The sun was just rising over the jade-colored hills when I left the village. My legs were tired, and my heart even more so. I had spent the past year trying hard—too hard—to grow rice like Old Jun, the best farmer in our town. But no matter how early I rose or how hard I worked, my fields stayed dry and patchy, while Jun’s were full and green.
I was only twelve, but I already knew what it felt like to chase and chase and never catch. So, that morning, I decided to climb the hill behind the village to think. And that’s when I met her.
She sat quietly under a crooked pine tree. Her hair was silver, and her eyes shimmered like the river in moonlight. The villagers called her “Sage Lin,” though most said she didn’t say much at all.
“Hello,” I said, unsure if I should bother her.
She gave a soft smile. “Heavy feet,” she said gently. “Very loud steps for one so small.”
I looked down, embarrassed. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I try and try, but nothing works. No matter how much I water or dig, my fields stay dry. Old Jun barely does anything, and yet his fields bloom like springtime!”
She didn’t answer right away. She pressed her palm to the earth and patted the space beside her. I sat down and waited.
“Have you ever watched a leaf float down a stream?” she finally asked.
I nodded slowly, unsure where this was going.
“Does the leaf push against the water?”
“No,” I answered.
“Does it force the stream to change direction?”
I shook my head.
“But it still moves forward,” she said, calmly. “Without trying.”
I blinked. I had never thought about it that way before.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “when we do less, we allow more. Forcing the earth will not make it bloom. Listening to the earth might.”
I thought about that for a long time as we sat in silence. Then she pointed down toward the valley. “Go watch Jun. Not to copy him, but to feel how he moves. His hands listen. His water waits. You will see.”
So for the next few weeks, I did just that. I didn’t try to do more—I tried to be still. I stopped shouting at the soil and started feeling the wind. I noticed when the sun was strong or when the soil felt heavy. I learned the rhythm, not by force, but by watching.
By the time the season ended, my rice had grown—not as much as Jun’s, but more than ever before. I didn’t rush. I didn’t push. I moved with the Tao, not against it.
Now, years later, I still remember Sage Lin’s voice and the leaf in the water. I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to chase too hard, I pause and let go. I trust the Way. I let the water carry me.
And I move forward—quietly, softly, like the leaf.
The sun was just rising over the jade-colored hills when I left the village. My legs were tired, and my heart even more so. I had spent the past year trying hard—too hard—to grow rice like Old Jun, the best farmer in our town. But no matter how early I rose or how hard I worked, my fields stayed dry and patchy, while Jun’s were full and green.
I was only twelve, but I already knew what it felt like to chase and chase and never catch. So, that morning, I decided to climb the hill behind the village to think. And that’s when I met her.
She sat quietly under a crooked pine tree. Her hair was silver, and her eyes shimmered like the river in moonlight. The villagers called her “Sage Lin,” though most said she didn’t say much at all.
“Hello,” I said, unsure if I should bother her.
She gave a soft smile. “Heavy feet,” she said gently. “Very loud steps for one so small.”
I looked down, embarrassed. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I try and try, but nothing works. No matter how much I water or dig, my fields stay dry. Old Jun barely does anything, and yet his fields bloom like springtime!”
She didn’t answer right away. She pressed her palm to the earth and patted the space beside her. I sat down and waited.
“Have you ever watched a leaf float down a stream?” she finally asked.
I nodded slowly, unsure where this was going.
“Does the leaf push against the water?”
“No,” I answered.
“Does it force the stream to change direction?”
I shook my head.
“But it still moves forward,” she said, calmly. “Without trying.”
I blinked. I had never thought about it that way before.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “when we do less, we allow more. Forcing the earth will not make it bloom. Listening to the earth might.”
I thought about that for a long time as we sat in silence. Then she pointed down toward the valley. “Go watch Jun. Not to copy him, but to feel how he moves. His hands listen. His water waits. You will see.”
So for the next few weeks, I did just that. I didn’t try to do more—I tried to be still. I stopped shouting at the soil and started feeling the wind. I noticed when the sun was strong or when the soil felt heavy. I learned the rhythm, not by force, but by watching.
By the time the season ended, my rice had grown—not as much as Jun’s, but more than ever before. I didn’t rush. I didn’t push. I moved with the Tao, not against it.
Now, years later, I still remember Sage Lin’s voice and the leaf in the water. I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to chase too hard, I pause and let go. I trust the Way. I let the water carry me.
And I move forward—quietly, softly, like the leaf.
