The morning sun peeked through the bamboo leaves as I sat quietly by the river. I was only twelve, but I often felt older, like my heart was too busy chasing things—school, praise, getting it all right. And still, something always felt off. That morning, my grandfather asked me to join him outside. He was an old man with a long, white beard and soft, wise eyes that had seen many seasons.
He pointed to a butterfly as it fluttered lazily over the water.
“Do you know the story of Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream?” he asked.
I shook my head, my eyes following the butterfly’s dance.
He smiled and began. “Zhuangzi was a wise man who lived long ago in China. One night, he dreamed he was a butterfly—fluttering freely, enjoying the breeze and sunshine, feeling no worries. But then he woke up… and he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly now dreaming it was a man.”
I blinked at him. “How could he not know?”
“That,” he said softly, “is the lesson. Sometimes, what we think is real is just a dream. And what feels like a dream may be truth. Zhuangzi was teaching about the Tao—the Way—and how we are all part of it, flowing like rivers, changing like seasons, dancing like butterflies.”
I thought for a long time. “But where does that leave me?”
He picked up a leaf from the ground and let it float on the river. “Sometimes, we try too hard to be something. We run, we chase, we fight the current. But the Tao teaches us wu wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. Like this leaf, just floating. It doesn’t try. It trusts the river.”
My chest felt tight. I had been trying so hard to get things right—scores, awards, praise from teachers. What if I stopped chasing… Would I disappear?
“But if I don’t try, won’t I fall behind?” I asked.
Grandfather leaned back, watching the clouds. “Trying isn’t bad. But forcing… pushing… straining—these things cause suffering. The Tao brings peace when we live in balance. Do what comes naturally. Be like the butterfly. It simply is—and yet it is perfect.”
That night, I dreamed I was a butterfly too. The wind carried me over fields and forests. I didn’t worry where I was going. I just flew.
When I woke, I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed I was a butterfly, or if the butterfly was dreaming me.
But I smiled.
And something inside me felt lighter.
I still went to school. I still did my work. But I no longer rushed or forced things. I learned to listen to moments, to breathe, and trust the flow of life.
Now, whenever I feel overwhelmed, I go back to the river. Sometimes I see butterflies. And I remember that I don’t have to chase the wind.
I can let it carry me.
And that, I think, is the beginning of something true.
The morning sun peeked through the bamboo leaves as I sat quietly by the river. I was only twelve, but I often felt older, like my heart was too busy chasing things—school, praise, getting it all right. And still, something always felt off. That morning, my grandfather asked me to join him outside. He was an old man with a long, white beard and soft, wise eyes that had seen many seasons.
He pointed to a butterfly as it fluttered lazily over the water.
“Do you know the story of Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream?” he asked.
I shook my head, my eyes following the butterfly’s dance.
He smiled and began. “Zhuangzi was a wise man who lived long ago in China. One night, he dreamed he was a butterfly—fluttering freely, enjoying the breeze and sunshine, feeling no worries. But then he woke up… and he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly now dreaming it was a man.”
I blinked at him. “How could he not know?”
“That,” he said softly, “is the lesson. Sometimes, what we think is real is just a dream. And what feels like a dream may be truth. Zhuangzi was teaching about the Tao—the Way—and how we are all part of it, flowing like rivers, changing like seasons, dancing like butterflies.”
I thought for a long time. “But where does that leave me?”
He picked up a leaf from the ground and let it float on the river. “Sometimes, we try too hard to be something. We run, we chase, we fight the current. But the Tao teaches us wu wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. Like this leaf, just floating. It doesn’t try. It trusts the river.”
My chest felt tight. I had been trying so hard to get things right—scores, awards, praise from teachers. What if I stopped chasing… Would I disappear?
“But if I don’t try, won’t I fall behind?” I asked.
Grandfather leaned back, watching the clouds. “Trying isn’t bad. But forcing… pushing… straining—these things cause suffering. The Tao brings peace when we live in balance. Do what comes naturally. Be like the butterfly. It simply is—and yet it is perfect.”
That night, I dreamed I was a butterfly too. The wind carried me over fields and forests. I didn’t worry where I was going. I just flew.
When I woke, I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed I was a butterfly, or if the butterfly was dreaming me.
But I smiled.
And something inside me felt lighter.
I still went to school. I still did my work. But I no longer rushed or forced things. I learned to listen to moments, to breathe, and trust the flow of life.
Now, whenever I feel overwhelmed, I go back to the river. Sometimes I see butterflies. And I remember that I don’t have to chase the wind.
I can let it carry me.
And that, I think, is the beginning of something true.
