The morning fire crackled softly, and I bent over the tiny clay stove, watching the steam rise from the pot. My name is Liang, and I was once the royal chef for the lord of Qi. People thought I was important because I cooked for a king, but the truth is, I never felt happy… until I met an ox butcher named Ding.
Every day, I worked hard to make delicious meals. I chopped, stirred, poured, and tested. People praised my food, but inside, I was always rushing and anxious. I kept thinking, “Maybe if I work harder, people will see how special I am.” But no matter how perfect the meal, I never felt free.
One day, during a great festival, I was ordered to prepare the feast. Everything had to be just right. But the main dish—a wild ox roast—wasn’t turning out well. I panicked. The meat was tough. My hands trembled.
Just then, I saw someone across the courtyard. He was tall, calm, and carried only a knife. He moved slowly, like a leaf floating on a river. This was Butcher Ding, famous in the kingdom for never needing to sharpen his knife.
He bowed to me. “May I help?”
Ashamed, I agreed. Ding stepped forward. With one gentle movement after another, he began to cut the ox. His blade glided as if through water. No struggle. No waste. Just peace. I had never seen someone cook like that.
“How do you do that?” I asked, amazed.
He smiled. “I don’t fight the ox. I follow its nature. The joints, the spaces—they tell me where to cut. I move with them, not against them.”
I didn’t understand, so I watched him again. His hands flowed like waves. Each move was soft and easy. When he finished, he cleaned his blade and said, “The Way, the Tao, is like this. We don’t try too hard. We listen. We follow the flow.”
I felt something stir inside me. I returned to my kitchen and stopped measuring so much. I stopped rushing. I started listening—to the pot, to the fire, even to my breath.
Soon, cooking became peaceful. I didn’t work harder. I worked lighter. The meals tasted better, yet I did less. The king was pleased, but even more than that—I felt free.
That’s when I understood. Freedom wasn’t about impressing others. It wasn’t in working more. It was in letting go, like Ding said—following the Tao.
Now, every morning, I light the fire with a calm heart. I let the water boil at its own pace. I smile when the rice is ready. And if it’s not perfect? That’s okay too. The Tao doesn’t worry—it just flows.
I didn’t change overnight. But I learned that true freedom isn’t in control. It’s in trust. And every time I cook, I remember Ding’s steady hand and quiet smile.
And just like that, I began to taste not just my food—but life itself.
The morning fire crackled softly, and I bent over the tiny clay stove, watching the steam rise from the pot. My name is Liang, and I was once the royal chef for the lord of Qi. People thought I was important because I cooked for a king, but the truth is, I never felt happy… until I met an ox butcher named Ding.
Every day, I worked hard to make delicious meals. I chopped, stirred, poured, and tested. People praised my food, but inside, I was always rushing and anxious. I kept thinking, “Maybe if I work harder, people will see how special I am.” But no matter how perfect the meal, I never felt free.
One day, during a great festival, I was ordered to prepare the feast. Everything had to be just right. But the main dish—a wild ox roast—wasn’t turning out well. I panicked. The meat was tough. My hands trembled.
Just then, I saw someone across the courtyard. He was tall, calm, and carried only a knife. He moved slowly, like a leaf floating on a river. This was Butcher Ding, famous in the kingdom for never needing to sharpen his knife.
He bowed to me. “May I help?”
Ashamed, I agreed. Ding stepped forward. With one gentle movement after another, he began to cut the ox. His blade glided as if through water. No struggle. No waste. Just peace. I had never seen someone cook like that.
“How do you do that?” I asked, amazed.
He smiled. “I don’t fight the ox. I follow its nature. The joints, the spaces—they tell me where to cut. I move with them, not against them.”
I didn’t understand, so I watched him again. His hands flowed like waves. Each move was soft and easy. When he finished, he cleaned his blade and said, “The Way, the Tao, is like this. We don’t try too hard. We listen. We follow the flow.”
I felt something stir inside me. I returned to my kitchen and stopped measuring so much. I stopped rushing. I started listening—to the pot, to the fire, even to my breath.
Soon, cooking became peaceful. I didn’t work harder. I worked lighter. The meals tasted better, yet I did less. The king was pleased, but even more than that—I felt free.
That’s when I understood. Freedom wasn’t about impressing others. It wasn’t in working more. It was in letting go, like Ding said—following the Tao.
Now, every morning, I light the fire with a calm heart. I let the water boil at its own pace. I smile when the rice is ready. And if it’s not perfect? That’s okay too. The Tao doesn’t worry—it just flows.
I didn’t change overnight. But I learned that true freedom isn’t in control. It’s in trust. And every time I cook, I remember Ding’s steady hand and quiet smile.
And just like that, I began to taste not just my food—but life itself.
