The morning mist was thick in the valley as I followed my grandfather through the tall grass. We were traveling to the hills to gather herbs, but I wasn’t thinking about plants—I was thinking about winning a sword match against my older brother. I had practiced swinging sticks all week, and I was ready to show off.
“Grandfather,” I said, “if I train harder than anyone else, I’ll win, right?”
He smiled but said nothing. Instead, he pointed toward the rocks by the stream. “Sit with me a moment,” he said.
I sighed but obeyed. Grandfather picked a spot near a patch of clover and folded his legs. Even at his old age, he moved like the wind—slow but certain.
“Let me tell you a story,” he began. “Do you know of the Yellow Emperor?”
I shook my head.
“He was a great ruler a long, long time ago, wise and strong. He wanted to know the secrets of the world—how to control the stars, the mountains, and even the heart of people. So he studied hard and searched far. One night, tired from his journey, he laid down beneath a pine tree and dreamed.”
I leaned forward. I liked dreams.
“In his dream,” Grandfather continued, “the Yellow Emperor saw himself as a butterfly. He flew through gardens, soft as silk, without a care. He had no title, no crown, no kingdom—just wings and wind. It was peaceful.”
Then Grandfather grew quiet, letting the wind blow between us. Finally, he said, “But when he woke up, he asked, ‘Am I a man who dreamed I was a butterfly—or a butterfly now dreaming I am a man?’”
I blinked. That didn’t make any sense.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Grandfather smiled. “It means that sometimes, we spend so much time trying to control things—like winning battles or being the best—that we forget how to simply be. The dream showed him how it felt to live without force.”
I frowned. “So… I shouldn’t try to win the sword match?”
He chuckled. “You can still play with your brother. But instead of pushing and trying too hard, maybe try being like the butterfly—floating with the moment. That’s called wu wei. It means not forcing things. Let them happen naturally.”
I thought about that on our walk home. I decided to go easy during practice. I waited. I watched. I moved when it felt right—not too fast, not too hard. My brother missed his swings because he got tired first. And guess what? I didn’t even realize I had won.
That day, I didn’t just win a game—I learned something bigger.
I learned that sometimes, doing less is more.
Grandfather never told me to stop practicing or to give up. He only showed me a different way: the way of the Tao. I still remember his story every time I try too hard at something. I stop, breathe, and ask—am I the boy, or am I the butterfly?
Maybe both.
And maybe, that’s just how the Tao moves.
The morning mist was thick in the valley as I followed my grandfather through the tall grass. We were traveling to the hills to gather herbs, but I wasn’t thinking about plants—I was thinking about winning a sword match against my older brother. I had practiced swinging sticks all week, and I was ready to show off.
“Grandfather,” I said, “if I train harder than anyone else, I’ll win, right?”
He smiled but said nothing. Instead, he pointed toward the rocks by the stream. “Sit with me a moment,” he said.
I sighed but obeyed. Grandfather picked a spot near a patch of clover and folded his legs. Even at his old age, he moved like the wind—slow but certain.
“Let me tell you a story,” he began. “Do you know of the Yellow Emperor?”
I shook my head.
“He was a great ruler a long, long time ago, wise and strong. He wanted to know the secrets of the world—how to control the stars, the mountains, and even the heart of people. So he studied hard and searched far. One night, tired from his journey, he laid down beneath a pine tree and dreamed.”
I leaned forward. I liked dreams.
“In his dream,” Grandfather continued, “the Yellow Emperor saw himself as a butterfly. He flew through gardens, soft as silk, without a care. He had no title, no crown, no kingdom—just wings and wind. It was peaceful.”
Then Grandfather grew quiet, letting the wind blow between us. Finally, he said, “But when he woke up, he asked, ‘Am I a man who dreamed I was a butterfly—or a butterfly now dreaming I am a man?’”
I blinked. That didn’t make any sense.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Grandfather smiled. “It means that sometimes, we spend so much time trying to control things—like winning battles or being the best—that we forget how to simply be. The dream showed him how it felt to live without force.”
I frowned. “So… I shouldn’t try to win the sword match?”
He chuckled. “You can still play with your brother. But instead of pushing and trying too hard, maybe try being like the butterfly—floating with the moment. That’s called wu wei. It means not forcing things. Let them happen naturally.”
I thought about that on our walk home. I decided to go easy during practice. I waited. I watched. I moved when it felt right—not too fast, not too hard. My brother missed his swings because he got tired first. And guess what? I didn’t even realize I had won.
That day, I didn’t just win a game—I learned something bigger.
I learned that sometimes, doing less is more.
Grandfather never told me to stop practicing or to give up. He only showed me a different way: the way of the Tao. I still remember his story every time I try too hard at something. I stop, breathe, and ask—am I the boy, or am I the butterfly?
Maybe both.
And maybe, that’s just how the Tao moves.
