The breeze was cool that morning as I walked beside my grandfather along the quiet river path. I was only ten years old, and I had just lost a race at school. I felt like a failure. My legs were fast, but no matter how hard I ran, I never seemed to win. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. I didn’t want Grandfather to know how upset I was.
He must’ve sensed it anyway.
“My little Jun,” he said gently, “what troubles you?”
“I tried so hard,” I muttered. “I ran faster than ever. But I still lost. What’s the use of trying if it doesn’t work?”
Grandfather didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stopped under a tall tree and sat down on a smooth rock. He looked up at the sky.
“Do you know the story of Zhuangzi's butterfly?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Zhuangzi,” he said, “was a wise man who lived a long time ago, in ancient China. One day, he dreamed he was a butterfly. In the dream, he fluttered and floated, so light and free he forgot he was Zhuangzi at all. Then he woke up, and he wasn’t sure—was he a man who dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being a man?”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
Grandfather smiled. “It means things are not always what they seem. Sometimes, we try too hard to ‘win,’ when really, the world is flowing around us like a river. The Tao, or ‘The Way,’ isn’t something you chase. It’s something you tune into.”
I looked out over the river. The water moved gently, not rushing, but never stopping either.
“You don’t see the river racing another river,” he added. “It just flows.”
“But if I don’t try hard, how will I ever get ahead?” I asked.
Grandfather picked up a stick and dropped it into the water. We watched it float calmly with the current.
“Wu Wei,” he said, “means ‘non-action’—but not laziness. It means allowing things to unfold naturally. The butterfly doesn’t try to fly. It just flies. The river doesn’t fight its path. It flows.”
I sat beside him, quiet now.
I remembered how tight my shoulders got during the race, how I gritted my teeth and pushed hard. Maybe I had been fighting the moment instead of flowing with it. I imagined flying like a butterfly—soft, light, and without effort.
That night, I dreamed I was a butterfly.
The next day at school, I ran again. But this time, I didn’t push. I just let go. My legs moved like water, and the wind filled my heart. I didn’t win—but I didn’t care. I felt free.
When I told Grandfather, he smiled with his eyes.
“That,” he said, “is walking the Way. You finally felt it.”
I didn’t change overnight. But since that day, I tried to stop pushing and start flowing. And whenever I felt lost or small, I remembered the butterfly—floating through its dream, gentle and free as the river wind.
The breeze was cool that morning as I walked beside my grandfather along the quiet river path. I was only ten years old, and I had just lost a race at school. I felt like a failure. My legs were fast, but no matter how hard I ran, I never seemed to win. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. I didn’t want Grandfather to know how upset I was.
He must’ve sensed it anyway.
“My little Jun,” he said gently, “what troubles you?”
“I tried so hard,” I muttered. “I ran faster than ever. But I still lost. What’s the use of trying if it doesn’t work?”
Grandfather didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stopped under a tall tree and sat down on a smooth rock. He looked up at the sky.
“Do you know the story of Zhuangzi's butterfly?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Zhuangzi,” he said, “was a wise man who lived a long time ago, in ancient China. One day, he dreamed he was a butterfly. In the dream, he fluttered and floated, so light and free he forgot he was Zhuangzi at all. Then he woke up, and he wasn’t sure—was he a man who dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being a man?”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
Grandfather smiled. “It means things are not always what they seem. Sometimes, we try too hard to ‘win,’ when really, the world is flowing around us like a river. The Tao, or ‘The Way,’ isn’t something you chase. It’s something you tune into.”
I looked out over the river. The water moved gently, not rushing, but never stopping either.
“You don’t see the river racing another river,” he added. “It just flows.”
“But if I don’t try hard, how will I ever get ahead?” I asked.
Grandfather picked up a stick and dropped it into the water. We watched it float calmly with the current.
“Wu Wei,” he said, “means ‘non-action’—but not laziness. It means allowing things to unfold naturally. The butterfly doesn’t try to fly. It just flies. The river doesn’t fight its path. It flows.”
I sat beside him, quiet now.
I remembered how tight my shoulders got during the race, how I gritted my teeth and pushed hard. Maybe I had been fighting the moment instead of flowing with it. I imagined flying like a butterfly—soft, light, and without effort.
That night, I dreamed I was a butterfly.
The next day at school, I ran again. But this time, I didn’t push. I just let go. My legs moved like water, and the wind filled my heart. I didn’t win—but I didn’t care. I felt free.
When I told Grandfather, he smiled with his eyes.
“That,” he said, “is walking the Way. You finally felt it.”
I didn’t change overnight. But since that day, I tried to stop pushing and start flowing. And whenever I felt lost or small, I remembered the butterfly—floating through its dream, gentle and free as the river wind.
