The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was only ten years old, but I believed I had to fix everything. My father’s shop had lost many customers, our new garden wouldn’t grow, and I spent each day hurrying from one chore to the next. I thought if I worked harder and moved faster, things would get better. But nothing did.
That evening, I walked to the edge of the village, near the quiet forest where the river flowed. There sat Old Master Xin, the quietest man I knew. He wasn’t famous or rich, but everyone said he was wise—almost like he could hear the breath of the earth itself.
He looked up as I came closer but didn’t say a word. I plopped down beside him and sighed so heavily you'd think I had just carried a mountain.
“I do everything I can,” I muttered. “I try so hard, but it's like the world just won’t listen to me.”
Master Xin didn't reply right away. He just passed me a small wooden cup filled with cool river water and pointed to the river.
“Watch,” he whispered.
I saw the river bend around rocks, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. A leaf floated gently, bumping into a stone, then twirling around it as if dancing.
“It never fights,” Xin said quietly. “It follows the way, the Tao—always flowing, never forcing.”
“But how does that help me?” I asked, frowning. “Should I just stop trying?”
He shook his head kindly. “Not stop. Just stop pushing. Sometimes, the harder we try to force things, the worse they become. Like trying to hold the wind with your hands—it slips away. That is Wu Wei. Action without forcing. Doing by not doing.”
I didn’t understand fully, but something about watching that river made my heart feel lighter.
The next morning, I did things differently. In the garden, I didn’t tug at the sprouts to grow faster. I just cleared weeds gently and watered them with calm hands. At the shop, I smiled at strangers instead of running around looking busy. I helped my father slowly, not rushing, not complaining.
And little by little, things started to change.
The sprouts began to grow—tiny green promises. A customer returned to my father's shop and brought a friend. The animals seemed calmer, and oddly, so did I.
I went back to Master Xin after a week. He smiled when he saw me.
“Do you still carry the world on your back?” he asked.
I looked up at the sky, then at the river.
“No,” I said. “Now I try to walk with it instead.”
That day, I began to understand the wisdom of the Tao. Not by grabbing or chasing, but by flowing—like water, like wind, like life itself.
I didn’t change overnight, and I still forget sometimes. But whenever I feel the need to push and struggle, I think of the river and let the moment guide me. The path of the Tao isn’t something you conquer. It’s something you learn to walk with, one peaceful step at a time.
The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was only ten years old, but I believed I had to fix everything. My father’s shop had lost many customers, our new garden wouldn’t grow, and I spent each day hurrying from one chore to the next. I thought if I worked harder and moved faster, things would get better. But nothing did.
That evening, I walked to the edge of the village, near the quiet forest where the river flowed. There sat Old Master Xin, the quietest man I knew. He wasn’t famous or rich, but everyone said he was wise—almost like he could hear the breath of the earth itself.
He looked up as I came closer but didn’t say a word. I plopped down beside him and sighed so heavily you'd think I had just carried a mountain.
“I do everything I can,” I muttered. “I try so hard, but it's like the world just won’t listen to me.”
Master Xin didn't reply right away. He just passed me a small wooden cup filled with cool river water and pointed to the river.
“Watch,” he whispered.
I saw the river bend around rocks, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. A leaf floated gently, bumping into a stone, then twirling around it as if dancing.
“It never fights,” Xin said quietly. “It follows the way, the Tao—always flowing, never forcing.”
“But how does that help me?” I asked, frowning. “Should I just stop trying?”
He shook his head kindly. “Not stop. Just stop pushing. Sometimes, the harder we try to force things, the worse they become. Like trying to hold the wind with your hands—it slips away. That is Wu Wei. Action without forcing. Doing by not doing.”
I didn’t understand fully, but something about watching that river made my heart feel lighter.
The next morning, I did things differently. In the garden, I didn’t tug at the sprouts to grow faster. I just cleared weeds gently and watered them with calm hands. At the shop, I smiled at strangers instead of running around looking busy. I helped my father slowly, not rushing, not complaining.
And little by little, things started to change.
The sprouts began to grow—tiny green promises. A customer returned to my father's shop and brought a friend. The animals seemed calmer, and oddly, so did I.
I went back to Master Xin after a week. He smiled when he saw me.
“Do you still carry the world on your back?” he asked.
I looked up at the sky, then at the river.
“No,” I said. “Now I try to walk with it instead.”
That day, I began to understand the wisdom of the Tao. Not by grabbing or chasing, but by flowing—like water, like wind, like life itself.
I didn’t change overnight, and I still forget sometimes. But whenever I feel the need to push and struggle, I think of the river and let the moment guide me. The path of the Tao isn’t something you conquer. It’s something you learn to walk with, one peaceful step at a time.
