The wind blew softly through the peach trees as I sat under the old pavilion. I was thirteen, and my heart was full of worry. My name is Lin, and I had failed the exam again—the one my father said would make me a great man. But all I felt was shame. I stared at the lines in the dirt, drawing shapes with a stick, as if they could show me the way my life was supposed to go.
“I’ve worked so hard,” I muttered. “Why does everything still go wrong?”
Then came a laugh, light like a breeze. I turned to see Master Li, the old traveler who stayed in our village during the spring. He had a long white beard and always walked barefoot. People said he was once a student of the great Zhuangzi, the famous philosopher who dreamed of being a butterfly.
Master Li sat beside me without a word. He picked up a fallen blossom and held it up.
“See this flower?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It fell without trying,” he said. “No force. No plan. Just the wind and time.”
I frowned. “But… that doesn’t help me pass my tests.”
Master Li smiled. “Let me tell you about Zhuangzi and the butterfly.”
So he told me. A long time ago, Zhuangzi had a dream that he was a butterfly, floating freely on the breeze. When he woke up, he wondered: was he a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was a man?
“That’s silly,” I said, even though it made my chest feel funny—like maybe he was telling me more than just a story.
“It is silly,” Master Li agreed, eyes twinkling. “But it also reminds us—sometimes, who we think we are is just a passing dream. We try to shape our lives with effort and rules, planning everything like a map. But Tao… the Way… is not something we can grab like a sword or pass like a test.”
He drew a line in the dirt with his finger—then rubbed it away.
“There’s an unseen line between trying and letting go. Cross it—and you’ll find peace.”
I stayed quiet for a long time. The wind blew again. This time, I watched how the petals danced along the ground—free, without any thought of where to land.
That night, I left my books alone. I walked by the river, listened to frogs croaking, and watched fireflies blink in the dark. I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t try to fix anything. I just... was.
And somehow, that felt more right than anything else.
The next day, I sat the test again. I didn’t rush. I didn’t worry. My lines formed on the page like ripples in quiet water. Maybe I passed. Maybe I didn’t. For the first time, I didn’t need to know.
Because that day, I understood something new: the Way doesn’t always go in straight lines. Sometimes, it dances like a butterfly in the wind.
And from then on, I chose to follow it.
The wind blew softly through the peach trees as I sat under the old pavilion. I was thirteen, and my heart was full of worry. My name is Lin, and I had failed the exam again—the one my father said would make me a great man. But all I felt was shame. I stared at the lines in the dirt, drawing shapes with a stick, as if they could show me the way my life was supposed to go.
“I’ve worked so hard,” I muttered. “Why does everything still go wrong?”
Then came a laugh, light like a breeze. I turned to see Master Li, the old traveler who stayed in our village during the spring. He had a long white beard and always walked barefoot. People said he was once a student of the great Zhuangzi, the famous philosopher who dreamed of being a butterfly.
Master Li sat beside me without a word. He picked up a fallen blossom and held it up.
“See this flower?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It fell without trying,” he said. “No force. No plan. Just the wind and time.”
I frowned. “But… that doesn’t help me pass my tests.”
Master Li smiled. “Let me tell you about Zhuangzi and the butterfly.”
So he told me. A long time ago, Zhuangzi had a dream that he was a butterfly, floating freely on the breeze. When he woke up, he wondered: was he a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was a man?
“That’s silly,” I said, even though it made my chest feel funny—like maybe he was telling me more than just a story.
“It is silly,” Master Li agreed, eyes twinkling. “But it also reminds us—sometimes, who we think we are is just a passing dream. We try to shape our lives with effort and rules, planning everything like a map. But Tao… the Way… is not something we can grab like a sword or pass like a test.”
He drew a line in the dirt with his finger—then rubbed it away.
“There’s an unseen line between trying and letting go. Cross it—and you’ll find peace.”
I stayed quiet for a long time. The wind blew again. This time, I watched how the petals danced along the ground—free, without any thought of where to land.
That night, I left my books alone. I walked by the river, listened to frogs croaking, and watched fireflies blink in the dark. I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t try to fix anything. I just... was.
And somehow, that felt more right than anything else.
The next day, I sat the test again. I didn’t rush. I didn’t worry. My lines formed on the page like ripples in quiet water. Maybe I passed. Maybe I didn’t. For the first time, I didn’t need to know.
Because that day, I understood something new: the Way doesn’t always go in straight lines. Sometimes, it dances like a butterfly in the wind.
And from then on, I chose to follow it.
