I had always rushed in the kitchen. Stir faster, slice quicker, add spice—MORE spice. I thought good cooking came from effort. The more I worked, the better the food would taste. That’s what I believed—until I met Master Gu.
It happened one spring morning in my small village. The town was getting ready for the Spring Festival, and I was chosen to help cook the main meal. It was a great honor, but I was nervous. I wanted everything to be perfect.
“Let’s do ten dishes!” I said. “Maybe twelve! Fried fish, sweet dumplings, spicy noodles! I’ll start chopping early so it’s all ready!”
That’s when Master Gu, our quiet village cook, stepped forward. He was an old man with kind eyes and a crooked hat. He chuckled softly and patted my shoulder.
“Come,” he said, walking slowly toward the cooking hut. “I will show you the way.”
I followed. Inside, the air smelled of ginger, soy, and something I couldn’t quite name—peacefulness, maybe.
“Start with the rice,” he instructed, handing me a small bowl.
“But there’s so much more to do!” I protested, holding a list of 15 recipes.
Master Gu shook his head. “We begin where the rice begins, and we wait as the rice waits.”
I frowned but did as he said while he started chopping vegetables very, very slowly.
“Why not slice faster?” I asked. “We need to finish on time, remember?”
He smiled. “Time finishes itself.”
That didn’t make much sense then. I watched as he moved with ease, like he was dancing with the vegetables. His knife glided, never rushed, never forced. I tried to copy him, but my cuts were uneven, my hands stiff.
“You’re trying too hard,” he said. “You are fighting the food.”
“Fighting the food?” I blinked, confused.
He pointed to the pot of bubbling soup. “Look. The fire under it is not yelling. The water is not rushing out. But still, it cooks.”
That evening, we served only five dishes. I was worried. Was it enough? Would people be upset?
But when the first spoonful of Master Gu’s soup touched their lips, smiles began to bloom like spring flowers. Every dish was perfect. Simple, calm, full of life.
After everyone had eaten, I sat with Master Gu, still puzzled.
“How?” I asked. “How did you cook so well… doing so little?”
He sipped his tea and replied, “The food cooked itself. I merely stepped aside.”
That moment stayed with me. Cooking didn’t have to be rushed or complicated. Life didn’t have to be, either.
Now, I try not to force the rice to boil faster or the vegetables to cook sooner. I let things happen as they need to. Like Master Gu said, “The shadow doesn’t chase the sun—it follows naturally.”
That day, I began to understand wu wei—effortless action. Cooking wasn’t about control. It was about trust.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel myself rushing or stressing, I stop, take a breath, and remember the low shadow… always moving, never pushing, always in harmony with the sun.
I had always rushed in the kitchen. Stir faster, slice quicker, add spice—MORE spice. I thought good cooking came from effort. The more I worked, the better the food would taste. That’s what I believed—until I met Master Gu.
It happened one spring morning in my small village. The town was getting ready for the Spring Festival, and I was chosen to help cook the main meal. It was a great honor, but I was nervous. I wanted everything to be perfect.
“Let’s do ten dishes!” I said. “Maybe twelve! Fried fish, sweet dumplings, spicy noodles! I’ll start chopping early so it’s all ready!”
That’s when Master Gu, our quiet village cook, stepped forward. He was an old man with kind eyes and a crooked hat. He chuckled softly and patted my shoulder.
“Come,” he said, walking slowly toward the cooking hut. “I will show you the way.”
I followed. Inside, the air smelled of ginger, soy, and something I couldn’t quite name—peacefulness, maybe.
“Start with the rice,” he instructed, handing me a small bowl.
“But there’s so much more to do!” I protested, holding a list of 15 recipes.
Master Gu shook his head. “We begin where the rice begins, and we wait as the rice waits.”
I frowned but did as he said while he started chopping vegetables very, very slowly.
“Why not slice faster?” I asked. “We need to finish on time, remember?”
He smiled. “Time finishes itself.”
That didn’t make much sense then. I watched as he moved with ease, like he was dancing with the vegetables. His knife glided, never rushed, never forced. I tried to copy him, but my cuts were uneven, my hands stiff.
“You’re trying too hard,” he said. “You are fighting the food.”
“Fighting the food?” I blinked, confused.
He pointed to the pot of bubbling soup. “Look. The fire under it is not yelling. The water is not rushing out. But still, it cooks.”
That evening, we served only five dishes. I was worried. Was it enough? Would people be upset?
But when the first spoonful of Master Gu’s soup touched their lips, smiles began to bloom like spring flowers. Every dish was perfect. Simple, calm, full of life.
After everyone had eaten, I sat with Master Gu, still puzzled.
“How?” I asked. “How did you cook so well… doing so little?”
He sipped his tea and replied, “The food cooked itself. I merely stepped aside.”
That moment stayed with me. Cooking didn’t have to be rushed or complicated. Life didn’t have to be, either.
Now, I try not to force the rice to boil faster or the vegetables to cook sooner. I let things happen as they need to. Like Master Gu said, “The shadow doesn’t chase the sun—it follows naturally.”
That day, I began to understand wu wei—effortless action. Cooking wasn’t about control. It was about trust.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel myself rushing or stressing, I stop, take a breath, and remember the low shadow… always moving, never pushing, always in harmony with the sun.
