It was still dark when I opened my eyes. The wind whispered through the paper walls, and I could just hear the rustling leaves outside. It was three in the morning, and for some reason, I couldn’t sleep.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the hall. My grandfather was already awake, sitting by the open door with his legs crossed. He often sat like that in the early hours, still and quiet like the mountain behind our house.
“Couldn’t sleep again?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
I nodded. He smiled gently and patted the mat beside him. “Then sit. Listen.”
So I did. For a while, neither of us said anything. We just sat, breathing the cool air.
After a long silence, I finally spoke. “I keep thinking too much, Grandpa. About school… about what I’m going to do when I grow up. Everyone says I need a plan. But I don’t know. And I feel anxious… like I have to try harder and harder just to understand.”
He opened one eye and looked at me. “Do you remember the story of the monkey keeper?”
I shook my head.
He chuckled. “There once was a man with many monkeys. Every morning, he gave them three chestnuts, and four in the evening. The monkeys were angry—‘Why only three in the morning?’ So the man said, 'Fine. Four in the morning, and three in the evening.' The monkeys were happy.”
I frowned. “But that’s the same.”
“Yes,” Grandpa said, “but the monkeys didn’t see it that way.”
I was quiet, trying to understand. “So… it didn’t really matter which way?”
“Exactly. But the monkeys didn’t know the difference between what is and what they think should be. Most people don’t either.”
We sat a little longer. I watched a butterfly wiggle free from under a folded leaf nearby.
Grandpa followed my gaze. “Zhuangzi, a wise man long ago, once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.”
“That’s confusing,” I said, scratching my head.
“Life is full of paradoxes,” Grandpa said. “Sometimes what we think is real… isn’t. And the more we chase answers, the more tangled we become. But when we sit quietly, sometimes, things become clear on their own.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the wind.
“So what should I do, Grandpa? Try harder? Or… let it all go?”
“Let go,” he said softly, “but listen. Don’t push the river. Let it flow around you—and through you. That is the Way.”
That morning, I didn’t find all the answers. But I felt something lighter in my chest. A quiet smile came over me, and I understood just a little more: that I didn’t need to fight so hard.
I still don’t know exactly where I’m going. But now, when I sit up at night—at three in the morning—I remember the monkeys, the butterfly… and the peaceful sound of the wind. And somehow, that is enough.
For now.
It was still dark when I opened my eyes. The wind whispered through the paper walls, and I could just hear the rustling leaves outside. It was three in the morning, and for some reason, I couldn’t sleep.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the hall. My grandfather was already awake, sitting by the open door with his legs crossed. He often sat like that in the early hours, still and quiet like the mountain behind our house.
“Couldn’t sleep again?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
I nodded. He smiled gently and patted the mat beside him. “Then sit. Listen.”
So I did. For a while, neither of us said anything. We just sat, breathing the cool air.
After a long silence, I finally spoke. “I keep thinking too much, Grandpa. About school… about what I’m going to do when I grow up. Everyone says I need a plan. But I don’t know. And I feel anxious… like I have to try harder and harder just to understand.”
He opened one eye and looked at me. “Do you remember the story of the monkey keeper?”
I shook my head.
He chuckled. “There once was a man with many monkeys. Every morning, he gave them three chestnuts, and four in the evening. The monkeys were angry—‘Why only three in the morning?’ So the man said, 'Fine. Four in the morning, and three in the evening.' The monkeys were happy.”
I frowned. “But that’s the same.”
“Yes,” Grandpa said, “but the monkeys didn’t see it that way.”
I was quiet, trying to understand. “So… it didn’t really matter which way?”
“Exactly. But the monkeys didn’t know the difference between what is and what they think should be. Most people don’t either.”
We sat a little longer. I watched a butterfly wiggle free from under a folded leaf nearby.
Grandpa followed my gaze. “Zhuangzi, a wise man long ago, once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.”
“That’s confusing,” I said, scratching my head.
“Life is full of paradoxes,” Grandpa said. “Sometimes what we think is real… isn’t. And the more we chase answers, the more tangled we become. But when we sit quietly, sometimes, things become clear on their own.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the wind.
“So what should I do, Grandpa? Try harder? Or… let it all go?”
“Let go,” he said softly, “but listen. Don’t push the river. Let it flow around you—and through you. That is the Way.”
That morning, I didn’t find all the answers. But I felt something lighter in my chest. A quiet smile came over me, and I understood just a little more: that I didn’t need to fight so hard.
I still don’t know exactly where I’m going. But now, when I sit up at night—at three in the morning—I remember the monkeys, the butterfly… and the peaceful sound of the wind. And somehow, that is enough.
For now.
