The marketplace buzzed with voices, but inside my heart, there was noise even louder. My name is Lei, and I was only eleven when I learned that not all problems need fixing. That lesson came from an old man with more wrinkles than a dried plum and a smile that looked like it had seen many lifetimes.
I was helping my mother sell rice cakes that morning. I dropped a whole tray of them onto the muddy ground. People laughed. My cheeks burned with shame. I wanted to shout, to fix everything fast—clean the cakes, pick them up, cry and hide—anything but stand there frozen.
That’s when the old man strolled by. His clothes were simple, a soft gray robe that brushed the ground. He looked at the mess and said softly, “Hmm. Good spot for the ants to have a feast.”
I blinked. “What?”
He chuckled, kneeling beside the fallen rice cakes. “You dropped them. So now the ants will eat well. The day changes, like a river bends.”
I didn’t understand. “But I ruined them. I should have been careful.”
He nodded. “And now you’ve learned to hold the tray tighter.” He picked up one clean cake, offered it to a child nearby, and stood. “Sometimes, when things fall, it's not a mistake. It’s the world shifting a little.”
I didn't know how to answer, so I followed him. He moved slowly, like the wind doesn’t rush but always gets where it’s meant to go. We walked to a quiet garden behind the market, where bamboo trees swayed gently.
“Sit with me,” he said, settling onto a flat rock.
There was silence. At first, I squirmed, wanting to say something, explain myself, maybe even cry. But he didn’t speak. The trees made their soft songs in the wind. Birds chirped. Slowly, my heart stopped racing.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s balance,” he replied. “The Tao is everywhere—in falling rice cakes and in still gardens. Let things be. You don’t always have to fix everything.”
I was quiet, thinking. I didn’t really fix the fallen tray, but somehow things still felt okay. Maybe better than okay.
The old man reached into his robe and brought out a small stone, smooth and round. “This stone sits still, yet rivers flow around it. Things happen. It doesn’t push nor pull. And it is never out of place.”
He handed it to me. I held it in my palm. It was warm from his hand, simple and perfect.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Some call me Shen,” he said. “Others call me Taoist,—but I don’t need many names.” He smiled again. “You’ll remember the rice cakes more than a name.”
And I did.
I still help my mother in the market, but now when something goes wrong, I breathe. I watch. I listen. I let things be before deciding what to do, because not doing is sometimes doing.
The stone still sits on my shelf. And when the world feels too loud inside, I hold it and remember the balance of that quiet garden.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel like rushing or fixing everything at once, I remember the river, the ants, and the warmth of the sun—how peace comes when we stop fighting the flow.
The marketplace buzzed with voices, but inside my heart, there was noise even louder. My name is Lei, and I was only eleven when I learned that not all problems need fixing. That lesson came from an old man with more wrinkles than a dried plum and a smile that looked like it had seen many lifetimes.
I was helping my mother sell rice cakes that morning. I dropped a whole tray of them onto the muddy ground. People laughed. My cheeks burned with shame. I wanted to shout, to fix everything fast—clean the cakes, pick them up, cry and hide—anything but stand there frozen.
That’s when the old man strolled by. His clothes were simple, a soft gray robe that brushed the ground. He looked at the mess and said softly, “Hmm. Good spot for the ants to have a feast.”
I blinked. “What?”
He chuckled, kneeling beside the fallen rice cakes. “You dropped them. So now the ants will eat well. The day changes, like a river bends.”
I didn’t understand. “But I ruined them. I should have been careful.”
He nodded. “And now you’ve learned to hold the tray tighter.” He picked up one clean cake, offered it to a child nearby, and stood. “Sometimes, when things fall, it's not a mistake. It’s the world shifting a little.”
I didn't know how to answer, so I followed him. He moved slowly, like the wind doesn’t rush but always gets where it’s meant to go. We walked to a quiet garden behind the market, where bamboo trees swayed gently.
“Sit with me,” he said, settling onto a flat rock.
There was silence. At first, I squirmed, wanting to say something, explain myself, maybe even cry. But he didn’t speak. The trees made their soft songs in the wind. Birds chirped. Slowly, my heart stopped racing.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s balance,” he replied. “The Tao is everywhere—in falling rice cakes and in still gardens. Let things be. You don’t always have to fix everything.”
I was quiet, thinking. I didn’t really fix the fallen tray, but somehow things still felt okay. Maybe better than okay.
The old man reached into his robe and brought out a small stone, smooth and round. “This stone sits still, yet rivers flow around it. Things happen. It doesn’t push nor pull. And it is never out of place.”
He handed it to me. I held it in my palm. It was warm from his hand, simple and perfect.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Some call me Shen,” he said. “Others call me Taoist,—but I don’t need many names.” He smiled again. “You’ll remember the rice cakes more than a name.”
And I did.
I still help my mother in the market, but now when something goes wrong, I breathe. I watch. I listen. I let things be before deciding what to do, because not doing is sometimes doing.
The stone still sits on my shelf. And when the world feels too loud inside, I hold it and remember the balance of that quiet garden.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel like rushing or fixing everything at once, I remember the river, the ants, and the warmth of the sun—how peace comes when we stop fighting the flow.
