I had always believed that pushing hard brought results. Wake up early, work until I was dizzy, and always plan ahead—this was how I thought life worked. But one spring morning, everything I believed started to change.
My name is Jin, and I was a merchant’s son. I often walked with my father from one village to the next, selling silk and tea. One day, after days of walking and shouting in marketplaces, my father told me we were taking a detour—into the mountains.
“But we’re not going to sell anything up there,” I said, frowning.
“We’re going to learn something,” he replied with a quiet smile.
We reached a peaceful valley by midday, where a small wooden hut stood under tall pine trees. Birds chirped softly. A gentle old man sat outside, watching the wind move through the trees. His name was Shen, and my father told me he used to be a great government advisor before he went to live in the mountains.
“You used to have so much power,” I said, wide-eyed. “Why’d you leave?”
Shen chuckled. “Power is heavy. Peace is light.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
We stayed with Shen for three days. Each day, I expected a lesson like in school—chalk, a board, a clear teaching. But instead, Shen just lived.
He got up with the sun, swept the path slowly, gathered herbs by a quiet stream, and cooked lentil porridge while humming softly.
One morning, I followed him into the woods, frustrated. “You don’t really do anything! How can I learn like this?”
Shen stopped and pointed at a crooked tree growing next to a sharp cliff. “See that tree? Bent and strange, but it’s never been cut. The straight ones get chopped down. So the odd tree lives longer.” He looked at me with kind eyes. “Doing less doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means doing what fits.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Back in the town, I watched my father in the market—moving quickly, shouting about prices, sweating in the sun. I tried, but it didn’t feel right anymore. I remembered Shen walking calmly under the trees, his hands behind his back, letting the wind guide him.
So I stopped rushing and listened more. I spoke softer. I helped a boy carry water instead of pushing ahead in the crowd. That day I sold even more tea. Not because I pushed harder—but because I flowed, like water.
It took time. I didn’t change overnight. But every time I start to feel hurried or lost, I think of Shen’s tree. It reminds me that being useful doesn't always mean being the fastest or the loudest.
That’s when I began to understand the Tao—the Way.
The Tao isn’t found through force. It’s like a river: it flows around rocks, not through them. And if you let go, sometimes, it carries you somewhere better than you planned.
Now, when I walk to the market, I walk a little slower. And I smile, trusting that the way will show itself.
I had always believed that pushing hard brought results. Wake up early, work until I was dizzy, and always plan ahead—this was how I thought life worked. But one spring morning, everything I believed started to change.
My name is Jin, and I was a merchant’s son. I often walked with my father from one village to the next, selling silk and tea. One day, after days of walking and shouting in marketplaces, my father told me we were taking a detour—into the mountains.
“But we’re not going to sell anything up there,” I said, frowning.
“We’re going to learn something,” he replied with a quiet smile.
We reached a peaceful valley by midday, where a small wooden hut stood under tall pine trees. Birds chirped softly. A gentle old man sat outside, watching the wind move through the trees. His name was Shen, and my father told me he used to be a great government advisor before he went to live in the mountains.
“You used to have so much power,” I said, wide-eyed. “Why’d you leave?”
Shen chuckled. “Power is heavy. Peace is light.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
We stayed with Shen for three days. Each day, I expected a lesson like in school—chalk, a board, a clear teaching. But instead, Shen just lived.
He got up with the sun, swept the path slowly, gathered herbs by a quiet stream, and cooked lentil porridge while humming softly.
One morning, I followed him into the woods, frustrated. “You don’t really do anything! How can I learn like this?”
Shen stopped and pointed at a crooked tree growing next to a sharp cliff. “See that tree? Bent and strange, but it’s never been cut. The straight ones get chopped down. So the odd tree lives longer.” He looked at me with kind eyes. “Doing less doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means doing what fits.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Back in the town, I watched my father in the market—moving quickly, shouting about prices, sweating in the sun. I tried, but it didn’t feel right anymore. I remembered Shen walking calmly under the trees, his hands behind his back, letting the wind guide him.
So I stopped rushing and listened more. I spoke softer. I helped a boy carry water instead of pushing ahead in the crowd. That day I sold even more tea. Not because I pushed harder—but because I flowed, like water.
It took time. I didn’t change overnight. But every time I start to feel hurried or lost, I think of Shen’s tree. It reminds me that being useful doesn't always mean being the fastest or the loudest.
That’s when I began to understand the Tao—the Way.
The Tao isn’t found through force. It’s like a river: it flows around rocks, not through them. And if you let go, sometimes, it carries you somewhere better than you planned.
Now, when I walk to the market, I walk a little slower. And I smile, trusting that the way will show itself.
