The mountains were quiet that morning. I walked alone on the narrow path, just me and the sound of my feet brushing through the grass. The sun peeked over the cliffs, lighting the path in gold. I came here to find answers. I didn’t know which answers I needed — only that something inside me felt too heavy.
My name is Wei. I was once a clerk in the city — always rushing, always worrying. Work never ended, and my heart never rested. One day I overheard some traders talking about a sage who lived deep in the Yellow Mountains. They said he spoke little, but he understood life better than anyone. So I left everything behind and walked into the hills.
Three days passed before I saw a hut. It was so plain, I almost missed it — wood, stone, and a little smoke rising from the chimney. An old man stood outside brushing the yard with a branch broom. He had no shoes, and his hair was tied in a messy knot.
“Welcome, traveler,” he said without looking up. “I was expecting you.”
I blinked. “You were?”
He nodded. “Not you exactly, but someone like you always comes. Too full, yet strangely empty.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just bowed low.
“You carry too many thoughts,” he added, turning back to sweep a few dry leaves. “Why not sit and watch the wind lift the feathers?”
He pointed to a small open space where downy feathers lay in the grass. One floated up, caught in the breeze, then fell just out of reach. Another spun higher, dancing in the air, and then settled back to the ground.
I watched, puzzled. “Why do they fall?” I asked.
He smiled. “Why do you try to stop them?”
I frowned. “But… wouldn’t it be good to catch one?”
He straightened, the broom hanging to his side. “In the city, you chase things. You hold tight. You always grasp, always measure. But these,” — he gestured to the feathers — “they are light. They do not fight the wind. They move when it moves. Fall when it falls. They do not ask for more.”
I sat still. One feather twirled toward me, almost touching my hand, then drifted away.
The old man continued, “Spontaneity, young friend. Letting go. That is the way. The Tao doesn’t grab. It flows.”
I spent days with him, doing almost nothing. Walking. Watching birds. Sharing boiled rice. No teachings were spoken like lessons in a scroll. But slowly, I felt the knot inside unwinding.
One morning, I woke to find him gone. Only a feather lay on the wooden step.
I picked it up — or tried to. The breeze took it before I could hold it, lifting it just beyond my fingers.
And I smiled.
I took the long road back to the city, but something in me had changed. I no longer felt the need to catch every feather or answer every question.
Now, when life feels too heavy, I pause. I remember the sage and the way the breeze played with the feathers. And I let go, just a little more.
I didn’t change overnight. But ever since that mountain journey, I’ve tried to follow the wind rather than fight it.
The mountains were quiet that morning. I walked alone on the narrow path, just me and the sound of my feet brushing through the grass. The sun peeked over the cliffs, lighting the path in gold. I came here to find answers. I didn’t know which answers I needed — only that something inside me felt too heavy.
My name is Wei. I was once a clerk in the city — always rushing, always worrying. Work never ended, and my heart never rested. One day I overheard some traders talking about a sage who lived deep in the Yellow Mountains. They said he spoke little, but he understood life better than anyone. So I left everything behind and walked into the hills.
Three days passed before I saw a hut. It was so plain, I almost missed it — wood, stone, and a little smoke rising from the chimney. An old man stood outside brushing the yard with a branch broom. He had no shoes, and his hair was tied in a messy knot.
“Welcome, traveler,” he said without looking up. “I was expecting you.”
I blinked. “You were?”
He nodded. “Not you exactly, but someone like you always comes. Too full, yet strangely empty.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just bowed low.
“You carry too many thoughts,” he added, turning back to sweep a few dry leaves. “Why not sit and watch the wind lift the feathers?”
He pointed to a small open space where downy feathers lay in the grass. One floated up, caught in the breeze, then fell just out of reach. Another spun higher, dancing in the air, and then settled back to the ground.
I watched, puzzled. “Why do they fall?” I asked.
He smiled. “Why do you try to stop them?”
I frowned. “But… wouldn’t it be good to catch one?”
He straightened, the broom hanging to his side. “In the city, you chase things. You hold tight. You always grasp, always measure. But these,” — he gestured to the feathers — “they are light. They do not fight the wind. They move when it moves. Fall when it falls. They do not ask for more.”
I sat still. One feather twirled toward me, almost touching my hand, then drifted away.
The old man continued, “Spontaneity, young friend. Letting go. That is the way. The Tao doesn’t grab. It flows.”
I spent days with him, doing almost nothing. Walking. Watching birds. Sharing boiled rice. No teachings were spoken like lessons in a scroll. But slowly, I felt the knot inside unwinding.
One morning, I woke to find him gone. Only a feather lay on the wooden step.
I picked it up — or tried to. The breeze took it before I could hold it, lifting it just beyond my fingers.
And I smiled.
I took the long road back to the city, but something in me had changed. I no longer felt the need to catch every feather or answer every question.
Now, when life feels too heavy, I pause. I remember the sage and the way the breeze played with the feathers. And I let go, just a little more.
I didn’t change overnight. But ever since that mountain journey, I’ve tried to follow the wind rather than fight it.
