My name is Nian, and I was once laughed at in the village square. I had only one foot.
Some said I was cursed. Others just looked away. At eight years old, I thought the world was broken because I was broken. But then, one summer morning, I met the man they called Bao—an old hermit who lived by the edge of the crooked willow woods. No one went there. It was said he spoke in riddles and could talk to butterflies.
I hobbled to his hut out of curiosity. That day, I was angry. Angry at a world where I couldn't run or play like the others. I threw a stone at a bird because I had nothing else to blame.
“You missed,” Bao said from behind me.
I turned, startled. “I wasn’t trying to hit it.”
“You missed anyway,” he replied, smiling with eyes like river stones—old, flowing, and still.
We sat on a rock, and he waved his hand like brushing away clouds. “Tell me, Nian, do you think the butterfly cares if it looks like a leaf?”
I blinked at him. What did that have to do with anything?
“The butterfly just flaps its wings and rides the wind,” he said. “It doesn’t wish to be a bird or a fish. It just... is.”
I stared at the butterfly nearby. Its wings were soft blue, and it flew like a drifting feather, not concerned with where the world thought it should go.
“I only have one foot,” I blurted out. “I can’t run. I can’t play. The butterfly can fly. I can’t even walk without a stick.”
Bao picked up my walking stick and placed it gently beside the butterfly, which had landed on a root.
“Maybe you are like the butterfly,” he said.
That made me frown. “But I’m not flying.”
“Not yet,” he whispered.
I visited Bao every week after that. We didn’t always talk. Sometimes we just watched clouds together. Sometimes we made tea and listened to the sound of insects. He showed me how to sit without needing to move, and how doing nothing could still bring joy. He called it wu wei—peaceful action without force. Like how water moves around a stone.
As seasons passed, I stopped hating my missing foot. I found stillness in walking slower, joy in the breeze, and laughter in the way frogs always jumped the wrong way.
One day, I asked, “Bao, how do you know so much?”
He smiled, tugged at his beard, and said, “Because once, I too was angry, like you. Then I stopped trying to be like the bird, and started being the wind.”
Years later, when Bao was long gone and I sat with children telling them stories under the willow trees, I told them this:
We are not broken.
We are turning, drifting, living parts of the Tao—The Way.
Some run, some fly, and some, like me, walk with one foot and carry hearts that are light as butterflies.
And when the children laughed and played near me, some would hop on one foot to make me smile.
And I smiled wide, like Bao used to, knowing I was finally at peace with the Way.
My name is Nian, and I was once laughed at in the village square. I had only one foot.
Some said I was cursed. Others just looked away. At eight years old, I thought the world was broken because I was broken. But then, one summer morning, I met the man they called Bao—an old hermit who lived by the edge of the crooked willow woods. No one went there. It was said he spoke in riddles and could talk to butterflies.
I hobbled to his hut out of curiosity. That day, I was angry. Angry at a world where I couldn't run or play like the others. I threw a stone at a bird because I had nothing else to blame.
“You missed,” Bao said from behind me.
I turned, startled. “I wasn’t trying to hit it.”
“You missed anyway,” he replied, smiling with eyes like river stones—old, flowing, and still.
We sat on a rock, and he waved his hand like brushing away clouds. “Tell me, Nian, do you think the butterfly cares if it looks like a leaf?”
I blinked at him. What did that have to do with anything?
“The butterfly just flaps its wings and rides the wind,” he said. “It doesn’t wish to be a bird or a fish. It just... is.”
I stared at the butterfly nearby. Its wings were soft blue, and it flew like a drifting feather, not concerned with where the world thought it should go.
“I only have one foot,” I blurted out. “I can’t run. I can’t play. The butterfly can fly. I can’t even walk without a stick.”
Bao picked up my walking stick and placed it gently beside the butterfly, which had landed on a root.
“Maybe you are like the butterfly,” he said.
That made me frown. “But I’m not flying.”
“Not yet,” he whispered.
I visited Bao every week after that. We didn’t always talk. Sometimes we just watched clouds together. Sometimes we made tea and listened to the sound of insects. He showed me how to sit without needing to move, and how doing nothing could still bring joy. He called it wu wei—peaceful action without force. Like how water moves around a stone.
As seasons passed, I stopped hating my missing foot. I found stillness in walking slower, joy in the breeze, and laughter in the way frogs always jumped the wrong way.
One day, I asked, “Bao, how do you know so much?”
He smiled, tugged at his beard, and said, “Because once, I too was angry, like you. Then I stopped trying to be like the bird, and started being the wind.”
Years later, when Bao was long gone and I sat with children telling them stories under the willow trees, I told them this:
We are not broken.
We are turning, drifting, living parts of the Tao—The Way.
Some run, some fly, and some, like me, walk with one foot and carry hearts that are light as butterflies.
And when the children laughed and played near me, some would hop on one foot to make me smile.
And I smiled wide, like Bao used to, knowing I was finally at peace with the Way.
