It was just before dawn when I had the dream.
In my dream, I was flying—gentle and light, like a butterfly. My wings shimmered in the morning light, and the wind carried me over flowers, rivers, and fields. I danced through the air, free and joyful, without a care in the world. I didn’t think of where I was going or where I had been. I just flew. And it felt like the whole world was at peace.
But when I awoke, lying in my small bamboo hut, I felt confused.
“Was I Zhuang Zhou dreaming I was a butterfly,” I whispered to myself, “or am I now a butterfly dreaming I am Zhuang Zhou?”
Zhuang Zhou — that’s me. But people also call me Zhuangzi. I lived long ago, in ancient China, during a time when many people were asking big questions about life. I studied the Tao, which means “the Way.” The Tao is the natural flow of the universe — the way rivers run, trees grow, and stars shine, all without trying.
I stepped outside and looked at the garden. A butterfly flitted past, its tiny wings glowing in the morning light. I watched, remembering the feeling from my dream. So light. So simple.
But then I frowned. “How can I know what is real?” I asked the wind. “What if I am not Zhuang Zhou at all?”
I sat beneath the old mulberry tree, thinking quietly. I had once learned from an elder that the Tao isn’t something you chase. It’s like a stream. If you fight it, you tire yourself out. But if you float, it carries you exactly where you need to go.
So I stopped thinking so hard. I stopped trying to figure it out.
Instead, I started to observe.
The ant carried a crumb much bigger than itself, without grumbling.
The wind shook the leaves, but the tree stood still, accepting both sun and storm.
The butterfly returned, fluttering above my head, then disappearing into the sky.
And suddenly, it didn’t matter whether I was the butterfly or not.
The dream had shown me something greater. In that moment, I had felt the Tao — the peaceful, simple flow of life. In the dream, I didn’t push or try to decide anything. I simply flew. That was Wu Wei — doing without forcing. The butterfly never tries to be a butterfly. It just is.
From then on, I tried to live like that. I didn’t push the river or fear the wind. I didn’t cling to what was real or what was a dream. I learned to be like the butterfly—at ease, light, and in harmony with the Tao.
And though I would still dream many dreams, that one stayed with me.
Because in the flutter of wings, I had found the secret of peace.
And I am still learning how to fly.
It was just before dawn when I had the dream.
In my dream, I was flying—gentle and light, like a butterfly. My wings shimmered in the morning light, and the wind carried me over flowers, rivers, and fields. I danced through the air, free and joyful, without a care in the world. I didn’t think of where I was going or where I had been. I just flew. And it felt like the whole world was at peace.
But when I awoke, lying in my small bamboo hut, I felt confused.
“Was I Zhuang Zhou dreaming I was a butterfly,” I whispered to myself, “or am I now a butterfly dreaming I am Zhuang Zhou?”
Zhuang Zhou — that’s me. But people also call me Zhuangzi. I lived long ago, in ancient China, during a time when many people were asking big questions about life. I studied the Tao, which means “the Way.” The Tao is the natural flow of the universe — the way rivers run, trees grow, and stars shine, all without trying.
I stepped outside and looked at the garden. A butterfly flitted past, its tiny wings glowing in the morning light. I watched, remembering the feeling from my dream. So light. So simple.
But then I frowned. “How can I know what is real?” I asked the wind. “What if I am not Zhuang Zhou at all?”
I sat beneath the old mulberry tree, thinking quietly. I had once learned from an elder that the Tao isn’t something you chase. It’s like a stream. If you fight it, you tire yourself out. But if you float, it carries you exactly where you need to go.
So I stopped thinking so hard. I stopped trying to figure it out.
Instead, I started to observe.
The ant carried a crumb much bigger than itself, without grumbling.
The wind shook the leaves, but the tree stood still, accepting both sun and storm.
The butterfly returned, fluttering above my head, then disappearing into the sky.
And suddenly, it didn’t matter whether I was the butterfly or not.
The dream had shown me something greater. In that moment, I had felt the Tao — the peaceful, simple flow of life. In the dream, I didn’t push or try to decide anything. I simply flew. That was Wu Wei — doing without forcing. The butterfly never tries to be a butterfly. It just is.
From then on, I tried to live like that. I didn’t push the river or fear the wind. I didn’t cling to what was real or what was a dream. I learned to be like the butterfly—at ease, light, and in harmony with the Tao.
And though I would still dream many dreams, that one stayed with me.
Because in the flutter of wings, I had found the secret of peace.
And I am still learning how to fly.
