The wind whispered gently through the bamboo trees as the sun dipped low in the sky. I sat on the edge of my small rice field, my hands dirty, my back sore. I was only twelve, but I worked hard every day alongside my father. Still, I often felt like something was missing, like no matter how much I did, I never felt quite at peace.
That evening, as I rubbed my tired arms, Old Master Wen walked by. He wore a robe the color of mountain stone and moved so quietly it seemed the earth made way for him. People whispered that he had once studied under the great Taoist teachers far in the west, and though he said little, villagers often watched him for the lessons he never spoke.
“Still working, young Jun?” he asked, eyes kind but deep.
“I have to,” I sighed, kicking at the dirt. “The weeds won't pull themselves.”
He chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder if the weeds pull us.”
I blinked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat down beside me and looked at the sky. Everything grew quiet, like even the birds were listening. “Tell me, do the bamboo grow by pulling?”
“No,” I said, “they just grow.”
“And does the stream carve the mountain by shouting and rushing all at once?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said, “it just flows... over time.”
He smiled, like I had said something clever without realizing it. “There is a way to live,” he said softly, “that doesn’t fight so much. It listens. It flows. We call it Wu Wei—effortless action.”
“Effortless?” I asked, confused. “But I have to work hard.”
Old Master Wen nodded. “Yes, we must still plant, still weed—but not with anger, not with tension. Try not to fight every moment. Let each moment guide you.”
I didn’t fully understand, but his words stayed with me.
The next morning, I watched the bamboo again. I noticed how it bent with the breeze rather than breaking. I watched the stream, too, gently shaping the rocks with its flowing. That day, as I pulled weeds, I slowed down. I breathed with each tug. I stopped trying to finish fast and started noticing the cool soil, the sound of birds, the sun warming my back.
Something inside me softened.
Over the days and weeks that followed, I worked the same as ever—but I felt different. I stopped holding so tightly to my worry. I let things come and go, like the wind through the leaves. I wasn’t perfect, and I still got tired, but there was more peace inside.
I often saw Old Master Wen after that. He never said much more. Sometimes he just nodded at me from the path, like we shared a quiet understanding.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when life feels heavy, I remember the bamboo. I try to bend, not break. I try to flow, not push. And slowly, like the stream, I am carving peace into my heart.
The wind whispered gently through the bamboo trees as the sun dipped low in the sky. I sat on the edge of my small rice field, my hands dirty, my back sore. I was only twelve, but I worked hard every day alongside my father. Still, I often felt like something was missing, like no matter how much I did, I never felt quite at peace.
That evening, as I rubbed my tired arms, Old Master Wen walked by. He wore a robe the color of mountain stone and moved so quietly it seemed the earth made way for him. People whispered that he had once studied under the great Taoist teachers far in the west, and though he said little, villagers often watched him for the lessons he never spoke.
“Still working, young Jun?” he asked, eyes kind but deep.
“I have to,” I sighed, kicking at the dirt. “The weeds won't pull themselves.”
He chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder if the weeds pull us.”
I blinked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat down beside me and looked at the sky. Everything grew quiet, like even the birds were listening. “Tell me, do the bamboo grow by pulling?”
“No,” I said, “they just grow.”
“And does the stream carve the mountain by shouting and rushing all at once?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said, “it just flows... over time.”
He smiled, like I had said something clever without realizing it. “There is a way to live,” he said softly, “that doesn’t fight so much. It listens. It flows. We call it Wu Wei—effortless action.”
“Effortless?” I asked, confused. “But I have to work hard.”
Old Master Wen nodded. “Yes, we must still plant, still weed—but not with anger, not with tension. Try not to fight every moment. Let each moment guide you.”
I didn’t fully understand, but his words stayed with me.
The next morning, I watched the bamboo again. I noticed how it bent with the breeze rather than breaking. I watched the stream, too, gently shaping the rocks with its flowing. That day, as I pulled weeds, I slowed down. I breathed with each tug. I stopped trying to finish fast and started noticing the cool soil, the sound of birds, the sun warming my back.
Something inside me softened.
Over the days and weeks that followed, I worked the same as ever—but I felt different. I stopped holding so tightly to my worry. I let things come and go, like the wind through the leaves. I wasn’t perfect, and I still got tired, but there was more peace inside.
I often saw Old Master Wen after that. He never said much more. Sometimes he just nodded at me from the path, like we shared a quiet understanding.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when life feels heavy, I remember the bamboo. I try to bend, not break. I try to flow, not push. And slowly, like the stream, I am carving peace into my heart.
