The rain had just stopped when I met the old man. I was twelve and angry. Angry that my father didn’t get the job he wanted. Angry that our roof still leaked. Angry that I had to walk so far just to fetch water for dinner. My fists stayed clenched that day, like I could punch the sky and make lightning fall.
The village road was muddy, and I stumbled on a root, nearly dropping the bucket I carried. That's when I saw him—an old man sitting beneath a crooked pine. He wore a long gray robe and had a beard that looked like silver threads dancing in the wind. Beside him, a turtle munched on some leaves.
He didn’t look like much. Just quiet. Still. Like the tree itself.
“You are full of noise,” the old man said without opening his eyes.
I frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“It’s not your mouth,” he said, smiling gently. “Your heart is the one shouting.”
I was curious. No one had ever said that to me. “What do you mean?”
“Sit,” he said. “Let me tell you something passed down from Laozi, the wise teacher who wrote the teachings of the Tao long ago.”
So I sat, even though the ground was damp and my pants got muddy.
He told me that Laozi, who lived over 2,000 years ago, believed in something called the Tao. “It means ‘The Way’—the natural path everything should follow. Water flows. Trees grow. Animals move. They do not force anything. They simply are.”
“That’s nice,” I grumbled, “but it doesn’t fix anything.”
“Ah, but maybe nothing is broken,” he said.
I couldn’t believe what I heard. Everything felt broken to me. Our house. My father’s job. My heart.
“Once,” he continued, “a farmer’s horse ran away. People said, ‘How unlucky!’ The farmer said, ‘Maybe.’ The next day, the horse returned with two wild horses. People said, ‘How lucky!’ Again, he said, ‘Maybe.’ His son broke his leg trying to ride one of them. 'How unlucky!' the people said. ‘Maybe,’ answered the farmer. And when soldiers came to collect strong young men for war, they left the boy behind—because of his broken leg. The farmer only smiled.”
The old man turned and looked at me.
“Do you see?”
I squinted at him. “He didn’t try to fight anything.”
“He let things be,” said the man. “That is called Wu Wei—doing without forcing. Like water finding its way down the mountain, not by power but by patience.”
I looked down at the puddle near my foot. It shimmered with the reflection of the sky. Quiet. Still.
We sat in silence for a while. My arms felt lighter. My heart, too.
When I finally stood up, I felt different. Not fixed. But softer.
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
“I’ll still be here,” said the old man. “But real wisdom—like the Tao—isn’t outside. It’s waiting to be seen inside.”
I walked home slowly, through the mud and the trees and the sound of water dripping from the leaves. I didn’t rush.
And though I still had to fetch water and our roof still leaked, something else had changed. Inside me, I had found a little stillness.
I didn’t learn the whole Way that day. But I learned to stop fighting the river—and to let myself float.
The rain had just stopped when I met the old man. I was twelve and angry. Angry that my father didn’t get the job he wanted. Angry that our roof still leaked. Angry that I had to walk so far just to fetch water for dinner. My fists stayed clenched that day, like I could punch the sky and make lightning fall.
The village road was muddy, and I stumbled on a root, nearly dropping the bucket I carried. That's when I saw him—an old man sitting beneath a crooked pine. He wore a long gray robe and had a beard that looked like silver threads dancing in the wind. Beside him, a turtle munched on some leaves.
He didn’t look like much. Just quiet. Still. Like the tree itself.
“You are full of noise,” the old man said without opening his eyes.
I frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“It’s not your mouth,” he said, smiling gently. “Your heart is the one shouting.”
I was curious. No one had ever said that to me. “What do you mean?”
“Sit,” he said. “Let me tell you something passed down from Laozi, the wise teacher who wrote the teachings of the Tao long ago.”
So I sat, even though the ground was damp and my pants got muddy.
He told me that Laozi, who lived over 2,000 years ago, believed in something called the Tao. “It means ‘The Way’—the natural path everything should follow. Water flows. Trees grow. Animals move. They do not force anything. They simply are.”
“That’s nice,” I grumbled, “but it doesn’t fix anything.”
“Ah, but maybe nothing is broken,” he said.
I couldn’t believe what I heard. Everything felt broken to me. Our house. My father’s job. My heart.
“Once,” he continued, “a farmer’s horse ran away. People said, ‘How unlucky!’ The farmer said, ‘Maybe.’ The next day, the horse returned with two wild horses. People said, ‘How lucky!’ Again, he said, ‘Maybe.’ His son broke his leg trying to ride one of them. 'How unlucky!' the people said. ‘Maybe,’ answered the farmer. And when soldiers came to collect strong young men for war, they left the boy behind—because of his broken leg. The farmer only smiled.”
The old man turned and looked at me.
“Do you see?”
I squinted at him. “He didn’t try to fight anything.”
“He let things be,” said the man. “That is called Wu Wei—doing without forcing. Like water finding its way down the mountain, not by power but by patience.”
I looked down at the puddle near my foot. It shimmered with the reflection of the sky. Quiet. Still.
We sat in silence for a while. My arms felt lighter. My heart, too.
When I finally stood up, I felt different. Not fixed. But softer.
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
“I’ll still be here,” said the old man. “But real wisdom—like the Tao—isn’t outside. It’s waiting to be seen inside.”
I walked home slowly, through the mud and the trees and the sound of water dripping from the leaves. I didn’t rush.
And though I still had to fetch water and our roof still leaked, something else had changed. Inside me, I had found a little stillness.
I didn’t learn the whole Way that day. But I learned to stop fighting the river—and to let myself float.
