The smoke from my cooking fire twisted up into the sky like a quiet question. I sat on the porch of my tiny hut, staring at the mountain across the valley. Somewhere behind that mountain, long ago, I had left my name and who I used to be.
Once, I was known across the kingdom. I was a scholar—famous for my words, honored at banquets, praised by rulers. My hair was slick, my robe was fine, and my mind was always busy. I believed the more I accomplished, the more I became “someone.”
But everything changed one spring evening.
It began with a simple walk. My mind was cluttered with thoughts—lectures to prepare, arguments to win, people to impress. I walked into the forest, trying to quiet the noise in my head. But the deeper I went, the louder the silence became.
That's when I saw the old man sitting by the river.
He wore rough clothes and had a long white beard that moved gently in the breeze. He didn’t say a word. Didn't even look at me. He just watched the water flow. I sat beside him, curious and annoyed.
“Old man, what are you doing?” I asked.
He smiled but didn’t answer.
“Don’t you have duties? Work? A name?”
Still silent.
Finally, he spoke gently, “You are like a man trying to catch the wind with a net.”
“What does that mean?” I frowned.
“You chase things—titles, praise, ideas—like wind. But the Tao... the Way... doesn’t need chasing. It simply is.”
I shook my head. “That’s nonsense. If we don’t strive, how do we succeed?”
He pointed to the river. “See how it flows? It doesn’t push. It doesn’t struggle. Still, it shapes the mountains.”
I looked at the water. It didn’t fight the rocks. It slid around them with ease.
He handed me a smooth stone. “This stone was once jagged. But the river made it round. Not by force, but by patience.”
His eyes met mine, kind and calm. “Forget your Self. Forget the name carved on scrolls. Be like the river.”
That night, I stayed in the forest. Then the next. And again. I listened to the birds. I watched how trees grew without trying. Slowly, I began to do less. I stopped forcing words. Stopped chasing praise. I let go of the scholar-me. I became the river.
Now, years later, I live quietly. I grow herbs. I help travelers when they pass. Most never ask my name. And I’m glad.
Because the truth is—I forgot who I was.
And in forgetting, I finally remembered what it means to be part of the Tao.
I didn’t change overnight. But the more I let go, the freer I became. I no longer push like the wind. I glide like the water. I live gently, and things unfold.
As the Tao teaches—sometimes, the best way to move forward… is to stop trying.
The smoke from my cooking fire twisted up into the sky like a quiet question. I sat on the porch of my tiny hut, staring at the mountain across the valley. Somewhere behind that mountain, long ago, I had left my name and who I used to be.
Once, I was known across the kingdom. I was a scholar—famous for my words, honored at banquets, praised by rulers. My hair was slick, my robe was fine, and my mind was always busy. I believed the more I accomplished, the more I became “someone.”
But everything changed one spring evening.
It began with a simple walk. My mind was cluttered with thoughts—lectures to prepare, arguments to win, people to impress. I walked into the forest, trying to quiet the noise in my head. But the deeper I went, the louder the silence became.
That's when I saw the old man sitting by the river.
He wore rough clothes and had a long white beard that moved gently in the breeze. He didn’t say a word. Didn't even look at me. He just watched the water flow. I sat beside him, curious and annoyed.
“Old man, what are you doing?” I asked.
He smiled but didn’t answer.
“Don’t you have duties? Work? A name?”
Still silent.
Finally, he spoke gently, “You are like a man trying to catch the wind with a net.”
“What does that mean?” I frowned.
“You chase things—titles, praise, ideas—like wind. But the Tao... the Way... doesn’t need chasing. It simply is.”
I shook my head. “That’s nonsense. If we don’t strive, how do we succeed?”
He pointed to the river. “See how it flows? It doesn’t push. It doesn’t struggle. Still, it shapes the mountains.”
I looked at the water. It didn’t fight the rocks. It slid around them with ease.
He handed me a smooth stone. “This stone was once jagged. But the river made it round. Not by force, but by patience.”
His eyes met mine, kind and calm. “Forget your Self. Forget the name carved on scrolls. Be like the river.”
That night, I stayed in the forest. Then the next. And again. I listened to the birds. I watched how trees grew without trying. Slowly, I began to do less. I stopped forcing words. Stopped chasing praise. I let go of the scholar-me. I became the river.
Now, years later, I live quietly. I grow herbs. I help travelers when they pass. Most never ask my name. And I’m glad.
Because the truth is—I forgot who I was.
And in forgetting, I finally remembered what it means to be part of the Tao.
I didn’t change overnight. But the more I let go, the freer I became. I no longer push like the wind. I glide like the water. I live gently, and things unfold.
As the Tao teaches—sometimes, the best way to move forward… is to stop trying.
