The ground was dry beneath my feet, cracked like a rice cake forgotten too long in the sun. I hadn’t eaten real food in days. My name is Shen, and I had left my village to find something—though I didn’t know what it was. I thought if I traveled far enough, I might feel whole. But the longer I walked, the emptier I felt.
One morning, as the mist still played among the trees, I stumbled onto a small clearing. A crooked hut sat beneath a large plum tree, blooming with white flowers. Sitting beside it was an old man, silent, still as the mountain. His hair hung like silver threads, and his robe moved gently with the breeze.
I stood frozen, unsure what to do. He looked up and smiled, easily, like we were already friends.
“Come,” he said, patting the grass beside him.
I sat. He offered me a bowl of warm tea, and I took it gratefully.
“My name is Shen,” I finally said.
He nodded. “Some call me Master Pi,” he said. “But names are like clouds,” he added, “They pass.”
We sat in silence after that. I wanted to ask him questions, to tell him how lost I felt. But the silence felt warm, so I said nothing. A butterfly drifted past, its wings fanning like painted paper.
I watched it land gently on the edge of my bowl. “How does it not get tired of flying?” I asked.
Master Pi chuckled. “It does not wonder if it should fly, nor where to go. It follows the breeze. No rushing. No plan. Just... the way.”
I didn’t understand, not really. But I liked the idea of not trying so hard.
That day, I stayed with Master Pi. Then the next. We didn’t talk much, but we walked in the forest, gathered berries, and watched the wind play in the grass. I stopped asking where I was supposed to go. I started walking slower. Listening more. The world became gentle, softer. The tightness in my chest began to loosen, as though something heavy was slipping off my back.
One morning, I woke up to find him gone. His hut stood quiet, the hearth cold. A note sat on a flat stone outside, with six words: “You have already arrived. Walk lightly.”
I didn’t cry. I smiled.
Months later, I found myself back near my village. People asked where I had been, what I had learned. I only smiled and said, “I followed the butterfly.”
They laughed kindly, as if I joked. But I carried those quiet days with me like a river carries leaves—calm, steady.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel lost or heavy, I stop moving so fast. I notice the wind. I watch the butterflies.
And I remember Master Pi’s smile.
I walk lightly.
The ground was dry beneath my feet, cracked like a rice cake forgotten too long in the sun. I hadn’t eaten real food in days. My name is Shen, and I had left my village to find something—though I didn’t know what it was. I thought if I traveled far enough, I might feel whole. But the longer I walked, the emptier I felt.
One morning, as the mist still played among the trees, I stumbled onto a small clearing. A crooked hut sat beneath a large plum tree, blooming with white flowers. Sitting beside it was an old man, silent, still as the mountain. His hair hung like silver threads, and his robe moved gently with the breeze.
I stood frozen, unsure what to do. He looked up and smiled, easily, like we were already friends.
“Come,” he said, patting the grass beside him.
I sat. He offered me a bowl of warm tea, and I took it gratefully.
“My name is Shen,” I finally said.
He nodded. “Some call me Master Pi,” he said. “But names are like clouds,” he added, “They pass.”
We sat in silence after that. I wanted to ask him questions, to tell him how lost I felt. But the silence felt warm, so I said nothing. A butterfly drifted past, its wings fanning like painted paper.
I watched it land gently on the edge of my bowl. “How does it not get tired of flying?” I asked.
Master Pi chuckled. “It does not wonder if it should fly, nor where to go. It follows the breeze. No rushing. No plan. Just... the way.”
I didn’t understand, not really. But I liked the idea of not trying so hard.
That day, I stayed with Master Pi. Then the next. We didn’t talk much, but we walked in the forest, gathered berries, and watched the wind play in the grass. I stopped asking where I was supposed to go. I started walking slower. Listening more. The world became gentle, softer. The tightness in my chest began to loosen, as though something heavy was slipping off my back.
One morning, I woke up to find him gone. His hut stood quiet, the hearth cold. A note sat on a flat stone outside, with six words: “You have already arrived. Walk lightly.”
I didn’t cry. I smiled.
Months later, I found myself back near my village. People asked where I had been, what I had learned. I only smiled and said, “I followed the butterfly.”
They laughed kindly, as if I joked. But I carried those quiet days with me like a river carries leaves—calm, steady.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel lost or heavy, I stop moving so fast. I notice the wind. I watch the butterflies.
And I remember Master Pi’s smile.
I walk lightly.
