The fire crackled in the hearth as I sat beside my grandfather, sipping warm tea. I was only nine years old then, and my heart was full of questions. That day, the world felt too big and too loud, and I didn’t understand why things often didn’t go the way I wanted.
“Grandfather,” I said, watching a white moth flutter near the lantern, “Why do things feel so hard sometimes? I try so much, but nothing works the way I hope.”
Grandfather smiled, not at me, but at the steam curling from his cup. “Would you like to hear a Taoist tale?” he asked gently.
I nodded.
“A long time ago,” he began, “in a quiet mountain village, lived a boy named Ming. Ming wanted to be perfect. He wanted to be the best student, the fastest runner, and the strongest swimmer. He worked harder than anyone else. Every morning he rose before the sun and practiced. But something always went wrong. His rice never cooked just right, his paintings always smudged, and his kite always flew lower than the others.”
I leaned closer. “Was he sad?”
“Yes,” Grandfather said. “One morning, as Ming stomped down the forest path after another failed drawing, he met an old man sitting beside a stream. The man sat very still, watching the water flow over the stones.”
‘What are you doing?’ Ming asked. ‘Nothing?’ the man replied with a chuckle. ‘Just flowing.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Ming said. ‘If you don’t do anything, how will you ever be better at anything?’
‘Ah,’ the old man said, ‘But why do you need to be better?’
Ming didn’t know how to answer. So the man pointed at the water. ‘Do you see it forcing its way through the rocks?’
Ming shook his head.
‘And yet, it moves everything in time,’ said the man. ‘It shapes mountains without effort. That is the Way of the Tao.’”
Grandfather paused and looked at me. “Do you see, little leaf? Ming was trying so hard to control everything. But the Tao teaches us to follow the way things already want to go. That’s called Wu Wei—non-forcing. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means letting things happen in their natural time.”
I set my cup down and stared into the fire. I thought about the times I had forced myself to do better in school, to try harder on the piano, and how I always ended up frustrated.
The next morning, I didn’t rush my math homework. I let myself go slowly. I played a single song on the piano, letting my fingers wander like the stream. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt different—peaceful.
Days passed into weeks, and something inside me began to shift. I stopped squeezing life like a tight fist. I began to trust the flow of each day, like the stream that shaped the stones.
I didn’t become perfect.
But I became calm.
And that was the secret I didn’t know I needed.
Now, whenever I feel like pushing too hard, I remember Ming, the quiet stream, and Grandfather’s warm smile. And I take a deep breath.
And I flow.
The fire crackled in the hearth as I sat beside my grandfather, sipping warm tea. I was only nine years old then, and my heart was full of questions. That day, the world felt too big and too loud, and I didn’t understand why things often didn’t go the way I wanted.
“Grandfather,” I said, watching a white moth flutter near the lantern, “Why do things feel so hard sometimes? I try so much, but nothing works the way I hope.”
Grandfather smiled, not at me, but at the steam curling from his cup. “Would you like to hear a Taoist tale?” he asked gently.
I nodded.
“A long time ago,” he began, “in a quiet mountain village, lived a boy named Ming. Ming wanted to be perfect. He wanted to be the best student, the fastest runner, and the strongest swimmer. He worked harder than anyone else. Every morning he rose before the sun and practiced. But something always went wrong. His rice never cooked just right, his paintings always smudged, and his kite always flew lower than the others.”
I leaned closer. “Was he sad?”
“Yes,” Grandfather said. “One morning, as Ming stomped down the forest path after another failed drawing, he met an old man sitting beside a stream. The man sat very still, watching the water flow over the stones.”
‘What are you doing?’ Ming asked. ‘Nothing?’ the man replied with a chuckle. ‘Just flowing.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Ming said. ‘If you don’t do anything, how will you ever be better at anything?’
‘Ah,’ the old man said, ‘But why do you need to be better?’
Ming didn’t know how to answer. So the man pointed at the water. ‘Do you see it forcing its way through the rocks?’
Ming shook his head.
‘And yet, it moves everything in time,’ said the man. ‘It shapes mountains without effort. That is the Way of the Tao.’”
Grandfather paused and looked at me. “Do you see, little leaf? Ming was trying so hard to control everything. But the Tao teaches us to follow the way things already want to go. That’s called Wu Wei—non-forcing. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means letting things happen in their natural time.”
I set my cup down and stared into the fire. I thought about the times I had forced myself to do better in school, to try harder on the piano, and how I always ended up frustrated.
The next morning, I didn’t rush my math homework. I let myself go slowly. I played a single song on the piano, letting my fingers wander like the stream. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt different—peaceful.
Days passed into weeks, and something inside me began to shift. I stopped squeezing life like a tight fist. I began to trust the flow of each day, like the stream that shaped the stones.
I didn’t become perfect.
But I became calm.
And that was the secret I didn’t know I needed.
Now, whenever I feel like pushing too hard, I remember Ming, the quiet stream, and Grandfather’s warm smile. And I take a deep breath.
And I flow.
