “Zhuangzi, the great Taoist thinker, once told a story of a man who was upset when a boat bumped into his own on the river. But when he saw no one was in the boat, all his anger melted away.”
I paused and tilted my head. “So?”
“So sometimes, it’s not the thing that bothers us—it’s our own pushing. Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I sat on a rock nearby and watched the sun peek over the hills. The birds didn’t seem to mind that my gate was broken. The grass kept growing, and the wind still blew.
“Try this,” Shen said gently. “Stop forcing it. Just notice the hinges. Let the way show itself.”
I stood and slowly walked back to the fallen gate. I brushed off the mud, looked at the hinges, and smiled. I had been lifting it from the wrong side the whole time. Once I tried again, without rushing, the gate slid back in quietly, like a puzzle piece falling into place.
Shen winked, clicked his tongue, and his ox walked on. I watched him go, feeling a strange lightness inside me.
That day, I didn’t rush through my chores. I moved slower. I paid attention. I let things be what they were. The goats didn’t wander far. The breeze was softer than I remembered.
Since then, I’ve started each morning by sitting for a few moments before doing anything. I’ve learned that not everything needs fixing right away. Sometimes, like the Tao teaches, things flow better when we don’t force them.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things don't go my way, I remember the broken gate. I let go of trying too hard—and trust that the world has its own way of working.
The morning wind was sharp and cool as I stepped outside, pulling my coat around my shoulders. I looked at the gate to my small farm and sighed. It had fallen off its hinges during the storm last night. Now it lay crooked on the dirt path, one side dipping sadly into the mud.
I could hear the goats already beginning to wander. This wasn’t how I wanted to start the day. With a grunt, I picked up the gate and tried to force it back into its frame, but it didn’t budge. I pushed harder. Still nothing.
Just then, Old Shen came walking by. He lived at the far end of the village and was known for smiling at things most people got upset about. His cart creaked behind him, pulled by a slow, sleepy-looking ox.
“Trouble with the gate?” he asked.
I looked up, sweating and red-faced. “Yes, and it won’t go back in. I don’t have time for this today.”
Shen nodded and stepped closer. “Maybe the gate doesn’t feel like standing today,” he said with a chuckle.
I frowned. “What kind of answer is that? It’s a gate, not a person!”
He smiled again. “Zhuangzi, the great Taoist thinker, once told a story of a man who was upset when a boat bumped into his own on the river. But when he saw no one was in the boat, all his anger melted away.”
I paused and tilted my head. “So?”
“So sometimes, it’s not the thing that bothers us—it’s our own pushing. Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I sat on a rock nearby and watched the sun peek over the hills. The birds didn’t seem to mind that my gate was broken. The grass kept growing, and the wind still blew.
“Try this,” Shen said gently. “Stop forcing it. Just notice the hinges. Let the way show itself.”
I stood and slowly walked back to the fallen gate. I brushed off the mud, looked at the hinges, and smiled. I had been lifting it from the wrong side the whole time. Once I tried again, without rushing, the gate slid back in quietly, like a puzzle piece falling into place.
Shen winked, clicked his tongue, and his ox walked on. I watched him go, feeling a strange lightness inside me.
That day, I didn’t rush through my chores. I moved slower. I paid attention. I let things be what they were. The goats didn’t wander far. The breeze was softer than I remembered.
Since then, I’ve started each morning by sitting for a few moments before doing anything. I’ve learned that not everything needs fixing right away. Sometimes, like the Tao teaches, things flow better when we don’t force them.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things don't go my way, I remember the broken gate. I let go of trying too hard—and trust that the world has its own way of working.
