The wind was soft, and the sky looked like a blanket of blue silk stretched across the world. I sat beside the creek, tossing pebbles into the water and feeling heavy inside. My name is Mi Yuan. I was twelve years old, and I didn’t understand anything anymore.
Lately, everything seemed hard.
I tried so hard to make my father proud—chopping wood faster, studying harder, speaking only when spoken to. But no matter what I did, something was always wrong. “Not fast enough,” or “You must pay more attention.” Some days I just wanted to disappear.
That’s why I liked sitting here, by the creek, where the only sounds were the water trickling over rocks and the wind speaking to the trees. It was quiet here. But even then, my heart thumped with questions I couldn’t answer.
Just as I rubbed my tired eyes, something small and bright danced in the air—it was a butterfly. Its wings were yellow like the sun, and it fluttered like a leaf caught in the breeze. I watched it move from flower to flower, never in a hurry, never needing a reason.
Beside me, I heard a chuckle. I hadn’t noticed the old man sitting beneath a willow tree. He had a long white beard and eyes that sparkled like morning dew. He seemed as much a part of the forest as the trees themselves.
“You see that butterfly?” he said, pointing.
I nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiled. “That butterfly has no job, no chores, no worries. And yet it lives fully, in harmony with the world. Have you heard of Master Zhuangzi?”
I shook my head.
“Long ago,” the old man said, “Zhuangzi was a wise philosopher. One day, he dreamed he was a butterfly. In the dream, he flew freely, without care. When he woke up, he wondered—was he a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”
I blinked. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he said gently. “The Tao is not something you figure out by thinking too hard. It is the Way—the natural flow of the world. Sometimes, we try too hard to be something we think we should be. But like the butterfly, being is enough. Doing less can sometimes mean living more.”
For a while, we sat in silence. I watched the butterfly again. It didn’t chase flowers—it let the breeze carry it.
That night, I told Father I wanted to rest my mind. Instead of asking questions, I went outside and watched the stars. My chest felt light, like the breeze had entered me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel lost or small, I remember the butterfly. I breathe, I let go, and I follow the wind.
That is the secret of the Tao—sometimes, the best way to move is by standing still, and the best way to live is by letting go. Like Zhuangzi’s butterfly, I’m not always sure who I’m meant to be. But in the stillness, I’m beginning to feel free.
The wind was soft, and the sky looked like a blanket of blue silk stretched across the world. I sat beside the creek, tossing pebbles into the water and feeling heavy inside. My name is Mi Yuan. I was twelve years old, and I didn’t understand anything anymore.
Lately, everything seemed hard.
I tried so hard to make my father proud—chopping wood faster, studying harder, speaking only when spoken to. But no matter what I did, something was always wrong. “Not fast enough,” or “You must pay more attention.” Some days I just wanted to disappear.
That’s why I liked sitting here, by the creek, where the only sounds were the water trickling over rocks and the wind speaking to the trees. It was quiet here. But even then, my heart thumped with questions I couldn’t answer.
Just as I rubbed my tired eyes, something small and bright danced in the air—it was a butterfly. Its wings were yellow like the sun, and it fluttered like a leaf caught in the breeze. I watched it move from flower to flower, never in a hurry, never needing a reason.
Beside me, I heard a chuckle. I hadn’t noticed the old man sitting beneath a willow tree. He had a long white beard and eyes that sparkled like morning dew. He seemed as much a part of the forest as the trees themselves.
“You see that butterfly?” he said, pointing.
I nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiled. “That butterfly has no job, no chores, no worries. And yet it lives fully, in harmony with the world. Have you heard of Master Zhuangzi?”
I shook my head.
“Long ago,” the old man said, “Zhuangzi was a wise philosopher. One day, he dreamed he was a butterfly. In the dream, he flew freely, without care. When he woke up, he wondered—was he a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”
I blinked. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he said gently. “The Tao is not something you figure out by thinking too hard. It is the Way—the natural flow of the world. Sometimes, we try too hard to be something we think we should be. But like the butterfly, being is enough. Doing less can sometimes mean living more.”
For a while, we sat in silence. I watched the butterfly again. It didn’t chase flowers—it let the breeze carry it.
That night, I told Father I wanted to rest my mind. Instead of asking questions, I went outside and watched the stars. My chest felt light, like the breeze had entered me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel lost or small, I remember the butterfly. I breathe, I let go, and I follow the wind.
That is the secret of the Tao—sometimes, the best way to move is by standing still, and the best way to live is by letting go. Like Zhuangzi’s butterfly, I’m not always sure who I’m meant to be. But in the stillness, I’m beginning to feel free.
