The sun was setting behind the mountains, and I was carrying a heavy basket of firewood on my back. My name is Jun, and I was only twelve when I thought I needed to do everything perfectly. I wanted to be strong, helpful, and smart. But that day, I learned something far more important.
I lived in a small village at the edge of a quiet forest. My grandfather, Lao Gong, was old and wise. He barely spoke, but when he did, his words stayed in your heart like fire in a lantern.
That morning, I had tried to fix the roof, carry water from the well, and help mother cook—all before the sun rose high. But no matter what I did, I spilled, broke, or messed something up. I was so angry with myself, I kicked the door on my way out. “Why can’t I do anything right?” I shouted.
That’s when Lao Gong called me over without a word. He handed me an old woven basket. “Come,” he said softly, and we walked into the woods.
We walked for a long time with no talking. Only the sounds of birds, wind, and the soft crunching of our steps filled the air. Finally, we stopped by a small stream. He sat down, took a stick, and began drawing shapes in the mud.
I watched, confused. “Grandfather, what are we doing?”
He smiled gently. “Do you know how this stream moves?”
“It flows,” I said after thinking. “Around the rocks and under the trees.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “But does it try hard to move? Or does it just go?”
“It just goes.”
He looked at me. “And yet, it always finds its way.”
I thought about that. The stream didn’t push or fight. It just flowed, curving where it needed to. I looked down at the firewood in my basket. I had tried so hard to do everything. I had forced and rushed. But maybe… like the stream, I should have just let the day unfold.
Then Lao Gong stood and looked up at the sky. “The Way is like the stream. Follow it. Don’t force. Don’t fight. Trust it.”
On our walk home, I didn’t try to lead or walk fast. I simply walked beside him, listening to the forest. I felt something I hadn’t felt before—lightness in my chest, and quiet in my thoughts.
When we reached the village, my mother smiled and asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
I nodded. “I think I did.”
From that day, I stopped trying too hard. I still helped, but I stopped rushing. I listened more. I did what needed to be done, then let go. I started to see how when I moved with life, instead of against it, things felt easier—like water flowing in a stream.
I didn't change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like pushing too hard or getting mad at myself, I close my eyes and remember the stream. And I trust in the Tao—the Way flowing all around me.
The sun was setting behind the mountains, and I was carrying a heavy basket of firewood on my back. My name is Jun, and I was only twelve when I thought I needed to do everything perfectly. I wanted to be strong, helpful, and smart. But that day, I learned something far more important.
I lived in a small village at the edge of a quiet forest. My grandfather, Lao Gong, was old and wise. He barely spoke, but when he did, his words stayed in your heart like fire in a lantern.
That morning, I had tried to fix the roof, carry water from the well, and help mother cook—all before the sun rose high. But no matter what I did, I spilled, broke, or messed something up. I was so angry with myself, I kicked the door on my way out. “Why can’t I do anything right?” I shouted.
That’s when Lao Gong called me over without a word. He handed me an old woven basket. “Come,” he said softly, and we walked into the woods.
We walked for a long time with no talking. Only the sounds of birds, wind, and the soft crunching of our steps filled the air. Finally, we stopped by a small stream. He sat down, took a stick, and began drawing shapes in the mud.
I watched, confused. “Grandfather, what are we doing?”
He smiled gently. “Do you know how this stream moves?”
“It flows,” I said after thinking. “Around the rocks and under the trees.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “But does it try hard to move? Or does it just go?”
“It just goes.”
He looked at me. “And yet, it always finds its way.”
I thought about that. The stream didn’t push or fight. It just flowed, curving where it needed to. I looked down at the firewood in my basket. I had tried so hard to do everything. I had forced and rushed. But maybe… like the stream, I should have just let the day unfold.
Then Lao Gong stood and looked up at the sky. “The Way is like the stream. Follow it. Don’t force. Don’t fight. Trust it.”
On our walk home, I didn’t try to lead or walk fast. I simply walked beside him, listening to the forest. I felt something I hadn’t felt before—lightness in my chest, and quiet in my thoughts.
When we reached the village, my mother smiled and asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
I nodded. “I think I did.”
From that day, I stopped trying too hard. I still helped, but I stopped rushing. I listened more. I did what needed to be done, then let go. I started to see how when I moved with life, instead of against it, things felt easier—like water flowing in a stream.
I didn't change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like pushing too hard or getting mad at myself, I close my eyes and remember the stream. And I trust in the Tao—the Way flowing all around me.
