The summer sun warmed the stone path under my feet as I walked slowly through the mountains. I was a traveler then, always moving, always looking for something—but I wasn’t sure what. My name is Wei, and this is the story of how I forgot something very important... and gained something even greater.
I came to a quiet village where the people lived simply. There were no grand buildings, no busy markets—just little homes with gardens and smiling faces. Some called it the “village of peace.”
I stayed only one night, or so I thought.
An old man greeted me by the gate. He had a long beard, gentle eyes, and clothes as plain as the clouds. “Welcome,” he said. “You’ve walked a long way. Rest here.”
His name was Master Li, and people said he followed the Way of the Tao. I didn’t understand what that meant back then.
That night, I had many thoughts. I worried about finding the next village, earning coins, and proving I was someone important. I always believed I had to show I mattered—or else be forgotten.
The next day, Master Li invited me to plant vegetables with him. We worked in the dirt quietly. No talk, no rush.
After a while, I said, “Why do you live so simply, Master Li? Don’t you want more?”
He smiled and pointed to the water trickling nearby. “See the stream? It flows around rocks, bends where it must, but always moves forward.”
“I suppose so,” I shrugged.
“Does it try to be big?” he asked.
“No…” I said.
“Yet it shapes mountains,” he said, leaning on his shovel.
I didn’t understand, not fully. But day after day, I stayed. I helped in the garden. I watched the sunrise alone. I shared meals made of rice, herbs, and silence.
The rush inside me began to slow.
I stopped thinking about what I was “supposed to be.” I stopped worrying about my name, my past, or my plans. I laughed more. I noticed the wind in trees and ants on moss-covered steps.
One morning, while walking by the stream, I looked down and didn’t recognize myself. Not because my face had changed, but because my thoughts had.
There was no more need to be anyone. I wasn’t trying to win or chase. I was just… living. Peaceful. Present.
When I told this to Master Li, he smiled gently.
“You did not lose yourself, Wei. You merely forgot the parts that were heavy. Now you flow.”
That day, I finally understood the paradox: by forgetting who I thought I had to be… I found who I truly was.
The Tao is not about becoming more. It’s about becoming less—less forced, less troubled, less lost.
I stayed in that village for many seasons. And though I left one day, I did so with nothing extra in my hands—and everything I needed in my heart.
I didn’t change in just one moment. But since that time, whenever I feel rushed or lost, I stop. I breathe. And I remember the stream.
The summer sun warmed the stone path under my feet as I walked slowly through the mountains. I was a traveler then, always moving, always looking for something—but I wasn’t sure what. My name is Wei, and this is the story of how I forgot something very important... and gained something even greater.
I came to a quiet village where the people lived simply. There were no grand buildings, no busy markets—just little homes with gardens and smiling faces. Some called it the “village of peace.”
I stayed only one night, or so I thought.
An old man greeted me by the gate. He had a long beard, gentle eyes, and clothes as plain as the clouds. “Welcome,” he said. “You’ve walked a long way. Rest here.”
His name was Master Li, and people said he followed the Way of the Tao. I didn’t understand what that meant back then.
That night, I had many thoughts. I worried about finding the next village, earning coins, and proving I was someone important. I always believed I had to show I mattered—or else be forgotten.
The next day, Master Li invited me to plant vegetables with him. We worked in the dirt quietly. No talk, no rush.
After a while, I said, “Why do you live so simply, Master Li? Don’t you want more?”
He smiled and pointed to the water trickling nearby. “See the stream? It flows around rocks, bends where it must, but always moves forward.”
“I suppose so,” I shrugged.
“Does it try to be big?” he asked.
“No…” I said.
“Yet it shapes mountains,” he said, leaning on his shovel.
I didn’t understand, not fully. But day after day, I stayed. I helped in the garden. I watched the sunrise alone. I shared meals made of rice, herbs, and silence.
The rush inside me began to slow.
I stopped thinking about what I was “supposed to be.” I stopped worrying about my name, my past, or my plans. I laughed more. I noticed the wind in trees and ants on moss-covered steps.
One morning, while walking by the stream, I looked down and didn’t recognize myself. Not because my face had changed, but because my thoughts had.
There was no more need to be anyone. I wasn’t trying to win or chase. I was just… living. Peaceful. Present.
When I told this to Master Li, he smiled gently.
“You did not lose yourself, Wei. You merely forgot the parts that were heavy. Now you flow.”
That day, I finally understood the paradox: by forgetting who I thought I had to be… I found who I truly was.
The Tao is not about becoming more. It’s about becoming less—less forced, less troubled, less lost.
I stayed in that village for many seasons. And though I left one day, I did so with nothing extra in my hands—and everything I needed in my heart.
I didn’t change in just one moment. But since that time, whenever I feel rushed or lost, I stop. I breathe. And I remember the stream.
