The hammer slipped from my fingers again. "Why won’t it stay straight?" I groaned. My bench was crooked, nails bent like they were laughing at me. I was tired, messy, and frustrated. I loved carving small things—wooden rabbits, lucky cats—but this was big work, rough and noisy. And I was failing at it.
I had been sent to learn from Master Yuan, a carpenter known throughout our village. People said he never spoke much, but his hands built things that felt like they’d always belonged.
He didn’t say anything that first week. Not a word.
Every morning, I’d arrive early. Master Yuan was already there, carving quietly with one simple tool. No measuring sticks. No loud hammering. Yet everything he made looked perfect—rocking chairs that didn’t wobble, and window frames that hugged sunlight.
I tried to copy him, but the more I tried, the worse my work looked. So one day, I stomped my foot and shouted, “How do you do it? You don’t even measure! You barely touch the wood!”
Master Yuan looked up at me for the first time. His eyes were kind, but quiet. He didn’t speak. Instead, he pointed to a butterfly that had landed on a nearby log.
It sat still, wings holding the morning light. Then it fluttered away, soft and effortless.
I frowned. “How is a butterfly supposed to help?”
He finally spoke, soft like a leaf falling. “It does not try to fly. It flies.”
I blinked. That didn't help at all. I went home angry that night.
But the butterfly wouldn’t leave my thoughts.
The next morning, Master Yuan took me with him into the forest. We didn’t carry tools, just a single bamboo basket.
He walked until we stopped at a large, bent tree. It was too twisted to be useful for building. I expected him to chop it down, but instead, he rested his hand gently on it.
“This tree,” he said, “has grown in whatever way it wanted. No one made it straight. No one told it how to grow. Yet here it stands, still strong.”
Then we sat in its shade. For a long time, we just listened—to birds, to wind, to breath.
That moment felt like something new blooming inside me.
Slowly, I understood: The tree didn’t fight to grow straight. The butterfly didn’t force its flight. They simply were.
When we returned to the workshop, I stopped pushing so hard. I let my hands move gently. I carved with care, not force. I began to listen—not just to Master Yuan, but to the wood, to the shape it wanted to be.
That day, I carved a stool. It wobbled. But it felt right.
Master Yuan gave a small nod.
And I smiled—for the first time in weeks.
I didn’t become a master overnight. But I stopped trying so hard to be one. I learned to let the work flow through me, like water over smooth stones.
Now, whenever things feel too loud or too fast, I remember that butterfly.
It didn’t try to fly.
It flew.
The hammer slipped from my fingers again. "Why won’t it stay straight?" I groaned. My bench was crooked, nails bent like they were laughing at me. I was tired, messy, and frustrated. I loved carving small things—wooden rabbits, lucky cats—but this was big work, rough and noisy. And I was failing at it.
I had been sent to learn from Master Yuan, a carpenter known throughout our village. People said he never spoke much, but his hands built things that felt like they’d always belonged.
He didn’t say anything that first week. Not a word.
Every morning, I’d arrive early. Master Yuan was already there, carving quietly with one simple tool. No measuring sticks. No loud hammering. Yet everything he made looked perfect—rocking chairs that didn’t wobble, and window frames that hugged sunlight.
I tried to copy him, but the more I tried, the worse my work looked. So one day, I stomped my foot and shouted, “How do you do it? You don’t even measure! You barely touch the wood!”
Master Yuan looked up at me for the first time. His eyes were kind, but quiet. He didn’t speak. Instead, he pointed to a butterfly that had landed on a nearby log.
It sat still, wings holding the morning light. Then it fluttered away, soft and effortless.
I frowned. “How is a butterfly supposed to help?”
He finally spoke, soft like a leaf falling. “It does not try to fly. It flies.”
I blinked. That didn't help at all. I went home angry that night.
But the butterfly wouldn’t leave my thoughts.
The next morning, Master Yuan took me with him into the forest. We didn’t carry tools, just a single bamboo basket.
He walked until we stopped at a large, bent tree. It was too twisted to be useful for building. I expected him to chop it down, but instead, he rested his hand gently on it.
“This tree,” he said, “has grown in whatever way it wanted. No one made it straight. No one told it how to grow. Yet here it stands, still strong.”
Then we sat in its shade. For a long time, we just listened—to birds, to wind, to breath.
That moment felt like something new blooming inside me.
Slowly, I understood: The tree didn’t fight to grow straight. The butterfly didn’t force its flight. They simply were.
When we returned to the workshop, I stopped pushing so hard. I let my hands move gently. I carved with care, not force. I began to listen—not just to Master Yuan, but to the wood, to the shape it wanted to be.
That day, I carved a stool. It wobbled. But it felt right.
Master Yuan gave a small nod.
And I smiled—for the first time in weeks.
I didn’t become a master overnight. But I stopped trying so hard to be one. I learned to let the work flow through me, like water over smooth stones.
Now, whenever things feel too loud or too fast, I remember that butterfly.
It didn’t try to fly.
It flew.
