The wind had gone quiet that afternoon in the village. I sat by the river with my fishing rod, hoping to forget the loud thoughts in my head. My name is Wei, and I was only thirteen years old. Ever since my father passed away, I tried harder and harder to be perfect—strong, fast, smart. But the harder I tried, the more things seemed to go wrong. My hands ached from practicing sword strikes; my mind felt heavy with mistakes.
That’s when Grandfather Ping came down the hill carrying his old basket of herbs. Everyone in the village called him “The Slow Turtle,” because he walked slowly and rarely spoke. But I knew he was wise. Grandfather Ping smiled gently when he saw me.
“Catching fish today?” he asked.
“Trying,” I said.
He sat beside me and watched the ripples in the water. After a while, he pointed to the rod in my hands. “Why so tight? You grip it like a warrior in battle.”
“I need to hold it still,” I said. “If I don’t act fast, I’ll miss the fish.”
“Mmm,” he said. “But when you hold water too tight, it slips through your fingers.”
I didn’t answer. It sounded like a riddle—and I didn’t like riddles that didn’t have clear answers.
Grandfather Ping didn’t say more. He just sat with me, quietly. The sun moved across the sky. The wind returned, brushing the river’s surface. And suddenly—tug! A fish!
I jumped up, pulling the rod with all my strength. The line snapped, and the fish was gone.
I sighed loudly. “See? I wasn’t fast enough!”
Grandfather just chuckled. “You were too fast. You grabbed too hard.”
I didn’t understand. I sat back down, frowning.
“What should I do then?” I asked.
He looked at me kindly, plucking a reed from the water’s edge. “Look around you, Wei. The river doesn’t fight with the rocks. The tree doesn’t scream to grow. The bird doesn’t rush to fly. They follow the Tao,” he said. “The Way.”
I blinked. “The Tao?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s the path of nature. Of balance. Sometimes doing less shows more wisdom than doing too much.”
“But I thought working harder was always better.”
He nodded gently. “Hard work has its place. But pushing against the current won’t help you cross the river. Sometimes, it’s better to float with it.”
His words stuck in my heart, even though I didn’t fully get them yet. That night, I didn’t try to be perfect. I didn’t practice sword swings until my arm hurt. I just sat outside and listened to the crickets sing under the moon.
A few mornings later, I went back to the river. This time I held the fishing rod loosely. I didn’t look for the fish—I just let the line drift. And soon, a fish came without struggle.
I began to understand.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel stressed or things don’t go the way I want, I think of the river. I try not to push so hard. I breathe. I wait. I flow.
That day by the river, the Tao revealed a secret: peace doesn’t come from holding on, but from letting go.
And little by little, I learned to live that way.
The wind had gone quiet that afternoon in the village. I sat by the river with my fishing rod, hoping to forget the loud thoughts in my head. My name is Wei, and I was only thirteen years old. Ever since my father passed away, I tried harder and harder to be perfect—strong, fast, smart. But the harder I tried, the more things seemed to go wrong. My hands ached from practicing sword strikes; my mind felt heavy with mistakes.
That’s when Grandfather Ping came down the hill carrying his old basket of herbs. Everyone in the village called him “The Slow Turtle,” because he walked slowly and rarely spoke. But I knew he was wise. Grandfather Ping smiled gently when he saw me.
“Catching fish today?” he asked.
“Trying,” I said.
He sat beside me and watched the ripples in the water. After a while, he pointed to the rod in my hands. “Why so tight? You grip it like a warrior in battle.”
“I need to hold it still,” I said. “If I don’t act fast, I’ll miss the fish.”
“Mmm,” he said. “But when you hold water too tight, it slips through your fingers.”
I didn’t answer. It sounded like a riddle—and I didn’t like riddles that didn’t have clear answers.
Grandfather Ping didn’t say more. He just sat with me, quietly. The sun moved across the sky. The wind returned, brushing the river’s surface. And suddenly—tug! A fish!
I jumped up, pulling the rod with all my strength. The line snapped, and the fish was gone.
I sighed loudly. “See? I wasn’t fast enough!”
Grandfather just chuckled. “You were too fast. You grabbed too hard.”
I didn’t understand. I sat back down, frowning.
“What should I do then?” I asked.
He looked at me kindly, plucking a reed from the water’s edge. “Look around you, Wei. The river doesn’t fight with the rocks. The tree doesn’t scream to grow. The bird doesn’t rush to fly. They follow the Tao,” he said. “The Way.”
I blinked. “The Tao?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s the path of nature. Of balance. Sometimes doing less shows more wisdom than doing too much.”
“But I thought working harder was always better.”
He nodded gently. “Hard work has its place. But pushing against the current won’t help you cross the river. Sometimes, it’s better to float with it.”
His words stuck in my heart, even though I didn’t fully get them yet. That night, I didn’t try to be perfect. I didn’t practice sword swings until my arm hurt. I just sat outside and listened to the crickets sing under the moon.
A few mornings later, I went back to the river. This time I held the fishing rod loosely. I didn’t look for the fish—I just let the line drift. And soon, a fish came without struggle.
I began to understand.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel stressed or things don’t go the way I want, I think of the river. I try not to push so hard. I breathe. I wait. I flow.
That day by the river, the Tao revealed a secret: peace doesn’t come from holding on, but from letting go.
And little by little, I learned to live that way.
