I had always thought hard work meant doing more—more chores, more studying, more everything. If I wasn’t doing something, I felt lazy. That’s what I believed, at least, until I visited my Uncle Wei’s village in the mountains.
Uncle Wei wasn’t like anyone I knew. He lived in a small bamboo house, grew his own food, and spent most mornings just watching the clouds. He used to be a scholar in the city, but one day, he packed up and moved far away. Nobody really understood why—but I was curious.
It all started one afternoon after I spilled a basket of rice trying to help weed the garden. I had worked fast, not carefully, and ruined most of his harvest. I expected him to be angry.
But he only smiled gently and said, “The mountain does not rush to grow. And the river doesn't push its way to the sea—it flows.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. “I was trying to help,” I mumbled.
“And in trying too hard,” he said, picking up a grain of rice, “you missed the moment.”
That night, I lay awake, thinking about what he said. I didn’t want to be useless. I wanted to do well, to prove myself. But something inside me wondered—was he right? Could it be that doing less was… better?
The next morning, he took me to the forest.
We walked slowly. No talking. Just the sounds of birds and breeze through the leaves. I got fidgety. I wanted to DO something. But he told me, “Let the forest do the talking today.”
At first, I didn’t hear much. But after a while, I started to notice things—the soft rustle of a squirrel, leaves spinning on the wind, a flower blooming behind a rock I nearly stepped over. It was peaceful.
“Do you feel the Tao?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
He chuckled. “You just walked with it. You didn’t step out of the way or fight against it. That’s called Wu Wei—non-action that isn’t doing nothing. It means flowing with life instead of pushing.”
I blinked. He continued, “When you ran through the chores, you missed the rice. But when you walked through the forest, you noticed everything.”
That stayed with me.
The next day, I moved slower. I watered the plants like I was dancing with them. I swept with care, not speed. I listened more. Sometimes, I even sat with Uncle Wei, saying nothing at all and watching the wind play. And you know what? I got more done. I felt calmer. Happier.
When it was time to leave the village, Uncle Wei gave me a small wooden carving of water flowing over rocks.
“Effortless, yet strong,” he said. “Let things unfold, not unravel.”
Since then, I still have busy days. But now, I try to walk with the Tao. I pause. I breathe. I don’t force things so much. And somehow, everything feels lighter.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or push too hard, I remember the quiet forest—and how sometimes, doing less is really doing more.
I had always thought hard work meant doing more—more chores, more studying, more everything. If I wasn’t doing something, I felt lazy. That’s what I believed, at least, until I visited my Uncle Wei’s village in the mountains.
Uncle Wei wasn’t like anyone I knew. He lived in a small bamboo house, grew his own food, and spent most mornings just watching the clouds. He used to be a scholar in the city, but one day, he packed up and moved far away. Nobody really understood why—but I was curious.
It all started one afternoon after I spilled a basket of rice trying to help weed the garden. I had worked fast, not carefully, and ruined most of his harvest. I expected him to be angry.
But he only smiled gently and said, “The mountain does not rush to grow. And the river doesn't push its way to the sea—it flows.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. “I was trying to help,” I mumbled.
“And in trying too hard,” he said, picking up a grain of rice, “you missed the moment.”
That night, I lay awake, thinking about what he said. I didn’t want to be useless. I wanted to do well, to prove myself. But something inside me wondered—was he right? Could it be that doing less was… better?
The next morning, he took me to the forest.
We walked slowly. No talking. Just the sounds of birds and breeze through the leaves. I got fidgety. I wanted to DO something. But he told me, “Let the forest do the talking today.”
At first, I didn’t hear much. But after a while, I started to notice things—the soft rustle of a squirrel, leaves spinning on the wind, a flower blooming behind a rock I nearly stepped over. It was peaceful.
“Do you feel the Tao?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
He chuckled. “You just walked with it. You didn’t step out of the way or fight against it. That’s called Wu Wei—non-action that isn’t doing nothing. It means flowing with life instead of pushing.”
I blinked. He continued, “When you ran through the chores, you missed the rice. But when you walked through the forest, you noticed everything.”
That stayed with me.
The next day, I moved slower. I watered the plants like I was dancing with them. I swept with care, not speed. I listened more. Sometimes, I even sat with Uncle Wei, saying nothing at all and watching the wind play. And you know what? I got more done. I felt calmer. Happier.
When it was time to leave the village, Uncle Wei gave me a small wooden carving of water flowing over rocks.
“Effortless, yet strong,” he said. “Let things unfold, not unravel.”
Since then, I still have busy days. But now, I try to walk with the Tao. I pause. I breathe. I don’t force things so much. And somehow, everything feels lighter.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or push too hard, I remember the quiet forest—and how sometimes, doing less is really doing more.
