The wind rustled my sleeves as I stood alone at the edge of the mountain path. My name is Bing, and I lived long ago in a small village where the river met the trees. I wasn’t a warrior or a teacher. I was just a potter. Day after day, I shaped clay with my hands, always chasing perfection. I believed that if I worked harder, thought longer, and tried more, I’d finally make the perfect bowl.
One day, frustrated by a bowl that cracked in the kiln—my tenth that week—I went to find Master Shen. He lived in a bamboo hut deep in the forest. People said he had once been a great general, but one day he left without a word, choosing silence over command.
I found him sitting by a stream, tossing leaves into the water.
“I need your help,” I said, almost shouting. “Everything I touch breaks. I’m failing.”
He didn’t look at me. He simply pointed to the river.
“Watch,” he said.
I did. A leaf floated down, spinning gently, moving wherever the water decided.
“I don’t have time for leaves,” I said. “I need to fix my work.”
He smiled. “You are like that rock over there. Trying to stop the river. That’s why you crack.”
“I don't understand,” I said.
“Do you remember the last time you laughed while working?” he asked.
I tried to remember but couldn’t. “It’s been a long time.”
“Then that is your answer,” he said.
I walked home slowly, wind cooling my skin. His words bounced in my head like pebbles.
The next morning, I did something different. I didn't plan. I didn’t shape the clay with a goal. I just let my fingers move. I didn’t stop to fix anything. I laughed when my cat sat in the wet clay. I let go.
Something strange happened. The bowl didn’t crack. It wasn’t perfect. But it was whole—and it felt right. Like it had shaped itself.
Day by day, I kept working this way. Less thinking, more feeling. Less doing, more being there. I didn’t try hard—I just showed up and let things happen. I even began making bowls with slight wobbles, gentle curves, and tiny marks from my thumb. They weren’t mistakes. They were part of the clay’s story.
People came from other villages to buy them. “They feel alive,” a woman once said.
Years passed. I became known not for making perfect things, but for making peaceful ones. And the peace had grown inside me too.
Now, I tell young potters what Master Shen told me: “Don’t try so hard to shape the world. Let the world shape you.”
I didn’t change in a single day. But I learned that when we stop forcing and start flowing, like leaves on a stream, life becomes clearer and softer. Balance finds us when we stop chasing it.
I still make bowls. Some bend. Some wobble. But all are whole, just like me.
The wind rustled my sleeves as I stood alone at the edge of the mountain path. My name is Bing, and I lived long ago in a small village where the river met the trees. I wasn’t a warrior or a teacher. I was just a potter. Day after day, I shaped clay with my hands, always chasing perfection. I believed that if I worked harder, thought longer, and tried more, I’d finally make the perfect bowl.
One day, frustrated by a bowl that cracked in the kiln—my tenth that week—I went to find Master Shen. He lived in a bamboo hut deep in the forest. People said he had once been a great general, but one day he left without a word, choosing silence over command.
I found him sitting by a stream, tossing leaves into the water.
“I need your help,” I said, almost shouting. “Everything I touch breaks. I’m failing.”
He didn’t look at me. He simply pointed to the river.
“Watch,” he said.
I did. A leaf floated down, spinning gently, moving wherever the water decided.
“I don’t have time for leaves,” I said. “I need to fix my work.”
He smiled. “You are like that rock over there. Trying to stop the river. That’s why you crack.”
“I don't understand,” I said.
“Do you remember the last time you laughed while working?” he asked.
I tried to remember but couldn’t. “It’s been a long time.”
“Then that is your answer,” he said.
I walked home slowly, wind cooling my skin. His words bounced in my head like pebbles.
The next morning, I did something different. I didn't plan. I didn’t shape the clay with a goal. I just let my fingers move. I didn’t stop to fix anything. I laughed when my cat sat in the wet clay. I let go.
Something strange happened. The bowl didn’t crack. It wasn’t perfect. But it was whole—and it felt right. Like it had shaped itself.
Day by day, I kept working this way. Less thinking, more feeling. Less doing, more being there. I didn’t try hard—I just showed up and let things happen. I even began making bowls with slight wobbles, gentle curves, and tiny marks from my thumb. They weren’t mistakes. They were part of the clay’s story.
People came from other villages to buy them. “They feel alive,” a woman once said.
Years passed. I became known not for making perfect things, but for making peaceful ones. And the peace had grown inside me too.
Now, I tell young potters what Master Shen told me: “Don’t try so hard to shape the world. Let the world shape you.”
I didn’t change in a single day. But I learned that when we stop forcing and start flowing, like leaves on a stream, life becomes clearer and softer. Balance finds us when we stop chasing it.
I still make bowls. Some bend. Some wobble. But all are whole, just like me.
