The sun was blazing that summer afternoon, and my arms ached from planting rice all morning. I was twelve years old, and I thought working harder was the only way to help my family. My grandfather, an old farmer with a long beard and bright eyes, sat beneath our plum tree, sipping tea like he had all the time in the world.
“Grandfather,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead, “we can’t finish the field if you just sit there.”
He looked up and tapped the ground beside him. “Come sit, Jun,” he said with a soft grin. “Let the field grow for a while without you.”
“But it won’t get done!” I replied. “Aren’t we supposed to work hard and do more?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just watched the wind roll through the rice stalks, listening to it like it was singing a secret to him. After a while, he spoke.
“Did I ever tell you about Zhuangzi and the useless tree?”
I shook my head, curiosity teasing away my tiredness.
He began, “There once was a carpenter who saw a gnarled old tree. It was big but twisted. The carpenter said it was useless—no good for wood, no good for shade. But Zhuangzi, a wise Taoist who lived long ago, told him something beautiful. He said that because the tree was useless, it was left to live a long, peaceful life. While the straight trees were chopped down, this one stood tall and free.”
I wrinkled my nose. “But what does that mean for us?”
Grandfather chuckled. “Sometimes, doing less is doing more. The power of the Tao is in quiet things. When we fight against life, like paddling too hard against a river, we grow tired and stuck. But when we float with the current, we still move—just more peacefully.”
I sat beside him. His words made my heart feel lighter, but I didn’t quite understand yet.
The next day, the rain came. I watched it from under the roof, where I was supposed to be fixing a broken bench. But I stayed still, listening to the sound of water hitting the earth. The rice didn’t need me today. It was growing all on its own.
Over the next few weeks, I began to change. I still worked, of course, but I didn’t fight the day anymore. I let things happen when they happened. When I rested, I truly rested. When I worked, I did it calmly. Oddly, I wasn’t so tired after.
One evening, Grandfather nodded at me while we both sat under the plum tree. The same breeze rustled the leaves like it had before.
“You’ve begun to understand, haven’t you?” he asked.
I smiled. “Maybe. I think... I don’t have to do so much to be enough.”
He sipped his tea and said nothing else. He didn’t need to.
And now, even years later, when things feel too heavy or when I start to rush, I stop. I breathe. I remember the useless tree and the quiet power hidden in doing less.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting the Tao—the Way—will carry me forward without force.
The sun was blazing that summer afternoon, and my arms ached from planting rice all morning. I was twelve years old, and I thought working harder was the only way to help my family. My grandfather, an old farmer with a long beard and bright eyes, sat beneath our plum tree, sipping tea like he had all the time in the world.
“Grandfather,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead, “we can’t finish the field if you just sit there.”
He looked up and tapped the ground beside him. “Come sit, Jun,” he said with a soft grin. “Let the field grow for a while without you.”
“But it won’t get done!” I replied. “Aren’t we supposed to work hard and do more?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just watched the wind roll through the rice stalks, listening to it like it was singing a secret to him. After a while, he spoke.
“Did I ever tell you about Zhuangzi and the useless tree?”
I shook my head, curiosity teasing away my tiredness.
He began, “There once was a carpenter who saw a gnarled old tree. It was big but twisted. The carpenter said it was useless—no good for wood, no good for shade. But Zhuangzi, a wise Taoist who lived long ago, told him something beautiful. He said that because the tree was useless, it was left to live a long, peaceful life. While the straight trees were chopped down, this one stood tall and free.”
I wrinkled my nose. “But what does that mean for us?”
Grandfather chuckled. “Sometimes, doing less is doing more. The power of the Tao is in quiet things. When we fight against life, like paddling too hard against a river, we grow tired and stuck. But when we float with the current, we still move—just more peacefully.”
I sat beside him. His words made my heart feel lighter, but I didn’t quite understand yet.
The next day, the rain came. I watched it from under the roof, where I was supposed to be fixing a broken bench. But I stayed still, listening to the sound of water hitting the earth. The rice didn’t need me today. It was growing all on its own.
Over the next few weeks, I began to change. I still worked, of course, but I didn’t fight the day anymore. I let things happen when they happened. When I rested, I truly rested. When I worked, I did it calmly. Oddly, I wasn’t so tired after.
One evening, Grandfather nodded at me while we both sat under the plum tree. The same breeze rustled the leaves like it had before.
“You’ve begun to understand, haven’t you?” he asked.
I smiled. “Maybe. I think... I don’t have to do so much to be enough.”
He sipped his tea and said nothing else. He didn’t need to.
And now, even years later, when things feel too heavy or when I start to rush, I stop. I breathe. I remember the useless tree and the quiet power hidden in doing less.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting the Tao—the Way—will carry me forward without force.
