The river moved quietly that morning, winding between the tall grass and round stones like a silver ribbon. I sat nearby, tossing a feather into the water and watching it float. It danced gently on the surface, twirling one moment, gliding the next. There was something peaceful in the way it moved without trying.
My name is Liang. I was ten summers old, and back then, I thought effort was everything. I tried hard in all things—running, fishing, speaking wisely. I thought if I just worked hard enough, I would become great, like the heroes in the village stories. But that morning, I felt tired. No great hero felt like me.
I came to the river to meet my grandfather. Everyone called him Old Gu. He was the quietest man I knew and said little, yet somehow people listened when he did speak. He wore simple robes and carried nothing but a reed walking stick. His favorite place was the river’s bend, where wild ducks played and there was always enough shade.
He arrived not long after I threw the feather, stepping quietly onto the shore beside me.
“Tired already, Liang?” he asked with a soft smile.
“I’ve been trying really hard to be better,” I told him. “But I’m just not getting there. I want to be wise like you, but it feels like the more I try, the harder life becomes.”
He sat down beside me and looked at the feather floating downstream.
“See that?” he said, pointing. “The feather doesn’t try to float, yet it floats. It doesn’t push the water, and it never fights the wind. It moves only by letting go.”
I didn’t know what to say. I watched the feather swirl gently over a ripple.
“When I was your age,” Grandfather continued, “I tried to paddle upstream. Always upstream. But one day, I saw an empty boat drifting down the river. It had no oars, no hands guiding it. Still, it moved just fine. That’s when I learned the way of wu wei—action without forcing.”
“But shouldn’t we try?” I asked, feeling confused.
“Trying isn’t bad,” he replied. “But there’s a difference between acting and forcing. Sometimes, the best way is to let things be—quiet and natural, like water finding its path.”
We sat silently for a while, listening to birds and the soft splash of the river.
I didn’t understand it all yet, but I felt something settle deep inside me. It was like a knot, loosening without anyone pulling the strings.
From that day on, I still ran, fished, and tried to be wise—but I also watched. I slowed down. I noticed how the trees didn’t rush to grow, yet they became tall. How the birds flew swiftly but never flapped wildly.
Now, when I feel the weight of trying too hard, I return to the river. I think of the feather and the empty boat. I remember that in stillness, life moves all by itself.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I pause. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting the flow—just like the feather on the water.
The river moved quietly that morning, winding between the tall grass and round stones like a silver ribbon. I sat nearby, tossing a feather into the water and watching it float. It danced gently on the surface, twirling one moment, gliding the next. There was something peaceful in the way it moved without trying.
My name is Liang. I was ten summers old, and back then, I thought effort was everything. I tried hard in all things—running, fishing, speaking wisely. I thought if I just worked hard enough, I would become great, like the heroes in the village stories. But that morning, I felt tired. No great hero felt like me.
I came to the river to meet my grandfather. Everyone called him Old Gu. He was the quietest man I knew and said little, yet somehow people listened when he did speak. He wore simple robes and carried nothing but a reed walking stick. His favorite place was the river’s bend, where wild ducks played and there was always enough shade.
He arrived not long after I threw the feather, stepping quietly onto the shore beside me.
“Tired already, Liang?” he asked with a soft smile.
“I’ve been trying really hard to be better,” I told him. “But I’m just not getting there. I want to be wise like you, but it feels like the more I try, the harder life becomes.”
He sat down beside me and looked at the feather floating downstream.
“See that?” he said, pointing. “The feather doesn’t try to float, yet it floats. It doesn’t push the water, and it never fights the wind. It moves only by letting go.”
I didn’t know what to say. I watched the feather swirl gently over a ripple.
“When I was your age,” Grandfather continued, “I tried to paddle upstream. Always upstream. But one day, I saw an empty boat drifting down the river. It had no oars, no hands guiding it. Still, it moved just fine. That’s when I learned the way of wu wei—action without forcing.”
“But shouldn’t we try?” I asked, feeling confused.
“Trying isn’t bad,” he replied. “But there’s a difference between acting and forcing. Sometimes, the best way is to let things be—quiet and natural, like water finding its path.”
We sat silently for a while, listening to birds and the soft splash of the river.
I didn’t understand it all yet, but I felt something settle deep inside me. It was like a knot, loosening without anyone pulling the strings.
From that day on, I still ran, fished, and tried to be wise—but I also watched. I slowed down. I noticed how the trees didn’t rush to grow, yet they became tall. How the birds flew swiftly but never flapped wildly.
Now, when I feel the weight of trying too hard, I return to the river. I think of the feather and the empty boat. I remember that in stillness, life moves all by itself.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I pause. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting the flow—just like the feather on the water.
