It began with the sound of rushing wind.
I was a traveling painter, known only in small villages. My name is Jun, and I wandered from town to town with my brush and scrolls, painting whatever caught my eye. Mountains, rivers, birds in flight—I tried to capture the stillness inside every movement.
One day, after weeks of painting in the busy city of Luoyang, I found myself feeling restless. My mind was noisy. I had painted dozens of scrolls, taken many coins, and nodded to many important people. Still, something inside me felt lost.
I traveled west, toward the mountains, hoping to find peace in the quiet. That’s when I met him.
An old man sat by a river, his robe so plain it looked no different from the stones at his feet. His name was Shen. No one spoke of him in cities, but in the nearby village, people said he once studied under a great Taoist master. Now, he lived alone, tending a tiny garden and watching the river.
I asked if I could sit.
He didn’t answer—just smiled and moved over.
For days I joined him by the river. He said little, mostly humming or gazing into the water. I, too, stopped speaking. I stopped painting. I simply watched: water flowing, leaves falling, the wind carrying petals in slow, soft spirals.
“What do you see?” he asked one morning, pointing to the reflection of a bird flying above.
“I see the bird in the water,” I said.
“No,” he said gently. “You still see yourself seeing the bird.”
I didn’t understand. How could I see without... me?
That question stayed with me. I thought about it at night. I thought about it while boiling rice or listening to bugs in the grass.
Then one morning, I woke up and went down to the river as usual. But something was different. I no longer looked at the water thinking, “What is it trying to teach me?” I just looked. The bird flew overhead again, and I didn’t think about it—I felt it. The wind touched my skin, and I wasn’t separate from it. I was it.
And in that moment, there was no Jun the painter, no student of wisdom, no watcher of things.
I had forgotten myself.
Not in a sad or scary way. But like rain disappearing into the sea.
I felt lighter than I ever had before.
When I turned to Shen, he was smiling. But he said nothing. He didn’t need to.
I stayed for many more days, quietly being, no longer needing to do or be noticed. Then, one morning, I picked up my brush and painted—not for coin or praise, but because the wind moved my hand.
That day, I learned the deepest truth of Tao: When you stop chasing everything, including yourself, the Way becomes clear.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel lost or full of noise, I sit by a river and remember that it's okay to forget who I think I am.
The Tao is always there, flowing softly, waiting for me to let go.
It began with the sound of rushing wind.
I was a traveling painter, known only in small villages. My name is Jun, and I wandered from town to town with my brush and scrolls, painting whatever caught my eye. Mountains, rivers, birds in flight—I tried to capture the stillness inside every movement.
One day, after weeks of painting in the busy city of Luoyang, I found myself feeling restless. My mind was noisy. I had painted dozens of scrolls, taken many coins, and nodded to many important people. Still, something inside me felt lost.
I traveled west, toward the mountains, hoping to find peace in the quiet. That’s when I met him.
An old man sat by a river, his robe so plain it looked no different from the stones at his feet. His name was Shen. No one spoke of him in cities, but in the nearby village, people said he once studied under a great Taoist master. Now, he lived alone, tending a tiny garden and watching the river.
I asked if I could sit.
He didn’t answer—just smiled and moved over.
For days I joined him by the river. He said little, mostly humming or gazing into the water. I, too, stopped speaking. I stopped painting. I simply watched: water flowing, leaves falling, the wind carrying petals in slow, soft spirals.
“What do you see?” he asked one morning, pointing to the reflection of a bird flying above.
“I see the bird in the water,” I said.
“No,” he said gently. “You still see yourself seeing the bird.”
I didn’t understand. How could I see without... me?
That question stayed with me. I thought about it at night. I thought about it while boiling rice or listening to bugs in the grass.
Then one morning, I woke up and went down to the river as usual. But something was different. I no longer looked at the water thinking, “What is it trying to teach me?” I just looked. The bird flew overhead again, and I didn’t think about it—I felt it. The wind touched my skin, and I wasn’t separate from it. I was it.
And in that moment, there was no Jun the painter, no student of wisdom, no watcher of things.
I had forgotten myself.
Not in a sad or scary way. But like rain disappearing into the sea.
I felt lighter than I ever had before.
When I turned to Shen, he was smiling. But he said nothing. He didn’t need to.
I stayed for many more days, quietly being, no longer needing to do or be noticed. Then, one morning, I picked up my brush and painted—not for coin or praise, but because the wind moved my hand.
That day, I learned the deepest truth of Tao: When you stop chasing everything, including yourself, the Way becomes clear.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel lost or full of noise, I sit by a river and remember that it's okay to forget who I think I am.
The Tao is always there, flowing softly, waiting for me to let go.
