The air was hot that day, and I was upset. My name is Bao, and I was ten years old when I got in trouble for stepping in the garden without being asked. My father scolded me—again—and told me I needed to learn patience. But I didn't want to wait anymore. I wanted to be big, strong, and important now.
So I ran off to the woods behind our village, where only the quiet trees would listen. I kicked a big rock, then sat in the grass, arms crossed, face red.
That’s when I saw him—an old man lying on the ground. At first, I thought he was sleeping. He was covered in mud and leaves like a pile of dirt, but he was smiling. He opened one eye and said, "Why so heavy for someone so small?"
I blinked. “I’m not heavy,” I grumbled. “You are.”
He chuckled softly. “Ah, but I am part of the Great Clod.”
“What’s a clod?” I asked, frowning.
The old man slowly sat up, brushing crumbs of earth from his shoulder. “A clod,” he said, “is a lump of earth. The Great Clod is the earth itself—this ground we walk on, the soil under your feet, the hills, the lakes, and even the worms.”
“That’s just dirt,” I said. “Dirt doesn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “And in doing nothing, it does everything.”
I stared at him like he had swallowed a cricket.
He stretched out on the earth again and sighed, like clouds moving across the sky. “The Great Clod doesn’t try to grow flowers, but still they bloom. It doesn’t try to carry us, but still we walk upon it. It doesn’t act, and yet all action is born from it. This is the Way,” he said. “Wu Wei. To not force, but to flow.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat beside him, looking at the trees. A bird landed quietly nearby, then flew away again. The wind moved through the leaves like a song without words.
I waited. He didn’t speak. He just rested, like a turtle in the sun.
Finally, I whispered, “So… it’s okay to be still?”
“It is more than okay,” he smiled. “It is nature.”
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like running or shouting. I just sat there… and let the warmth of the day hold me.
That night, I went home quietly and didn’t complain when Father asked me to wait before dinner.
I didn’t change all at once. Some days I still want things to hurry. But now, when I feel that pull in my chest, I think of the old man lying in the dirt, smiling, a part of the Great Clod. I lie down too, close my eyes, and breathe.
And slowly, I remember—I don’t have to push the river. I can flow with it.
The air was hot that day, and I was upset. My name is Bao, and I was ten years old when I got in trouble for stepping in the garden without being asked. My father scolded me—again—and told me I needed to learn patience. But I didn't want to wait anymore. I wanted to be big, strong, and important now.
So I ran off to the woods behind our village, where only the quiet trees would listen. I kicked a big rock, then sat in the grass, arms crossed, face red.
That’s when I saw him—an old man lying on the ground. At first, I thought he was sleeping. He was covered in mud and leaves like a pile of dirt, but he was smiling. He opened one eye and said, "Why so heavy for someone so small?"
I blinked. “I’m not heavy,” I grumbled. “You are.”
He chuckled softly. “Ah, but I am part of the Great Clod.”
“What’s a clod?” I asked, frowning.
The old man slowly sat up, brushing crumbs of earth from his shoulder. “A clod,” he said, “is a lump of earth. The Great Clod is the earth itself—this ground we walk on, the soil under your feet, the hills, the lakes, and even the worms.”
“That’s just dirt,” I said. “Dirt doesn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “And in doing nothing, it does everything.”
I stared at him like he had swallowed a cricket.
He stretched out on the earth again and sighed, like clouds moving across the sky. “The Great Clod doesn’t try to grow flowers, but still they bloom. It doesn’t try to carry us, but still we walk upon it. It doesn’t act, and yet all action is born from it. This is the Way,” he said. “Wu Wei. To not force, but to flow.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat beside him, looking at the trees. A bird landed quietly nearby, then flew away again. The wind moved through the leaves like a song without words.
I waited. He didn’t speak. He just rested, like a turtle in the sun.
Finally, I whispered, “So… it’s okay to be still?”
“It is more than okay,” he smiled. “It is nature.”
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like running or shouting. I just sat there… and let the warmth of the day hold me.
That night, I went home quietly and didn’t complain when Father asked me to wait before dinner.
I didn’t change all at once. Some days I still want things to hurry. But now, when I feel that pull in my chest, I think of the old man lying in the dirt, smiling, a part of the Great Clod. I lie down too, close my eyes, and breathe.
And slowly, I remember—I don’t have to push the river. I can flow with it.
