I had always believed that if I tried hard enough, I could fix anything. Whether it was helping my father in the fields or solving a riddle from our village elder, I thought effort was the key to success. That’s why, when our ox became sick and stopped pulling the plow, I ran around trying to fix the problem myself.
“Give it rest,” my grandfather told me. He was an old man with eyes like quiet ponds and hands still strong from years of farming.
“But Grandfather,” I said, “if we don’t do something fast, we’ll miss the planting season!”
He only smiled. “Sometimes, the river moves faster when you stop paddling.”
I didn't understand what that meant. So I gathered herbs, mixed them, and tried to feed them to the ox. It refused. I cleaned its hooves, built a shade post, and stayed up late watching it. But the more I did, the worse it seemed to get. I felt helpless—and frustrated.
The next morning, I found Grandfather sitting by the ox, quietly weaving a rope.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Being with the ox,” he said softly. “It doesn’t need fixing. It needs peace.”
I sat beside him, tired from everything I had tried. We just sat there for a long time without speaking. The wind moved through the trees, and the distant stream bubbled softly. I watched the ox breathe, slow and steady.
Day after day, Grandfather and I returned to the ox. We didn’t try to fix it anymore. We fed it when it was hungry, gave it water when it was thirsty, and sat beside it the rest of the time. Slowly, the ox began to stand more. Then, it walked. And one morning, I found it pulling at the yoke again, ready.
“What changed?” I asked Grandfather.
He set his rope down and looked at me gently. “You did.”
I blinked. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly.”
I didn’t understand at first, but as I looked at the ox, healthy and calm, I realized something. Effort hadn’t healed it. Space had. Peace had. Patience had.
That night, I asked Grandfather what he meant by the river moving faster when you stop paddling.
“The Tao, the Way,” he said, “flows on its own. When we force it, we fight it. But when we follow it, life flows more smoothly. That’s called Wu Wei—effortless action.”
That was the first time I heard those words. Wu Wei.
From then on, I did less rushing and pushing. I started to listen more—to people, to animals, even to the wind. I still helped when help was needed, but I stopped trying to control every part of life.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the ox. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the river.
That’s when I began to walk the Way—not the path I made, but the one that was already there.
I had always believed that if I tried hard enough, I could fix anything. Whether it was helping my father in the fields or solving a riddle from our village elder, I thought effort was the key to success. That’s why, when our ox became sick and stopped pulling the plow, I ran around trying to fix the problem myself.
“Give it rest,” my grandfather told me. He was an old man with eyes like quiet ponds and hands still strong from years of farming.
“But Grandfather,” I said, “if we don’t do something fast, we’ll miss the planting season!”
He only smiled. “Sometimes, the river moves faster when you stop paddling.”
I didn't understand what that meant. So I gathered herbs, mixed them, and tried to feed them to the ox. It refused. I cleaned its hooves, built a shade post, and stayed up late watching it. But the more I did, the worse it seemed to get. I felt helpless—and frustrated.
The next morning, I found Grandfather sitting by the ox, quietly weaving a rope.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Being with the ox,” he said softly. “It doesn’t need fixing. It needs peace.”
I sat beside him, tired from everything I had tried. We just sat there for a long time without speaking. The wind moved through the trees, and the distant stream bubbled softly. I watched the ox breathe, slow and steady.
Day after day, Grandfather and I returned to the ox. We didn’t try to fix it anymore. We fed it when it was hungry, gave it water when it was thirsty, and sat beside it the rest of the time. Slowly, the ox began to stand more. Then, it walked. And one morning, I found it pulling at the yoke again, ready.
“What changed?” I asked Grandfather.
He set his rope down and looked at me gently. “You did.”
I blinked. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly.”
I didn’t understand at first, but as I looked at the ox, healthy and calm, I realized something. Effort hadn’t healed it. Space had. Peace had. Patience had.
That night, I asked Grandfather what he meant by the river moving faster when you stop paddling.
“The Tao, the Way,” he said, “flows on its own. When we force it, we fight it. But when we follow it, life flows more smoothly. That’s called Wu Wei—effortless action.”
That was the first time I heard those words. Wu Wei.
From then on, I did less rushing and pushing. I started to listen more—to people, to animals, even to the wind. I still helped when help was needed, but I stopped trying to control every part of life.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the ox. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the river.
That’s when I began to walk the Way—not the path I made, but the one that was already there.
