I had always believed that to be someone, I had to do something great. I ran fast, spoke loud, and tried hard in everything. But one day, I met a man who did none of those things—and somehow, he seemed more peaceful than anyone I’d ever known.
It happened on a quiet road near the mountains. I had been walking for days, angry and tired. My teacher had told me to learn about the Tao, the Way, but I didn’t even know where to start looking. I thought the Tao was a place, something I could find like treasure.
Then I saw him—a man sitting beside a stream, watching the water flow. His clothes were simple, and his face was soft with a smile. He looked as still as the rocks, like he had been there forever.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked, still huffing from my long walk.
He looked at me and chuckled. “No. I’m just being.”
“Being what?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, and then laughed again. “And everything.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. I’ve been trying to find the Tao. Do you know where it is?”
The man pointed to the stream. “Is the water trying to move?”
I looked at it. The water flowed gently around the stones, never forcing, never stopping.
“No,” I said.
“Yet it moves,” he said. “It shapes mountains and feeds valleys. It does by not doing. That is the Way.”
I sat next to him in the quiet. For a long time, we said nothing. I felt the sun warm my face and listened to the water’s soft voice.
“But if we just sit and do nothing,” I said at last, “how will anything be done?”
He picked up a leaf and let it fall into the stream. It floated, turning gently as the water carried it along.
“Doing nothing,” he said, “does not mean being lazy. It means not forcing. The Tao moves through everything, just like the water. We don’t need to push life. We just need to stop blocking it.”
My chest felt lighter. I had always tried so hard to be noticed, to be right, or to reach some goal. But here, nothing tried—and still, everything was at peace.
Before I left, I asked him his name.
“I forgot it long ago,” he said with a grin. “Names are useful, but they are not the thing themselves.”
I didn’t understand that either—not then. But as I walked away, I felt different. I stopped trying to figure out who I was or where I was going. I just walked, step by step, like the stream flowed, and let the Tao carry me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push too hard or be someone special, I remember that man beside the stream. I try to let go of my name, my plans, even my fears. I try to be, not do.
And in that stillness, life begins to flow.
I had always believed that to be someone, I had to do something great. I ran fast, spoke loud, and tried hard in everything. But one day, I met a man who did none of those things—and somehow, he seemed more peaceful than anyone I’d ever known.
It happened on a quiet road near the mountains. I had been walking for days, angry and tired. My teacher had told me to learn about the Tao, the Way, but I didn’t even know where to start looking. I thought the Tao was a place, something I could find like treasure.
Then I saw him—a man sitting beside a stream, watching the water flow. His clothes were simple, and his face was soft with a smile. He looked as still as the rocks, like he had been there forever.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked, still huffing from my long walk.
He looked at me and chuckled. “No. I’m just being.”
“Being what?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, and then laughed again. “And everything.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. I’ve been trying to find the Tao. Do you know where it is?”
The man pointed to the stream. “Is the water trying to move?”
I looked at it. The water flowed gently around the stones, never forcing, never stopping.
“No,” I said.
“Yet it moves,” he said. “It shapes mountains and feeds valleys. It does by not doing. That is the Way.”
I sat next to him in the quiet. For a long time, we said nothing. I felt the sun warm my face and listened to the water’s soft voice.
“But if we just sit and do nothing,” I said at last, “how will anything be done?”
He picked up a leaf and let it fall into the stream. It floated, turning gently as the water carried it along.
“Doing nothing,” he said, “does not mean being lazy. It means not forcing. The Tao moves through everything, just like the water. We don’t need to push life. We just need to stop blocking it.”
My chest felt lighter. I had always tried so hard to be noticed, to be right, or to reach some goal. But here, nothing tried—and still, everything was at peace.
Before I left, I asked him his name.
“I forgot it long ago,” he said with a grin. “Names are useful, but they are not the thing themselves.”
I didn’t understand that either—not then. But as I walked away, I felt different. I stopped trying to figure out who I was or where I was going. I just walked, step by step, like the stream flowed, and let the Tao carry me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push too hard or be someone special, I remember that man beside the stream. I try to let go of my name, my plans, even my fears. I try to be, not do.
And in that stillness, life begins to flow.
