The rain had been falling all morning. I sat under a crooked willow tree, hugging my knees to my chest. Everything in me felt heavy, like the gray clouds above. My basket was empty, and I had no goods left to sell at the market. The river path had flooded, and my feet were soaked. I was cold, hungry, and angry at everything: the sky, the path, even myself.
That’s when I saw him—a wiry old man with long white eyebrows that bounced when he smiled. He stood barefoot in the wet grass, holding a crooked wooden cane. His clothes were simple, brown and loose, like he didn’t care if they got wet.
I blinked. Why would someone smile on a day like this?
“Did you lose something?” he asked, tilting his head.
“My time,” I grumbled. “My goods. My energy. I try so hard, and it never works out.”
He looked at me gently, then sat beside me without asking. The rain didn’t seem to bother him.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, “when the stream is blocked, it is not the stream’s job to push harder. It simply waits until a new path shows.”
I didn’t understand. I frowned. “That doesn’t help me eat today,” I said.
He chuckled, not unkindly. “The Tao,” he said, “is not always about doing more. Sometimes the Tao is about doing less. Or nothing at all.”
Now I was confused and annoyed. Doing nothing? How would that help?
He reached into his bag and pulled out a boiled sweet potato. “Want some?” he asked.
I hesitated but nodded. As I chewed, warmth filled my belly. Still, my thoughts churned like the muddy river.
“But I can’t just sit still forever,” I said. “Won’t I fall behind?”
He looked out at the water. “The crane flies with grace not because it flaps harder—but because it knows the wind.”
We sat quietly for a while. The rain began to lighten. I watched little ripples form on the water, circles inside circles. I noticed how the river spilled over rocks without forcing them to move. It simply went around them. That made me think.
Maybe I had been forcing everything—pushing when I could just… allow things to be.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“They call me Master Li,” he answered. “I follow the Tao—the Way. I live close to the mountain, where everything moves, even when I do not.”
He stood and handed me a dried plum. “Today, let your heart be as gentle as the willow. See how it bends, not breaks.”
Then he walked away, barefoot and humming, as if the sun were shining instead of hiding behind clouds.
I stayed by the river a little while longer, not needing to rush. I had food in my belly and quiet in my heart.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever things feel out of control, I remember Master Li. I remember the willow, the river, and the sweetness of a simple plum.
And slowly, softly, I’ve learned—peace isn’t something you chase. It's something you allow.
The rain had been falling all morning. I sat under a crooked willow tree, hugging my knees to my chest. Everything in me felt heavy, like the gray clouds above. My basket was empty, and I had no goods left to sell at the market. The river path had flooded, and my feet were soaked. I was cold, hungry, and angry at everything: the sky, the path, even myself.
That’s when I saw him—a wiry old man with long white eyebrows that bounced when he smiled. He stood barefoot in the wet grass, holding a crooked wooden cane. His clothes were simple, brown and loose, like he didn’t care if they got wet.
I blinked. Why would someone smile on a day like this?
“Did you lose something?” he asked, tilting his head.
“My time,” I grumbled. “My goods. My energy. I try so hard, and it never works out.”
He looked at me gently, then sat beside me without asking. The rain didn’t seem to bother him.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, “when the stream is blocked, it is not the stream’s job to push harder. It simply waits until a new path shows.”
I didn’t understand. I frowned. “That doesn’t help me eat today,” I said.
He chuckled, not unkindly. “The Tao,” he said, “is not always about doing more. Sometimes the Tao is about doing less. Or nothing at all.”
Now I was confused and annoyed. Doing nothing? How would that help?
He reached into his bag and pulled out a boiled sweet potato. “Want some?” he asked.
I hesitated but nodded. As I chewed, warmth filled my belly. Still, my thoughts churned like the muddy river.
“But I can’t just sit still forever,” I said. “Won’t I fall behind?”
He looked out at the water. “The crane flies with grace not because it flaps harder—but because it knows the wind.”
We sat quietly for a while. The rain began to lighten. I watched little ripples form on the water, circles inside circles. I noticed how the river spilled over rocks without forcing them to move. It simply went around them. That made me think.
Maybe I had been forcing everything—pushing when I could just… allow things to be.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“They call me Master Li,” he answered. “I follow the Tao—the Way. I live close to the mountain, where everything moves, even when I do not.”
He stood and handed me a dried plum. “Today, let your heart be as gentle as the willow. See how it bends, not breaks.”
Then he walked away, barefoot and humming, as if the sun were shining instead of hiding behind clouds.
I stayed by the river a little while longer, not needing to rush. I had food in my belly and quiet in my heart.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever things feel out of control, I remember Master Li. I remember the willow, the river, and the sweetness of a simple plum.
And slowly, softly, I’ve learned—peace isn’t something you chase. It's something you allow.
