I woke with the sun warming my face and the memory of wings in my thoughts. Something felt different, like I wasn’t quite myself… or perhaps I was more myself than ever before.
My name is Lin, and I was just a sleepy boy from a peaceful village at the base of Jade Mountain. I loved chasing grasshoppers, napping in the tall grass, and listening to the wind in the bamboo. People often called me lazy, but Grandfather said I was simply close to the Tao—the Way of all things.
One morning, I lay beneath a tree, watching butterflies dance in the air. Their wings were like tiny floating leaves, yellow and white, soft and quiet. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because I began to dream.
In my dream, I was one of them—a butterfly. I fluttered from flower to flower, weightless and free. I didn’t have homework or chores or even a name. I just flew. I felt the breeze flow gently under my wings, and the whole world seemed to smile.
I was the butterfly.
When I woke beneath the tree, I blinked at the sky and rubbed my eyes. Was I still Lin? Or was I the butterfly dreaming of a boy?
I wandered back to the house where Grandfather was sipping tea. I sat beside him quietly.
“You look puzzled,” he said, handing me a warm cup.
“I had a dream I was a butterfly,” I said, “but when I woke up… I wasn’t sure if I was still me.”
He chuckled, his beard bouncing with the wind. “Ah, Zhuangzi’s dream,” he said. “He was a wise man who once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi.”
I looked at him, confused. “But… how does that help?”
Grandfather poured more tea. “Sometimes wisdom isn’t about answers. It’s about seeing that not everything needs one. The butterfly flies because it flies. You were happy because you let go of being anything at all.”
That day I didn’t run or play. I simply sat beneath the tree again and listened. The wind didn’t rush—it just moved. The leaves didn’t argue—they just fell when it was time.
I thought and thought, but the more I tried to understand, the less I did. Then I stopped trying. I just breathed. I just was.
And in that stillness, something clicked… but not like a puzzle being solved. More like the feeling of being held by something much bigger, quieter, and kinder than thoughts.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the world tugging at me to be something, to chase or win or prove, I remember the butterfly. I remember that sometimes, the most powerful thing I can do is simply fly on the wind and be.
I woke with the sun warming my face and the memory of wings in my thoughts. Something felt different, like I wasn’t quite myself… or perhaps I was more myself than ever before.
My name is Lin, and I was just a sleepy boy from a peaceful village at the base of Jade Mountain. I loved chasing grasshoppers, napping in the tall grass, and listening to the wind in the bamboo. People often called me lazy, but Grandfather said I was simply close to the Tao—the Way of all things.
One morning, I lay beneath a tree, watching butterflies dance in the air. Their wings were like tiny floating leaves, yellow and white, soft and quiet. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because I began to dream.
In my dream, I was one of them—a butterfly. I fluttered from flower to flower, weightless and free. I didn’t have homework or chores or even a name. I just flew. I felt the breeze flow gently under my wings, and the whole world seemed to smile.
I was the butterfly.
When I woke beneath the tree, I blinked at the sky and rubbed my eyes. Was I still Lin? Or was I the butterfly dreaming of a boy?
I wandered back to the house where Grandfather was sipping tea. I sat beside him quietly.
“You look puzzled,” he said, handing me a warm cup.
“I had a dream I was a butterfly,” I said, “but when I woke up… I wasn’t sure if I was still me.”
He chuckled, his beard bouncing with the wind. “Ah, Zhuangzi’s dream,” he said. “He was a wise man who once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi.”
I looked at him, confused. “But… how does that help?”
Grandfather poured more tea. “Sometimes wisdom isn’t about answers. It’s about seeing that not everything needs one. The butterfly flies because it flies. You were happy because you let go of being anything at all.”
That day I didn’t run or play. I simply sat beneath the tree again and listened. The wind didn’t rush—it just moved. The leaves didn’t argue—they just fell when it was time.
I thought and thought, but the more I tried to understand, the less I did. Then I stopped trying. I just breathed. I just was.
And in that stillness, something clicked… but not like a puzzle being solved. More like the feeling of being held by something much bigger, quieter, and kinder than thoughts.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the world tugging at me to be something, to chase or win or prove, I remember the butterfly. I remember that sometimes, the most powerful thing I can do is simply fly on the wind and be.
