The sun was high and hot on my shoulders as I tugged the rope of our family’s old ox-cart. I was just thirteen, but Pa was sick, so I had to bring the harvest to the village market by myself. I grumbled at each bump in the dirt road, sweat pouring down my back. “Why does everything have to be so hard?” I muttered.
As I reached the forest path, the cart wheel caught on a root. I pushed and pulled, but it wouldn’t move. Angry, I kicked the wheel. It didn’t budge. I sat down, tired and frustrated, watching a small stream flowing nearby. It danced around rocks and roots, quiet and calm.
Just then, an old man walked out from the trees. His beard was long and white, and his robe looked like it had been made from clouds. He smiled gently.
“Stuck, are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I huffed. “This cart won’t move, and I’m doing everything I can.”
He looked at the cart, then at the stream. “Do you know how rivers get through mountains?”
I blinked. “They, uh, push really hard?”
He chuckled. “No. They don’t push. They flow. They find the easiest path and keep going.”
I stared at the stream. It curved softly around a big stone. “But what about when something is in the way?”
“The river waits,” he said. “Or slowly wears it down. But it never fights.”
I didn’t know what to say. The man sat beside me. “In the Tao, we call this Wu Wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. You move with the world, not against it.”
I looked at the cart. Then at the root. I got up and walked to the other side, where the wheel sat at a funny angle. I picked up a small rock and placed it under the wheel. Then I gave it a gentle push. To my surprise, the cart rolled over the root easily.
I gasped. “It moved!”
The old man smiled. “So did you.”
I turned to thank him, but he was already walking back into the forest.
I reached the village by sunset. I sold all the rice and bought medicine for Pa. But what I carried home that day wasn’t just coins or food—it was a new way of seeing.
I didn’t change overnight. I still got angry when things were tough. But when I did, I remembered the stream, the stone, and the strange old man. I’d stop, breathe, and ask myself—was I pushing too hard?
And slowly, like a river, I learned to flow.
That day, I learned wisdom isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet like water, waiting for us to listen.
The sun was high and hot on my shoulders as I tugged the rope of our family’s old ox-cart. I was just thirteen, but Pa was sick, so I had to bring the harvest to the village market by myself. I grumbled at each bump in the dirt road, sweat pouring down my back. “Why does everything have to be so hard?” I muttered.
As I reached the forest path, the cart wheel caught on a root. I pushed and pulled, but it wouldn’t move. Angry, I kicked the wheel. It didn’t budge. I sat down, tired and frustrated, watching a small stream flowing nearby. It danced around rocks and roots, quiet and calm.
Just then, an old man walked out from the trees. His beard was long and white, and his robe looked like it had been made from clouds. He smiled gently.
“Stuck, are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I huffed. “This cart won’t move, and I’m doing everything I can.”
He looked at the cart, then at the stream. “Do you know how rivers get through mountains?”
I blinked. “They, uh, push really hard?”
He chuckled. “No. They don’t push. They flow. They find the easiest path and keep going.”
I stared at the stream. It curved softly around a big stone. “But what about when something is in the way?”
“The river waits,” he said. “Or slowly wears it down. But it never fights.”
I didn’t know what to say. The man sat beside me. “In the Tao, we call this Wu Wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not forcing. You move with the world, not against it.”
I looked at the cart. Then at the root. I got up and walked to the other side, where the wheel sat at a funny angle. I picked up a small rock and placed it under the wheel. Then I gave it a gentle push. To my surprise, the cart rolled over the root easily.
I gasped. “It moved!”
The old man smiled. “So did you.”
I turned to thank him, but he was already walking back into the forest.
I reached the village by sunset. I sold all the rice and bought medicine for Pa. But what I carried home that day wasn’t just coins or food—it was a new way of seeing.
I didn’t change overnight. I still got angry when things were tough. But when I did, I remembered the stream, the stone, and the strange old man. I’d stop, breathe, and ask myself—was I pushing too hard?
And slowly, like a river, I learned to flow.
That day, I learned wisdom isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet like water, waiting for us to listen.
