The courtyard was silent but for the soft chirping of crickets. I was sitting cross-legged beside my grandfather's hut, staring at the wooden gate that led to his garden. It had no lock, and it never had one. “A gate that never locks is a gate that’s never closed,” I had once said to him when I was younger. “Aren’t you worried someone might come in?”
Grandfather had only smiled and tapped his cane on the ground. “Let them,” he said. “What comes in may not want to stay. What stays might be what we need.”
Back then, I didn’t understand. But now, with my legs aching from sitting too long and my head full of things I couldn’t fix, those words came back to me.
I was twelve, and I felt like I had to figure everything out—school, friends, the future. I tried hard every day to do better, be faster, be smarter. But all that trying just made me sad and tired. That evening, I came to Grandfather’s to help him water the plants, but really, I had come to learn how not to feel so stuck.
As I stared at the gate, Grandfather appeared beside me. He was quiet for a while, then spoke. “Did I ever tell you the story of Zhuangzi’s butterfly?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He leaned on his cane and began. “Zhuang Zhou, a wise man who lived long ago, once dreamed he was a butterfly. He fluttered through gardens and fields, free and full of joy. Then, he woke up—and he was Zhuang Zhou again. But he wondered—was he a man who dreamed he was a butterfly… or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
Grandfather laughed softly. “Maybe it means that life doesn’t have to feel so solid all the time. Maybe we are more than the troubles we think we have.”
I didn’t answer. My mind was full again. But this time, not of problems.
We sat in silence. I watched a moth tap against the gate, then float away like it had changed its mind.
After a long while, Grandfather said, “You know, when you stop trying to hold the river, it carries you.”
I turned to him. “Like not trying so hard?”
He nodded. “Like opening the gate. You don’t need to lock everything down. Let the world in. Let it out. Things come and go. The trick is not to chase or block them. Just be still.”
That night, I didn’t find all the answers. But something inside me had shifted. I thought about the butterfly and the gate with no lock. Maybe life wasn’t something to solve. Maybe it was something to feel, like the breeze that passed through the open door.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when the weight in my chest returns, I picture that gate. And instead of fighting it, I let the wind pass through. Just like Grandfather taught me.
And slowly, I feel lighter inside.
The courtyard was silent but for the soft chirping of crickets. I was sitting cross-legged beside my grandfather's hut, staring at the wooden gate that led to his garden. It had no lock, and it never had one. “A gate that never locks is a gate that’s never closed,” I had once said to him when I was younger. “Aren’t you worried someone might come in?”
Grandfather had only smiled and tapped his cane on the ground. “Let them,” he said. “What comes in may not want to stay. What stays might be what we need.”
Back then, I didn’t understand. But now, with my legs aching from sitting too long and my head full of things I couldn’t fix, those words came back to me.
I was twelve, and I felt like I had to figure everything out—school, friends, the future. I tried hard every day to do better, be faster, be smarter. But all that trying just made me sad and tired. That evening, I came to Grandfather’s to help him water the plants, but really, I had come to learn how not to feel so stuck.
As I stared at the gate, Grandfather appeared beside me. He was quiet for a while, then spoke. “Did I ever tell you the story of Zhuangzi’s butterfly?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He leaned on his cane and began. “Zhuang Zhou, a wise man who lived long ago, once dreamed he was a butterfly. He fluttered through gardens and fields, free and full of joy. Then, he woke up—and he was Zhuang Zhou again. But he wondered—was he a man who dreamed he was a butterfly… or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
Grandfather laughed softly. “Maybe it means that life doesn’t have to feel so solid all the time. Maybe we are more than the troubles we think we have.”
I didn’t answer. My mind was full again. But this time, not of problems.
We sat in silence. I watched a moth tap against the gate, then float away like it had changed its mind.
After a long while, Grandfather said, “You know, when you stop trying to hold the river, it carries you.”
I turned to him. “Like not trying so hard?”
He nodded. “Like opening the gate. You don’t need to lock everything down. Let the world in. Let it out. Things come and go. The trick is not to chase or block them. Just be still.”
That night, I didn’t find all the answers. But something inside me had shifted. I thought about the butterfly and the gate with no lock. Maybe life wasn’t something to solve. Maybe it was something to feel, like the breeze that passed through the open door.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when the weight in my chest returns, I picture that gate. And instead of fighting it, I let the wind pass through. Just like Grandfather taught me.
And slowly, I feel lighter inside.
