The wind was soft that morning as I carried my basket down the narrow path beside the river. My name is Min, and I lived in a small village between the mountains and the forest. People always said I hurried too much. My mother would laugh and say, “Min, even a rabbit rests between hops.”
But I didn’t want to be like the others—slow, quiet, still. I wanted to be fast, smart, and always doing something. While others sat, I ran. While others listened, I talked. I believed if I worked harder and moved faster, I would get ahead.
One day, the village elder, Old Shen, asked me to deliver tea leaves to Master Wei, a Taoist hermit who lived deep in the forest. "He may teach you more than I ever could," Old Shen smiled.
I rolled my eyes but nodded. “I’ll go fast and be back before lunch!”
He laughed softly. “No need to rush. Let the path teach you.”
I didn’t understand him, but I went anyway.
The forest air smelled of moss and calm. Birds chirped. The leaves whispered above. I hurried along, stepping over roots, ducking under branches, determined to reach the mountaintop before noon. But suddenly—snap! My foot caught a vine, and I tumbled forward. My basket flew, spilling tea leaves into the breeze.
Frustrated, I sat up and grumbled. That’s when I heard it: slow footsteps, gentle like the wind.
A man with kind eyes and long, gray hair stepped into the clearing. He wore plain robes and had no shoes. “Looks like the forest wanted you to stop,” he said, chuckling.
“You must be Master Wei,” I said, brushing off my knees. “I was bringing tea, but… well, they’re gone.”
He sat down beside me. “What is most important—tea or the peace you carry when delivering it?”
“I guess… the tea?”
He tapped his chin. “Then today, maybe the forest has offered a better gift.”
I looked around. The trees were still. The birds had returned. A small squirrel watched us from a branch.
“You hurry,” he said, “because you fear stillness. Yet in stillness, the Tao speaks.”
I frowned. “How can I help if I don’t do something?”
Master Wei took a stick and gently traced a line in the dirt. “This is you,” he said. Then he added waves around it. “And this is the world. If you try to push the river, you’ll tire. But if you float, you’ll travel farther without effort.”
I didn’t get it all, but I stayed there with him for hours, doing nothing. It was the first time I noticed the smell of bamboo leaves, the way the bugs hummed like music. I didn’t need to be busy. I was already part of the world.
When I finally returned home, I felt lighter. I still worked and ran—but I also knew when to sit. I didn’t need to chase everything. I could let some things come.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush, I remember the river. I breathe, I listen, and I wait.
And strangely, everything still gets done.
The wind was soft that morning as I carried my basket down the narrow path beside the river. My name is Min, and I lived in a small village between the mountains and the forest. People always said I hurried too much. My mother would laugh and say, “Min, even a rabbit rests between hops.”
But I didn’t want to be like the others—slow, quiet, still. I wanted to be fast, smart, and always doing something. While others sat, I ran. While others listened, I talked. I believed if I worked harder and moved faster, I would get ahead.
One day, the village elder, Old Shen, asked me to deliver tea leaves to Master Wei, a Taoist hermit who lived deep in the forest. "He may teach you more than I ever could," Old Shen smiled.
I rolled my eyes but nodded. “I’ll go fast and be back before lunch!”
He laughed softly. “No need to rush. Let the path teach you.”
I didn’t understand him, but I went anyway.
The forest air smelled of moss and calm. Birds chirped. The leaves whispered above. I hurried along, stepping over roots, ducking under branches, determined to reach the mountaintop before noon. But suddenly—snap! My foot caught a vine, and I tumbled forward. My basket flew, spilling tea leaves into the breeze.
Frustrated, I sat up and grumbled. That’s when I heard it: slow footsteps, gentle like the wind.
A man with kind eyes and long, gray hair stepped into the clearing. He wore plain robes and had no shoes. “Looks like the forest wanted you to stop,” he said, chuckling.
“You must be Master Wei,” I said, brushing off my knees. “I was bringing tea, but… well, they’re gone.”
He sat down beside me. “What is most important—tea or the peace you carry when delivering it?”
“I guess… the tea?”
He tapped his chin. “Then today, maybe the forest has offered a better gift.”
I looked around. The trees were still. The birds had returned. A small squirrel watched us from a branch.
“You hurry,” he said, “because you fear stillness. Yet in stillness, the Tao speaks.”
I frowned. “How can I help if I don’t do something?”
Master Wei took a stick and gently traced a line in the dirt. “This is you,” he said. Then he added waves around it. “And this is the world. If you try to push the river, you’ll tire. But if you float, you’ll travel farther without effort.”
I didn’t get it all, but I stayed there with him for hours, doing nothing. It was the first time I noticed the smell of bamboo leaves, the way the bugs hummed like music. I didn’t need to be busy. I was already part of the world.
When I finally returned home, I felt lighter. I still worked and ran—but I also knew when to sit. I didn’t need to chase everything. I could let some things come.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush, I remember the river. I breathe, I listen, and I wait.
And strangely, everything still gets done.
