The village of Clear Water sat at the edge of a gentle river. People came and went, selling goods, tending gardens, and sharing stories. But up on a quiet hill, there lived a man named Yi. He was old but kind, and while others rushed about, Yi moved slowly—like a leaf drifting downstream.
One curious boy named Dawei often watched Yi from below. Dawei was always running—running to school, running to help his father at the market, or running to chase after answers. "Why does Master Yi barely do anything?" Dawei asked one afternoon.
His father chuckled. "He’s following the Way of the Tao," he said. “He’s a wise man.”
Dawei decided to find out for himself.
The next morning, Dawei climbed the hill and saw Yi sipping tea beneath a tree. The wind made the leaves swirl around them.
“Master Yi,” Dawei said, bowing. “May I sit with you?”
Yi smiled and nodded. “The tree does not chase the wind, yet it dances with it.”
Dawei blinked. “What does that mean?”
“Ah,” Yi said, “You ask many things. But tell me, why do you run so much?”
“I want to learn everything,” Dawei said. “If I don’t try hard, I’ll fall behind.”
Yi poured Dawei a cup of tea. “Watch,” he said, lifting the pot high. The tea flowed gently, never spilling. “If I had poured too fast, the tea would splash and burn.”
Dawei frowned. “So… going slower is safer?”
Yi nodded. “And smarter. Sometimes doing less brings more.”
At first, Dawei didn’t believe him. He went back to his busy life, racing from one thing to the next. But one day, while trying too hard to answer a riddle in school, his teacher smiled and said, “Dawei, just let the answer come like clouds drifting across the sky.”
He remembered Master Yi’s words.
Later that week, he watched Yi again. The old man tended a small garden with light hands, barely touching the plants, yet they grew tall and strong. Meanwhile, Dawei had pulled the weeds from his own garden too roughly, and nothing grew.
Finally, Dawei came back to Yi.
“How can you do so little and still be so wise?” he asked.
Yi chuckled softly. “Tao is like water,” he said. “It flows around rocks. It never fights, and yet it shapes everything.”
Dawei thought about this. He spent the next few days walking instead of running. Listening instead of talking. Sitting instead of chasing after answers.
He didn’t become quiet all at once, but slowly, something inside him began to shift.
One day, he helped his little sister find her lost toy—not by searching frantically, but by sitting still and letting her remember.
“She found it herself,” Dawei said.
“Exactly,” Yi replied when Dawei told him. “That is Wu Wei—effortless action.”
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Dawei sat under the same tree as Yi. The wind came, and instead of chasing it, he listened.
He didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever he felt he had to push too hard, he remembered the tea, the water, the leaves—and he let go.
And in letting go, he found the Way.
The village of Clear Water sat at the edge of a gentle river. People came and went, selling goods, tending gardens, and sharing stories. But up on a quiet hill, there lived a man named Yi. He was old but kind, and while others rushed about, Yi moved slowly—like a leaf drifting downstream.
One curious boy named Dawei often watched Yi from below. Dawei was always running—running to school, running to help his father at the market, or running to chase after answers. "Why does Master Yi barely do anything?" Dawei asked one afternoon.
His father chuckled. "He’s following the Way of the Tao," he said. “He’s a wise man.”
Dawei decided to find out for himself.
The next morning, Dawei climbed the hill and saw Yi sipping tea beneath a tree. The wind made the leaves swirl around them.
“Master Yi,” Dawei said, bowing. “May I sit with you?”
Yi smiled and nodded. “The tree does not chase the wind, yet it dances with it.”
Dawei blinked. “What does that mean?”
“Ah,” Yi said, “You ask many things. But tell me, why do you run so much?”
“I want to learn everything,” Dawei said. “If I don’t try hard, I’ll fall behind.”
Yi poured Dawei a cup of tea. “Watch,” he said, lifting the pot high. The tea flowed gently, never spilling. “If I had poured too fast, the tea would splash and burn.”
Dawei frowned. “So… going slower is safer?”
Yi nodded. “And smarter. Sometimes doing less brings more.”
At first, Dawei didn’t believe him. He went back to his busy life, racing from one thing to the next. But one day, while trying too hard to answer a riddle in school, his teacher smiled and said, “Dawei, just let the answer come like clouds drifting across the sky.”
He remembered Master Yi’s words.
Later that week, he watched Yi again. The old man tended a small garden with light hands, barely touching the plants, yet they grew tall and strong. Meanwhile, Dawei had pulled the weeds from his own garden too roughly, and nothing grew.
Finally, Dawei came back to Yi.
“How can you do so little and still be so wise?” he asked.
Yi chuckled softly. “Tao is like water,” he said. “It flows around rocks. It never fights, and yet it shapes everything.”
Dawei thought about this. He spent the next few days walking instead of running. Listening instead of talking. Sitting instead of chasing after answers.
He didn’t become quiet all at once, but slowly, something inside him began to shift.
One day, he helped his little sister find her lost toy—not by searching frantically, but by sitting still and letting her remember.
“She found it herself,” Dawei said.
“Exactly,” Yi replied when Dawei told him. “That is Wu Wei—effortless action.”
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Dawei sat under the same tree as Yi. The wind came, and instead of chasing it, he listened.
He didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever he felt he had to push too hard, he remembered the tea, the water, the leaves—and he let go.
And in letting go, he found the Way.
