The wind was soft that morning, dancing over the rice fields like it had nowhere to be. I remember because I was trying so hard to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake Master Jun, the oldest man in our village. Everyone said he used to be a great scholar, but now he just sat under the plum tree and watched the clouds.
I was only ten then, full of questions and full of noise. That day, I had one big question that wouldn’t go away.
“Master Jun,” I whispered as I tiptoed closer. He didn’t move. I thought maybe he didn’t hear me, so I tried again. “Why don’t you do anything anymore?”
He looked up slowly, smiling like the clouds had just told him a secret.
“I do many things, little duck,” he said. He always called me ‘little duck,’ even though I told him my name was Lin.
I scratched my head. “But you're just sitting there. You don’t teach, you don’t plant, you don’t even sweep the temple anymore.”
He laughed, the kind of laugh you feel in the belly.
“Ah, I used to chase after many things,” he said, “wisdom in books, clever answers, even applause. One day, I met a man who forgot who he was.”
That caught my attention. “What do you mean he forgot who he was? Did he hit his head?”
“No,” said Master Jun, watching a butterfly flutter past. “He spent so much time being still, so much time being part of everything around him, that he no longer cared to be just one person. He became the wind, the river, the trees. He was not chasing after anything anymore. And in that, he found great joy.”
I blinked. “That sounds terribly lonely.”
“Hmm,” he said, “only to someone who thinks they must always be a something.”
I sat down next to him, confused but curious. Then—because I was still a little noisy—I asked, “But how do you live like that? Don’t you get bored or feel like you’re wasting time?”
Master Jun picked up a leaf. He didn't answer right away. He just turned the leaf over in his hand a few times and let it go. It drifted to the ground gently.
“Do you think the leaf is wasting time?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“It just falls,” he said, “and the wind holds it. That is enough.”
We sat quietly for a long time. I didn’t ask any more questions. I just watched the wind move through the grass, the way he did.
That day, I didn’t find the answer I wanted. But something changed in me. I saw that sometimes, the world didn’t need me to do big things. It just needed me to be still enough to see the small ones.
I didn’t become a great monk or a famous scholar. But now, when I feel lost or worried, I close my eyes and listen for the wind. I remember the leaf. I remember Master Jun.
And little by little, I’m learning to forget all the things I think I have to be. Just like that man who forgot his self.
And somehow, in that quiet, I feel more like me than ever.
The wind was soft that morning, dancing over the rice fields like it had nowhere to be. I remember because I was trying so hard to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake Master Jun, the oldest man in our village. Everyone said he used to be a great scholar, but now he just sat under the plum tree and watched the clouds.
I was only ten then, full of questions and full of noise. That day, I had one big question that wouldn’t go away.
“Master Jun,” I whispered as I tiptoed closer. He didn’t move. I thought maybe he didn’t hear me, so I tried again. “Why don’t you do anything anymore?”
He looked up slowly, smiling like the clouds had just told him a secret.
“I do many things, little duck,” he said. He always called me ‘little duck,’ even though I told him my name was Lin.
I scratched my head. “But you're just sitting there. You don’t teach, you don’t plant, you don’t even sweep the temple anymore.”
He laughed, the kind of laugh you feel in the belly.
“Ah, I used to chase after many things,” he said, “wisdom in books, clever answers, even applause. One day, I met a man who forgot who he was.”
That caught my attention. “What do you mean he forgot who he was? Did he hit his head?”
“No,” said Master Jun, watching a butterfly flutter past. “He spent so much time being still, so much time being part of everything around him, that he no longer cared to be just one person. He became the wind, the river, the trees. He was not chasing after anything anymore. And in that, he found great joy.”
I blinked. “That sounds terribly lonely.”
“Hmm,” he said, “only to someone who thinks they must always be a something.”
I sat down next to him, confused but curious. Then—because I was still a little noisy—I asked, “But how do you live like that? Don’t you get bored or feel like you’re wasting time?”
Master Jun picked up a leaf. He didn't answer right away. He just turned the leaf over in his hand a few times and let it go. It drifted to the ground gently.
“Do you think the leaf is wasting time?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“It just falls,” he said, “and the wind holds it. That is enough.”
We sat quietly for a long time. I didn’t ask any more questions. I just watched the wind move through the grass, the way he did.
That day, I didn’t find the answer I wanted. But something changed in me. I saw that sometimes, the world didn’t need me to do big things. It just needed me to be still enough to see the small ones.
I didn’t become a great monk or a famous scholar. But now, when I feel lost or worried, I close my eyes and listen for the wind. I remember the leaf. I remember Master Jun.
And little by little, I’m learning to forget all the things I think I have to be. Just like that man who forgot his self.
And somehow, in that quiet, I feel more like me than ever.
