The mist was thick that morning, dancing like ghosts between the pine trees. I had been walking for days, carrying nothing but a small bag of rice and a flute carved from bamboo. My feet were sore, my thoughts heavy. The world felt too fast—always rushing, always wanting more. I didn’t understand how to keep up. I thought I needed to become more—more important, more skilled, more respected.
That’s when I met him.
He stood by the water’s edge, looking like he had been there forever. His robes were simple, the color of river stones, and his eyes were soft—like moonlight reflected in a quiet pond. I thought he was just an old man. But when he turned to me, I saw something different. He looked both young and ancient. Real and not-real.
“Why do you walk alone, with such a storm in your heart?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m trying to change,” I said. “I want to become someone better.”
“Better?” he smiled. “Better than a mountain? Better than a cloud?”
I didn’t know what to say.
He pointed to the stream. “Watch the water,” he said.
I did. It slipped over rocks, around fallen leaves, never pushing—only flowing. When a stone blocked its way, it didn’t fight. It simply moved around it.
“This is the way,” he said, “wu wei. Action without forcing. Letting life move like the water.”
“But how do I live like that?” I asked. “The world wants me to chase things. To work harder. To never stop.”
“The world is loud,” he said, “but the Tao is quiet. When you stop pushing, you start flowing. When you stop holding, your hands are free.”
Then, right before my eyes, he vanished into mist.
I blinked, stunned. There was no sound—just wind in the trees, water over stones.
For hours I sat by that stream, thinking.
All my life, I had been trying to climb higher, to be noticed, to force results. But the Tao—the Way—was different. It didn’t shout. It whispered.
I stayed under those trees for a long time. I listened to the stream. I stopped trying to figure everything out. I let my thoughts come and go, like clouds in the sky.
And in that stillness, something strange happened.
I felt light. Free. Like maybe all the pieces of me that had been tight and afraid had started turning to mist too.
I didn’t see the man again. But I didn’t need to.
Now, when life feels heavy, I remember him. I remember the stream. I remember that becoming better wasn’t about climbing higher—it was about letting go.
I still walk, still learn, still make mistakes. But I carry less. I chase less. I watch the water and trust the Way.
And sometimes, in the quiet morning mist, I almost feel him beside me again—soft as wind, still as stone.
The mist was thick that morning, dancing like ghosts between the pine trees. I had been walking for days, carrying nothing but a small bag of rice and a flute carved from bamboo. My feet were sore, my thoughts heavy. The world felt too fast—always rushing, always wanting more. I didn’t understand how to keep up. I thought I needed to become more—more important, more skilled, more respected.
That’s when I met him.
He stood by the water’s edge, looking like he had been there forever. His robes were simple, the color of river stones, and his eyes were soft—like moonlight reflected in a quiet pond. I thought he was just an old man. But when he turned to me, I saw something different. He looked both young and ancient. Real and not-real.
“Why do you walk alone, with such a storm in your heart?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m trying to change,” I said. “I want to become someone better.”
“Better?” he smiled. “Better than a mountain? Better than a cloud?”
I didn’t know what to say.
He pointed to the stream. “Watch the water,” he said.
I did. It slipped over rocks, around fallen leaves, never pushing—only flowing. When a stone blocked its way, it didn’t fight. It simply moved around it.
“This is the way,” he said, “wu wei. Action without forcing. Letting life move like the water.”
“But how do I live like that?” I asked. “The world wants me to chase things. To work harder. To never stop.”
“The world is loud,” he said, “but the Tao is quiet. When you stop pushing, you start flowing. When you stop holding, your hands are free.”
Then, right before my eyes, he vanished into mist.
I blinked, stunned. There was no sound—just wind in the trees, water over stones.
For hours I sat by that stream, thinking.
All my life, I had been trying to climb higher, to be noticed, to force results. But the Tao—the Way—was different. It didn’t shout. It whispered.
I stayed under those trees for a long time. I listened to the stream. I stopped trying to figure everything out. I let my thoughts come and go, like clouds in the sky.
And in that stillness, something strange happened.
I felt light. Free. Like maybe all the pieces of me that had been tight and afraid had started turning to mist too.
I didn’t see the man again. But I didn’t need to.
Now, when life feels heavy, I remember him. I remember the stream. I remember that becoming better wasn’t about climbing higher—it was about letting go.
I still walk, still learn, still make mistakes. But I carry less. I chase less. I watch the water and trust the Way.
And sometimes, in the quiet morning mist, I almost feel him beside me again—soft as wind, still as stone.
