The grass was still damp from morning dew as I walked along the path near our village. I had just argued with my brother again. He always wanted to do things his way, even when I was trying to help. My fists were clenched, my chest tight. I stomped through the forest, hoping to find some peace.
That’s when I saw him—an old man sitting under a tree. His beard was long and white, and he wore simple blue robes. His eyes were closed like he was sleeping, but something about him felt… calm.
I stood there, unsure, until he opened one eye and smiled at me.
“Why do you stomp so loudly, young one?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m angry. My brother won’t listen. I try to do everything right, but nothing works!”
The old man chuckled. “Trying too hard can sometimes make things worse.”
I blinked. “But if I don’t try, how can I fix it?”
He pointed to a butterfly resting on a leaf. “Do you see that butterfly? It moves with the wind, never fighting it. It does not push or pull—it simply flows with the way.”
I watched the butterfly as it fluttered to a flower, soft and silent, not disturbing a single blade of grass.
The old man leaned back. “Long ago, a wise teacher named Zhuangzi had a dream. He dreamed he was a butterfly, happy and free. But when he woke, he wondered—was he Zhuangzi who dreamed of being a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi?”
I tilted my head. “What does that mean?”
He smiled. “Sometimes we try so hard to be one thing that we forget how to just be.”
I sat by the tree, confused but curious. “So I should just… give up?”
“No, not give up,” he said gently. “Let go.”
I frowned. “What's the difference?”
He looked up at the sky. “To give up is when you stop caring. To let go is when you stop forcing.”
For a while, we just listened to the forest—the rustle of the wind, the distant call of a bird, the soft buzzing of bees. My chest slowly stopped feeling tight. I hadn’t realized how much noise was inside me.
When I stood to leave, he said, “Sometimes, not acting is the best action. That is called wu wei. Like water, like wind, like the butterfly.”
I nodded, not fully sure what he meant, but feeling lighter somehow.
At home, I found my brother sitting in the garden. I didn’t argue this time. I just sat beside him. We didn’t speak, but it felt okay.
Later that night, I dreamed I was a butterfly. I floated above trees and rivers, going wherever the air carried me. No map, no plan—just peace.
And when I woke up, I smiled.
I didn’t understand everything yet. But I began to see that sometimes, the quiet path is the one that leads us home.
The grass was still damp from morning dew as I walked along the path near our village. I had just argued with my brother again. He always wanted to do things his way, even when I was trying to help. My fists were clenched, my chest tight. I stomped through the forest, hoping to find some peace.
That’s when I saw him—an old man sitting under a tree. His beard was long and white, and he wore simple blue robes. His eyes were closed like he was sleeping, but something about him felt… calm.
I stood there, unsure, until he opened one eye and smiled at me.
“Why do you stomp so loudly, young one?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m angry. My brother won’t listen. I try to do everything right, but nothing works!”
The old man chuckled. “Trying too hard can sometimes make things worse.”
I blinked. “But if I don’t try, how can I fix it?”
He pointed to a butterfly resting on a leaf. “Do you see that butterfly? It moves with the wind, never fighting it. It does not push or pull—it simply flows with the way.”
I watched the butterfly as it fluttered to a flower, soft and silent, not disturbing a single blade of grass.
The old man leaned back. “Long ago, a wise teacher named Zhuangzi had a dream. He dreamed he was a butterfly, happy and free. But when he woke, he wondered—was he Zhuangzi who dreamed of being a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi?”
I tilted my head. “What does that mean?”
He smiled. “Sometimes we try so hard to be one thing that we forget how to just be.”
I sat by the tree, confused but curious. “So I should just… give up?”
“No, not give up,” he said gently. “Let go.”
I frowned. “What's the difference?”
He looked up at the sky. “To give up is when you stop caring. To let go is when you stop forcing.”
For a while, we just listened to the forest—the rustle of the wind, the distant call of a bird, the soft buzzing of bees. My chest slowly stopped feeling tight. I hadn’t realized how much noise was inside me.
When I stood to leave, he said, “Sometimes, not acting is the best action. That is called wu wei. Like water, like wind, like the butterfly.”
I nodded, not fully sure what he meant, but feeling lighter somehow.
At home, I found my brother sitting in the garden. I didn’t argue this time. I just sat beside him. We didn’t speak, but it felt okay.
Later that night, I dreamed I was a butterfly. I floated above trees and rivers, going wherever the air carried me. No map, no plan—just peace.
And when I woke up, I smiled.
I didn’t understand everything yet. But I began to see that sometimes, the quiet path is the one that leads us home.
