It was early morning when I first saw the Old Master. The mist was heavy around the village, like a soft blanket wrapped over the world. I had come from the north, a young trader carrying spices for the Spring Festival. But my heart was tired. No matter how much I earned or how fast I went, I always felt rushed and restless—like a bird flapping on the spot.
I stopped by a peaceful village to rest, and that’s where I met him—Laozi, the Old Master. The villagers whispered his name with respect. He had once worked in the court of the Emperor, guarding the royal library. People said he carried more wisdom in his little finger than all the scrolls in the palace.
He sat outside a small hut by a willow tree, feeding birds. Not speaking. Just watching the world.
Curious, I asked him, “Master Laozi, how can I find peace? I work hard, run faster than others, and yet... I feel empty. What am I missing?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he nodded toward the stream nearby. “Come,” he said quietly.
We walked in silence. The stream gurgled gently, moving around rocks without trying to push them. Laozi picked up a leaf and placed it in the water.
“See this leaf?” he asked. “It does nothing. It does not fight the stream. And yet, it goes exactly where it must.”
I watched the leaf float, not sinking, not struggling.
“But isn’t that lazy?” I asked, confused. “If I don’t push, how can I succeed?”
Laozi smiled. “In Tao, we call this 'Wu Wei'—the way of not forcing. You are like a man pushing the river, when the river is already moving. The reed bends with the wind and stands tall again. The tree that fights the storm breaks.”
I didn’t fully understand then, but his words stayed with me.
That night, I lay beside the stream, listening. The water didn’t shout or rush. It just moved—quiet and strong. I thought of my life, how I had chased more and more, always thinking the next sale or big city would fix my worries.
The next day, I didn’t run off. I stayed.
I helped the villagers. I planted vegetables in the morning. I told stories to children in the evening. My heart, once filled with fire and noise, began to feel still like the stream.
Weeks passed before I realized—I was no longer searching. I was simply living. The Tao was not a treasure to chase, but the path beneath my feet, quiet and always there.
When I did leave, Laozi handed me a small scroll. It had few words. They said: “Be like water. Flow with the Way. And peace will follow.”
I still carry that scroll. Not as a rule, but a reminder.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the leaf. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the river.
Because in the quiet flow of life, I found something I never bargained for—peace.
It was early morning when I first saw the Old Master. The mist was heavy around the village, like a soft blanket wrapped over the world. I had come from the north, a young trader carrying spices for the Spring Festival. But my heart was tired. No matter how much I earned or how fast I went, I always felt rushed and restless—like a bird flapping on the spot.
I stopped by a peaceful village to rest, and that’s where I met him—Laozi, the Old Master. The villagers whispered his name with respect. He had once worked in the court of the Emperor, guarding the royal library. People said he carried more wisdom in his little finger than all the scrolls in the palace.
He sat outside a small hut by a willow tree, feeding birds. Not speaking. Just watching the world.
Curious, I asked him, “Master Laozi, how can I find peace? I work hard, run faster than others, and yet... I feel empty. What am I missing?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he nodded toward the stream nearby. “Come,” he said quietly.
We walked in silence. The stream gurgled gently, moving around rocks without trying to push them. Laozi picked up a leaf and placed it in the water.
“See this leaf?” he asked. “It does nothing. It does not fight the stream. And yet, it goes exactly where it must.”
I watched the leaf float, not sinking, not struggling.
“But isn’t that lazy?” I asked, confused. “If I don’t push, how can I succeed?”
Laozi smiled. “In Tao, we call this 'Wu Wei'—the way of not forcing. You are like a man pushing the river, when the river is already moving. The reed bends with the wind and stands tall again. The tree that fights the storm breaks.”
I didn’t fully understand then, but his words stayed with me.
That night, I lay beside the stream, listening. The water didn’t shout or rush. It just moved—quiet and strong. I thought of my life, how I had chased more and more, always thinking the next sale or big city would fix my worries.
The next day, I didn’t run off. I stayed.
I helped the villagers. I planted vegetables in the morning. I told stories to children in the evening. My heart, once filled with fire and noise, began to feel still like the stream.
Weeks passed before I realized—I was no longer searching. I was simply living. The Tao was not a treasure to chase, but the path beneath my feet, quiet and always there.
When I did leave, Laozi handed me a small scroll. It had few words. They said: “Be like water. Flow with the Way. And peace will follow.”
I still carry that scroll. Not as a rule, but a reminder.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the leaf. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the river.
Because in the quiet flow of life, I found something I never bargained for—peace.
