The wind was gentle that morning. I remember because the trees swayed, but the air held such peace, like even the leaves knew not to try too hard. I was just a boy then—little Hui—with too many thoughts and too much energy for a single day.
I was helping my grandfather, Master Jun, a retired scholar who lived by a quiet stream. People said he once studied in a great city far away, but now he spent his days folding paper cranes and watching the clouds.
“Why don’t you do more, Grandfather?” I once asked as I rushed to finish sweeping the leaves from our courtyard. “You could still teach at the academy, or advise the city governor!”
Grandfather looked up from his tea and smiled. “Do you see the stream, Hui?”
“Yes,” I replied, a bit puzzled.
“It flows without pushing,” he said. “It goes around the rocks, not through them. It moves by not forcing. That is the Tao.”
I frowned. “But isn’t it better to work harder, to be faster? The best fish swims upstream, right?”
He chuckled, setting his cup down. “Sometimes the best fish is the one that floats and waits for the right current.”
I didn’t understand. Not really.
But that changed a few days later.
I had spent two afternoons trying to build a bamboo kite. I wanted it to fly higher than anyone else’s. I tied the string tight and used strong glue for the wings. But no matter how many times I ran across the open field, it wouldn’t stay up. It dipped, it twisted, and then—it broke.
I sat down hard on the grass, angry. “Stupid wind!” I shouted. “Stupid kite!”
Grandfather was there, quiet as always. He walked over and sat beside me. For a long while, he said nothing. He just watched the clouds float by.
Then he handed me a tiny paper crane. “Do you know how this flies?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t. It’s paper.”
“But when I drop it,” he said, letting it go, “it dances on the air. It isn’t trying to fly. It just lets the wind move it.”
I watched as it fell, gently spinning and gliding before resting softly on the grass beside me.
I understood a little then.
The next day, I rebuilt the kite—this time simpler. I let it go instead of forcing it up. I waited and felt the breeze. And when it lifted, soft and steady, my kite soared high, bobbing with the wind like it belonged to the sky.
Grandfather smiled when he saw it. “Wu Wei,” he said. “Non-action does not mean doing nothing. It means acting with the flow, not against it.”
That was the day I began to understand the Tao. Not as a lesson in a book, but as something I could feel through the wind, the water, and the way a simple crane can teach more than the hardest push.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things feel too heavy or I try too hard, I remember the kite. I pause. I breathe. And I listen for the wind.
The wind was gentle that morning. I remember because the trees swayed, but the air held such peace, like even the leaves knew not to try too hard. I was just a boy then—little Hui—with too many thoughts and too much energy for a single day.
I was helping my grandfather, Master Jun, a retired scholar who lived by a quiet stream. People said he once studied in a great city far away, but now he spent his days folding paper cranes and watching the clouds.
“Why don’t you do more, Grandfather?” I once asked as I rushed to finish sweeping the leaves from our courtyard. “You could still teach at the academy, or advise the city governor!”
Grandfather looked up from his tea and smiled. “Do you see the stream, Hui?”
“Yes,” I replied, a bit puzzled.
“It flows without pushing,” he said. “It goes around the rocks, not through them. It moves by not forcing. That is the Tao.”
I frowned. “But isn’t it better to work harder, to be faster? The best fish swims upstream, right?”
He chuckled, setting his cup down. “Sometimes the best fish is the one that floats and waits for the right current.”
I didn’t understand. Not really.
But that changed a few days later.
I had spent two afternoons trying to build a bamboo kite. I wanted it to fly higher than anyone else’s. I tied the string tight and used strong glue for the wings. But no matter how many times I ran across the open field, it wouldn’t stay up. It dipped, it twisted, and then—it broke.
I sat down hard on the grass, angry. “Stupid wind!” I shouted. “Stupid kite!”
Grandfather was there, quiet as always. He walked over and sat beside me. For a long while, he said nothing. He just watched the clouds float by.
Then he handed me a tiny paper crane. “Do you know how this flies?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t. It’s paper.”
“But when I drop it,” he said, letting it go, “it dances on the air. It isn’t trying to fly. It just lets the wind move it.”
I watched as it fell, gently spinning and gliding before resting softly on the grass beside me.
I understood a little then.
The next day, I rebuilt the kite—this time simpler. I let it go instead of forcing it up. I waited and felt the breeze. And when it lifted, soft and steady, my kite soared high, bobbing with the wind like it belonged to the sky.
Grandfather smiled when he saw it. “Wu Wei,” he said. “Non-action does not mean doing nothing. It means acting with the flow, not against it.”
That was the day I began to understand the Tao. Not as a lesson in a book, but as something I could feel through the wind, the water, and the way a simple crane can teach more than the hardest push.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things feel too heavy or I try too hard, I remember the kite. I pause. I breathe. And I listen for the wind.
