The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was only ten, but in that moment, I felt a hundred. Mama’s garden had failed again, and my little sister was coughing from the dust in the air. I decided I had to fix things… even though I didn't know how.
“I’ll find help!” I told myself, and I ran into the hills behind our village.
I didn’t know those hills well. People said strange things about them. They said a hermit lived up high, someone odd but wise. I didn’t believe in such stories. But desperate hearts don't ask for directions—they just go.
As I climbed, I slipped, tumbled, and cried once. Maybe twice. But I kept going.
At the top, where the trees grew wide and wind spoke like a soft whisper, I met him. An old man with a crooked beard, sitting under a fig tree, sipping tea from a cracked bowl.
“You seem full of hurry,” he said without looking up.
“I need help,” I said. “My home is falling apart. We work so hard, but nothing works! Can you teach me something? Anything?”
He nodded. Slowly, he poured me some tea. It steamed up into the early night air.
“Tell me,” he said, “how do you hold water in your hand?”
I blinked. “You can’t. It slips away.”
“Exactly,” he smiled.
I frowned. “What does that have to do with my family?”
“Sometimes,” he said, “we think force and worry can fix the world. But Nature moves effortlessly. The river flows without trying. The tree grows without thinking. This is called Wu Wei.”
I frowned again. “But that doesn’t help my garden.”
He chuckled. “Why did you plant wheat in the dry season?”
“Because we needed food!”
“But Nature wasn’t ready. Tao, the Way, teaches us to move with the world, not against it.”
He lifted a pebble. “This stone does not try to grow. It simply is. Tao is like that. Find the rhythm, and things bloom in their own time.”
I sat there, quiet. I didn’t understand it all, but something softened inside me. I watched the wind move the tall grass. It bent and swayed, never fighting, only dancing. It looked... peaceful.
“Go home,” he said. “Care gently for your sister. Talk to your Mama. Watch the stars. The garden can wait.”
And so I went. I listened more. I forced less. And slowly, we found a new path.
We planted sweet potatoes next, in season. My sister got better. Mama smiled more. I didn’t run around shouting answers—I just paid better attention.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to fight and fix and force, I remember the old man under the fig tree and his simple tea and calm voice. I try to let things unfold, like leaves opening in spring.
Because sometimes, the secret is not to do more, but to let go and follow the Way.
The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was only ten, but in that moment, I felt a hundred. Mama’s garden had failed again, and my little sister was coughing from the dust in the air. I decided I had to fix things… even though I didn't know how.
“I’ll find help!” I told myself, and I ran into the hills behind our village.
I didn’t know those hills well. People said strange things about them. They said a hermit lived up high, someone odd but wise. I didn’t believe in such stories. But desperate hearts don't ask for directions—they just go.
As I climbed, I slipped, tumbled, and cried once. Maybe twice. But I kept going.
At the top, where the trees grew wide and wind spoke like a soft whisper, I met him. An old man with a crooked beard, sitting under a fig tree, sipping tea from a cracked bowl.
“You seem full of hurry,” he said without looking up.
“I need help,” I said. “My home is falling apart. We work so hard, but nothing works! Can you teach me something? Anything?”
He nodded. Slowly, he poured me some tea. It steamed up into the early night air.
“Tell me,” he said, “how do you hold water in your hand?”
I blinked. “You can’t. It slips away.”
“Exactly,” he smiled.
I frowned. “What does that have to do with my family?”
“Sometimes,” he said, “we think force and worry can fix the world. But Nature moves effortlessly. The river flows without trying. The tree grows without thinking. This is called Wu Wei.”
I frowned again. “But that doesn’t help my garden.”
He chuckled. “Why did you plant wheat in the dry season?”
“Because we needed food!”
“But Nature wasn’t ready. Tao, the Way, teaches us to move with the world, not against it.”
He lifted a pebble. “This stone does not try to grow. It simply is. Tao is like that. Find the rhythm, and things bloom in their own time.”
I sat there, quiet. I didn’t understand it all, but something softened inside me. I watched the wind move the tall grass. It bent and swayed, never fighting, only dancing. It looked... peaceful.
“Go home,” he said. “Care gently for your sister. Talk to your Mama. Watch the stars. The garden can wait.”
And so I went. I listened more. I forced less. And slowly, we found a new path.
We planted sweet potatoes next, in season. My sister got better. Mama smiled more. I didn’t run around shouting answers—I just paid better attention.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to fight and fix and force, I remember the old man under the fig tree and his simple tea and calm voice. I try to let things unfold, like leaves opening in spring.
Because sometimes, the secret is not to do more, but to let go and follow the Way.
