The wind was playful that day, dancing through the tall grass and skipping across the shallow river. I was a younger man then, proud and busy, always chasing something I thought I needed. People called me Wei, the Potter’s Son, but I longed to be known for bigger things. I told myself I was meant for greatness—not for shaping clay in my father’s quiet shop.
One afternoon, I heard the village whisper of a wise man who lived in the hills. They called him Master Zhuang. “He speaks in riddles,” the merchants laughed. “Talks to birds and dreams he’s a butterfly!”
I scoffed, but something in me stirred. What was this nonsense about believing you’re a butterfly? Still, I climbed the hill to find him. Perhaps he had the secret to success, or some technique to help me stand out.
I found the old man sitting by a stream, humming as he watched the water flow. He looked up, smiling like he had been waiting for me.
“I’ve come to learn your secrets,” I announced. “I want to become someone important.”
He chuckled, brushing a leaf off his robe. “And how do you plan to chase what cannot be caught?” he asked.
“I work hard,” I answered. “Struggle, plan, fight—I do not stop until I reach my goal.”
He leaned forward. “Have you ever tried catching your own shadow?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You run hard after sunlight, and still,” he said gently, “your shadow stays just out of reach. But when you stop and sit with the sun behind you, the shadow comes to you.”
I didn’t understand. I thought he’d give me rules or rituals—but he only offered stories and riddles.
As days passed, I visited more often. He never taught the way I imagined. Sometimes he’d toss a stick into the stream and say, “Watch.” The stick floated gently, moving with the water. I asked, “Why not swim faster?”
He whispered, “It goes where the stream goes. It does not force the way, yet arrives all the same.”
It frustrated me at first. I wanted to “do” more, to “become” something. But slowly, I began to see. The flowers didn’t fight to bloom. The birds didn’t worry about what song to sing. And neither did Master Zhuang. He just lived.
One morning, I sat next to him as butterflies flitted above the water. He told me once he dreamed he was a butterfly—but when he woke, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamed it, or if the butterfly was now dreaming it was him.
I smiled for the first time, truly understanding. “So... the truth doesn’t always need to be caught. Sometimes it needs to be felt.”
He nodded. “The Tao is like that. It is The Way. We don’t chase it. We flow with it.”
Now, I wake up each day in my father’s shop. I mold clay with calmer hands. When people ask what changed, I say, “I stopped chasing shadows. I found my place in the sunlight.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush, to prove, to grab at things—I remember the butterfly. And I let the Tao carry me like the stream carries the stick, softly, naturally, home.
The wind was playful that day, dancing through the tall grass and skipping across the shallow river. I was a younger man then, proud and busy, always chasing something I thought I needed. People called me Wei, the Potter’s Son, but I longed to be known for bigger things. I told myself I was meant for greatness—not for shaping clay in my father’s quiet shop.
One afternoon, I heard the village whisper of a wise man who lived in the hills. They called him Master Zhuang. “He speaks in riddles,” the merchants laughed. “Talks to birds and dreams he’s a butterfly!”
I scoffed, but something in me stirred. What was this nonsense about believing you’re a butterfly? Still, I climbed the hill to find him. Perhaps he had the secret to success, or some technique to help me stand out.
I found the old man sitting by a stream, humming as he watched the water flow. He looked up, smiling like he had been waiting for me.
“I’ve come to learn your secrets,” I announced. “I want to become someone important.”
He chuckled, brushing a leaf off his robe. “And how do you plan to chase what cannot be caught?” he asked.
“I work hard,” I answered. “Struggle, plan, fight—I do not stop until I reach my goal.”
He leaned forward. “Have you ever tried catching your own shadow?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You run hard after sunlight, and still,” he said gently, “your shadow stays just out of reach. But when you stop and sit with the sun behind you, the shadow comes to you.”
I didn’t understand. I thought he’d give me rules or rituals—but he only offered stories and riddles.
As days passed, I visited more often. He never taught the way I imagined. Sometimes he’d toss a stick into the stream and say, “Watch.” The stick floated gently, moving with the water. I asked, “Why not swim faster?”
He whispered, “It goes where the stream goes. It does not force the way, yet arrives all the same.”
It frustrated me at first. I wanted to “do” more, to “become” something. But slowly, I began to see. The flowers didn’t fight to bloom. The birds didn’t worry about what song to sing. And neither did Master Zhuang. He just lived.
One morning, I sat next to him as butterflies flitted above the water. He told me once he dreamed he was a butterfly—but when he woke, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamed it, or if the butterfly was now dreaming it was him.
I smiled for the first time, truly understanding. “So... the truth doesn’t always need to be caught. Sometimes it needs to be felt.”
He nodded. “The Tao is like that. It is The Way. We don’t chase it. We flow with it.”
Now, I wake up each day in my father’s shop. I mold clay with calmer hands. When people ask what changed, I say, “I stopped chasing shadows. I found my place in the sunlight.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush, to prove, to grab at things—I remember the butterfly. And I let the Tao carry me like the stream carries the stick, softly, naturally, home.
