It was early morning when the fog came laughing through the hills. I had never heard fog laugh before, but that’s exactly how it sounded—soft and whispery, like giggling children hiding behind trees. I was just a traveler back then, walking from village to village with no plans and no home. My name is Rui, and at the time, I thought I needed to find something big—something important—to become someone.
The path I followed twisted through mossy rocks and tall bamboo. As I walked, the fog grew thicker, wrapping around me like a soft blanket. I could barely see my hands. I tried to walk faster to get out of it, but the more I hurried, the more lost I became. My footsteps sounded loud on the ground, and my breath came quick and nervous.
I stopped.
Everything around me was still—except the fog. It kept on laughing. It wasn’t mean. It was quiet and kind, like it knew something I didn’t.
Then I heard a voice behind me. “Why do you run from what you cannot catch?” I turned quickly, and there, sitting on a flat rock, was an old man in simple robes. His beard was long, and his face wrinkled like a folded map.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
He smiled. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”
I frowned. “I’m lost. I was trying to get to the next village, but now I can’t see anything.”
“And what makes you think you are not already where you need to be?” he asked.
That confused me even more. “Because I’m not doing anything important! I don’t have a grand title or purpose.”
The old man picked up a small leaf and let it float from his fingers. “See that leaf? It doesn’t try to be important. It goes where the wind takes it. It lives simply. Yet it is part of everything.”
I was quiet. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had felt so small lately—like I was just wandering without meaning.
He stood up slowly. “Zhuangzi once told a story of a man who dreamed he was a butterfly. But when he woke, he didn’t know if he was a man dreaming of being a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming of being a man. We hold tightly to self, to names and plans. But the Tao flows like fog—free, empty, peaceful. It cannot be chased. It must be joined.”
I didn’t know exactly what that meant. Not yet. But I sat down next to him, and we listened to the fog.
After a while, he said, “Walk slowly. You’ll find your way—not by pushing, but by letting go.”
So I did.
I’m still walking. Sometimes, I don’t know where the path goes. But when I feel lost, I remember the laughing fog and that gentle man who told me to let go. I try to move like the leaf, letting the wind carry me.
I didn’t change in one day. But now, I don’t fight the fog. I smile, and sometimes, just sometimes, I laugh with it.
It was early morning when the fog came laughing through the hills. I had never heard fog laugh before, but that’s exactly how it sounded—soft and whispery, like giggling children hiding behind trees. I was just a traveler back then, walking from village to village with no plans and no home. My name is Rui, and at the time, I thought I needed to find something big—something important—to become someone.
The path I followed twisted through mossy rocks and tall bamboo. As I walked, the fog grew thicker, wrapping around me like a soft blanket. I could barely see my hands. I tried to walk faster to get out of it, but the more I hurried, the more lost I became. My footsteps sounded loud on the ground, and my breath came quick and nervous.
I stopped.
Everything around me was still—except the fog. It kept on laughing. It wasn’t mean. It was quiet and kind, like it knew something I didn’t.
Then I heard a voice behind me. “Why do you run from what you cannot catch?” I turned quickly, and there, sitting on a flat rock, was an old man in simple robes. His beard was long, and his face wrinkled like a folded map.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
He smiled. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”
I frowned. “I’m lost. I was trying to get to the next village, but now I can’t see anything.”
“And what makes you think you are not already where you need to be?” he asked.
That confused me even more. “Because I’m not doing anything important! I don’t have a grand title or purpose.”
The old man picked up a small leaf and let it float from his fingers. “See that leaf? It doesn’t try to be important. It goes where the wind takes it. It lives simply. Yet it is part of everything.”
I was quiet. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had felt so small lately—like I was just wandering without meaning.
He stood up slowly. “Zhuangzi once told a story of a man who dreamed he was a butterfly. But when he woke, he didn’t know if he was a man dreaming of being a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming of being a man. We hold tightly to self, to names and plans. But the Tao flows like fog—free, empty, peaceful. It cannot be chased. It must be joined.”
I didn’t know exactly what that meant. Not yet. But I sat down next to him, and we listened to the fog.
After a while, he said, “Walk slowly. You’ll find your way—not by pushing, but by letting go.”
So I did.
I’m still walking. Sometimes, I don’t know where the path goes. But when I feel lost, I remember the laughing fog and that gentle man who told me to let go. I try to move like the leaf, letting the wind carry me.
I didn’t change in one day. But now, I don’t fight the fog. I smile, and sometimes, just sometimes, I laugh with it.
