The bamboo leaves rustled softly as I crouched near the edge of the pond, tossing pebbles into the water. Each splash made a circle that danced across the surface, bumping into the next. My name is Ming, and I was eleven years old the day I thought I had ruined everything.
I lived in a small village near the mountains, where life was slow and full of rhythm. People knew me as the boy who asked too many questions, especially about big things like the stars or why birds could fly. But more than anything, I wanted to be important. I wanted to do something great, something loud.
That morning, I had argued with my father. "Why do we always just wait and let things happen?" I shouted. "Why don’t we fix the roads? Or build something bigger—better?"
He looked at me calmly, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Ming," he said, "sometimes doing less does more. Like the tree that bends in the wind—it does nothing, and still it stands."
I didn’t understand. That answer made me even more upset. I ran to the forest, where I often sat near the pond. The water always made me feel better, but not today.
“You splash too loud,” came a gentle voice from across the pond.
An old man sat there, quiet like a stone. His beard was long and white, and his robe looked as though it had been touched by many seasons.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Just a traveler,” he replied. “One who follows the Tao.”
I squinted. “Tao?” I asked flatly. “Is that a path through the trees?”
The old man chuckled. "It is the Way. Everything has its own way—the river flowing, the grass growing, the bird flying. You too have your way, Ming. But sometimes, the harder you push, the more you drift from it."
“I want to do great things,” I said. “But I feel stuck, like nothing I do matters.”
He picked up a stick and gently touched the pond. The ripples spread calmly. “You see this? Small actions, simple and quiet, moving everything. You do not need to shout to be strong.”
I watched the ripples, slower and steadier than the ones I'd made. I felt my heart calm too.
“Why doesn’t the river try harder?” he asked after a moment.
I blinked. “It... just flows.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “It goes where it needs to, not where it forces itself to be.”
That day, sitting by the pond, I didn’t become important. I didn’t build anything or change the world. But I began to understand that the Tao—the Way—does not roar like thunder. It moves like wind, soft and unseen. But it moves everything.
When I stood to go home, my legs felt lighter. I had not changed the world, but I had changed something inside me.
And now, when I feel the need to rush or control, I remember the pond and the old traveler. I let the ripples take their time.
I didn't change overnight. But that small moment helped me begin to follow my own quiet Way.
The bamboo leaves rustled softly as I crouched near the edge of the pond, tossing pebbles into the water. Each splash made a circle that danced across the surface, bumping into the next. My name is Ming, and I was eleven years old the day I thought I had ruined everything.
I lived in a small village near the mountains, where life was slow and full of rhythm. People knew me as the boy who asked too many questions, especially about big things like the stars or why birds could fly. But more than anything, I wanted to be important. I wanted to do something great, something loud.
That morning, I had argued with my father. "Why do we always just wait and let things happen?" I shouted. "Why don’t we fix the roads? Or build something bigger—better?"
He looked at me calmly, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Ming," he said, "sometimes doing less does more. Like the tree that bends in the wind—it does nothing, and still it stands."
I didn’t understand. That answer made me even more upset. I ran to the forest, where I often sat near the pond. The water always made me feel better, but not today.
“You splash too loud,” came a gentle voice from across the pond.
An old man sat there, quiet like a stone. His beard was long and white, and his robe looked as though it had been touched by many seasons.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Just a traveler,” he replied. “One who follows the Tao.”
I squinted. “Tao?” I asked flatly. “Is that a path through the trees?”
The old man chuckled. "It is the Way. Everything has its own way—the river flowing, the grass growing, the bird flying. You too have your way, Ming. But sometimes, the harder you push, the more you drift from it."
“I want to do great things,” I said. “But I feel stuck, like nothing I do matters.”
He picked up a stick and gently touched the pond. The ripples spread calmly. “You see this? Small actions, simple and quiet, moving everything. You do not need to shout to be strong.”
I watched the ripples, slower and steadier than the ones I'd made. I felt my heart calm too.
“Why doesn’t the river try harder?” he asked after a moment.
I blinked. “It... just flows.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “It goes where it needs to, not where it forces itself to be.”
That day, sitting by the pond, I didn’t become important. I didn’t build anything or change the world. But I began to understand that the Tao—the Way—does not roar like thunder. It moves like wind, soft and unseen. But it moves everything.
When I stood to go home, my legs felt lighter. I had not changed the world, but I had changed something inside me.
And now, when I feel the need to rush or control, I remember the pond and the old traveler. I let the ripples take their time.
I didn't change overnight. But that small moment helped me begin to follow my own quiet Way.
