I had always believed that if I could just play louder, stronger, better, I would be noticed. In our village, people spoke of warriors and merchants—but never of musicians. I was just Mei, a girl with a bamboo flute, playing songs under the old willow tree.
One warm evening, after a long day helping in the fields, I sat beneath the willow and played quietly. My melodies drifted out like soft clouds in the sky. I didn’t know anyone had been listening.
“Your notes,” came a deep voice behind me, “they do not shout, but they still speak.”
Startled, I turned to see an old man standing nearby. He wore a simple robe, eyes kind and calm. He looked like he had walked with the wind and slept among the stars. He smiled.
“Who… who are you?” I asked.
“Some call me Fei. I was once a student of Master Zhuangzi,” he said. “He taught me to listen—deeply.”
I had heard of Zhuangzi. Baba once said he was a great philosopher, a man who laughed at life and dreamed he was a butterfly. But I didn’t understand what that meant.
Fei sat beside me quietly. He didn’t ask me to play again. Instead, he picked up a fallen leaf and held it to the light.
“Balance,” he said slowly, “is not found in noise or silence, but in the space between.”
I frowned. “But no one ever notices when I play softly.”
“Ah,” he said, tapping the leaf gently. “Just as the moon does not shine like the sun, yet still moves the tides.”
I stayed quiet. I didn’t understand yet—but something inside me began to shift.
Over the next week, Fei came to the tree each evening. He never told me what to play. He just listened. Some days, I played fast; some days slow. Some days, only a single note.
Then one morning, our village woke to news—there would be a spring gathering. Everyone would share their talents. Loud drums, painted banners, spinning dances—I thought of my tiny flute and felt small.
“Should I even play?” I asked Fei, worried.
He only smiled. “Play as you are. Not for noise. Not for praise.”
When my turn came, I walked slowly to the center. My hands trembled. The crowd was loud, bright, excited.
I closed my eyes and began to play.
The melody was soft—like mist rising after a gentle rain. The world seemed to lean in. Slowly, the noise around me faded. Children stopped moving. Old men grew still. Only the wind dared whisper.
When I finished, there was no cheer. Just silence. Peaceful. Whole.
Then, finally… warm claps rose, not loud, but full of wonder.
I looked at Fei. He nodded.
That night, I sat under the willow once more. The world didn’t change—but I had. I no longer needed to be the loudest. In my place of quiet, I had found something strong.
Harmony.
I still play my flute today. Some pass by without noticing. Others stop and listen. Either way, I remain part of the Tao—simple, balanced, and content.
And every time I breathe through that bamboo, I remember: even a quiet song can move hearts, just like the moon moves the sea.
I had always believed that if I could just play louder, stronger, better, I would be noticed. In our village, people spoke of warriors and merchants—but never of musicians. I was just Mei, a girl with a bamboo flute, playing songs under the old willow tree.
One warm evening, after a long day helping in the fields, I sat beneath the willow and played quietly. My melodies drifted out like soft clouds in the sky. I didn’t know anyone had been listening.
“Your notes,” came a deep voice behind me, “they do not shout, but they still speak.”
Startled, I turned to see an old man standing nearby. He wore a simple robe, eyes kind and calm. He looked like he had walked with the wind and slept among the stars. He smiled.
“Who… who are you?” I asked.
“Some call me Fei. I was once a student of Master Zhuangzi,” he said. “He taught me to listen—deeply.”
I had heard of Zhuangzi. Baba once said he was a great philosopher, a man who laughed at life and dreamed he was a butterfly. But I didn’t understand what that meant.
Fei sat beside me quietly. He didn’t ask me to play again. Instead, he picked up a fallen leaf and held it to the light.
“Balance,” he said slowly, “is not found in noise or silence, but in the space between.”
I frowned. “But no one ever notices when I play softly.”
“Ah,” he said, tapping the leaf gently. “Just as the moon does not shine like the sun, yet still moves the tides.”
I stayed quiet. I didn’t understand yet—but something inside me began to shift.
Over the next week, Fei came to the tree each evening. He never told me what to play. He just listened. Some days, I played fast; some days slow. Some days, only a single note.
Then one morning, our village woke to news—there would be a spring gathering. Everyone would share their talents. Loud drums, painted banners, spinning dances—I thought of my tiny flute and felt small.
“Should I even play?” I asked Fei, worried.
He only smiled. “Play as you are. Not for noise. Not for praise.”
When my turn came, I walked slowly to the center. My hands trembled. The crowd was loud, bright, excited.
I closed my eyes and began to play.
The melody was soft—like mist rising after a gentle rain. The world seemed to lean in. Slowly, the noise around me faded. Children stopped moving. Old men grew still. Only the wind dared whisper.
When I finished, there was no cheer. Just silence. Peaceful. Whole.
Then, finally… warm claps rose, not loud, but full of wonder.
I looked at Fei. He nodded.
That night, I sat under the willow once more. The world didn’t change—but I had. I no longer needed to be the loudest. In my place of quiet, I had found something strong.
Harmony.
I still play my flute today. Some pass by without noticing. Others stop and listen. Either way, I remain part of the Tao—simple, balanced, and content.
And every time I breathe through that bamboo, I remember: even a quiet song can move hearts, just like the moon moves the sea.
