The wind was soft that morning, brushing the tall grass gently as I sat on a rock by the river. I was just a potter, living alone in the hills, shaping clay with quiet hands. My name is Shen, and people from the nearby village said I was strange because I always smiled, even when I said nothing at all.
But I wasn’t always this way.
Many years ago, I worried all the time. I worried about making the perfect bowl, selling enough pots, and being the best at what I did. Every morning, I rushed to gather clay. I shaped and fired my pots with fierce speed, trying to make more and better things than anyone else.
One day, my hands were sore, and my mind was loud. I dropped a pot, and it shattered into a hundred pieces.
That’s when Old Master Wei appeared.
I had seen him before, walking barefoot with a crooked cane, his hair wild like the trees above him. People called him “The Wandering Cloud.” No one knew where he came from. He sat beside me and looked at the pieces.
“Why are you in such a hurry to shape what will shape itself?” he asked.
I frowned. “If I don’t work harder, I’ll fall behind! People won’t buy my pots.”
The old man picked up a shard and ran his finger along its edge. “The river does not rush, yet it carves mountains,” he said. “You shape the clay, but the clay also shapes you.”
I didn’t understand him then. I thought he was just being clever.
But that night, I dreamed of water. A calm stream moving around rocks, not pushing, just flowing. The next day, I didn’t rush. I let my hands rest more. I touched the clay gently, not as a master, but as a friend.
Days passed. Then weeks. My pots became simpler. Not perfect—just… peaceful. Villagers began asking for them. Not because they were fancy, but because they felt different. Lighter. Calmer.
One day, I realized something strange—I didn’t think about being “the best” anymore. I didn’t even think of myself much at all. The pots were just pots. The river flowed. The birds sang. I was happy, but I didn’t reach for it. I just… was.
Sometimes people still ask me, “How did you find such peace?”
I smile and say, “I forgot how to try. And in forgetting, I found the Way.”
That’s what Master Wei meant. He was talking about the Tao—the Way of doing by not doing.
Now, every morning, I sit by the river. I listen to the birds and feel the wind. I shape pots with care, but not with worry. And I’ve learned that by letting go of myself, I became more than I ever thought I could be.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to chase or prove, I remember the river. I stop. I breathe. I let things be.
And slowly, I become the flow.
The wind was soft that morning, brushing the tall grass gently as I sat on a rock by the river. I was just a potter, living alone in the hills, shaping clay with quiet hands. My name is Shen, and people from the nearby village said I was strange because I always smiled, even when I said nothing at all.
But I wasn’t always this way.
Many years ago, I worried all the time. I worried about making the perfect bowl, selling enough pots, and being the best at what I did. Every morning, I rushed to gather clay. I shaped and fired my pots with fierce speed, trying to make more and better things than anyone else.
One day, my hands were sore, and my mind was loud. I dropped a pot, and it shattered into a hundred pieces.
That’s when Old Master Wei appeared.
I had seen him before, walking barefoot with a crooked cane, his hair wild like the trees above him. People called him “The Wandering Cloud.” No one knew where he came from. He sat beside me and looked at the pieces.
“Why are you in such a hurry to shape what will shape itself?” he asked.
I frowned. “If I don’t work harder, I’ll fall behind! People won’t buy my pots.”
The old man picked up a shard and ran his finger along its edge. “The river does not rush, yet it carves mountains,” he said. “You shape the clay, but the clay also shapes you.”
I didn’t understand him then. I thought he was just being clever.
But that night, I dreamed of water. A calm stream moving around rocks, not pushing, just flowing. The next day, I didn’t rush. I let my hands rest more. I touched the clay gently, not as a master, but as a friend.
Days passed. Then weeks. My pots became simpler. Not perfect—just… peaceful. Villagers began asking for them. Not because they were fancy, but because they felt different. Lighter. Calmer.
One day, I realized something strange—I didn’t think about being “the best” anymore. I didn’t even think of myself much at all. The pots were just pots. The river flowed. The birds sang. I was happy, but I didn’t reach for it. I just… was.
Sometimes people still ask me, “How did you find such peace?”
I smile and say, “I forgot how to try. And in forgetting, I found the Way.”
That’s what Master Wei meant. He was talking about the Tao—the Way of doing by not doing.
Now, every morning, I sit by the river. I listen to the birds and feel the wind. I shape pots with care, but not with worry. And I’ve learned that by letting go of myself, I became more than I ever thought I could be.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to chase or prove, I remember the river. I stop. I breathe. I let things be.
And slowly, I become the flow.
