The grass brushed gently against my toes as I walked, holding my basket of firewood. I was only twelve, but my mind felt heavier than the load I carried.
We lived in a small village by the mountain. Life was simple—waking before the sun, helping Father chop wood, and collecting herbs with my mother. But lately, I wanted more. I kept hearing stories about young boys who traveled far, worked hard, and became great. I thought, “If I do more, try harder, go faster, maybe I’ll become someone important too.”
So, I worked. Every day, I gathered more than I needed and chopped extra wood. But the more I did, the more tired I became. And still, I didn’t feel great. One evening, while returning from the forest, I stumbled along a rocky path. My foot twisted, and I cried out. I dropped my basket and sat by the large crooked tree nearby, angry with myself.
"Trying too hard, little one?"
The voice came from behind the tree. I turned, startled, and saw an old man sitting on a rock, sipping tea from a wooden cup. He wore a gray robe, dusty with age, and his eyes were like still water—quiet and deep.
“I have to,” I said. “If I don’t try, I’ll be nothing.”
He chuckled gently. “And what are you now?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t sure anymore.
He pointed to a small stream nearby. “See that water? It flows around rocks, never fighting. It reaches the ocean without struggling.”
“But it’s just water,” I said quietly.
“Yes,” he said, “but even mountains bow to it—given time.”
The man told me his name was Master Shen. He lived by the mountain’s edge and studied what he called the Tao. He said the Tao was The Way—of nature, of the world, of us. It was not something to catch or chase. It was something to feel and follow.
“The Tao doesn’t reward those who push,” he said, “It reveals truth to those who are still.”
I nodded slowly but didn’t fully understand. "What should I do then? Just... do nothing?"
He smiled. “Not nothing. Just not forcing. Gather wood because it brings warmth, not because you want to chase greatness. Chop only what you need. Let life move around you and through you—like the stream.”
I visited Master Shen often after that day. We didn’t talk much. Sometimes we watched the wind blow leaves in circles. Other times, he let me pour tea in silence. And over time, I stopped trying to be something. I just… was.
Years later, when I became known in the village for my calm spirit and wisdom, people asked where I had learned such peace. I would smile and say, “By a crooked tree, from a man who watched water.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the stream and Master Shen. I try to let things unfold as they are—trusting the Tao, and the quiet way it moves through all.
The grass brushed gently against my toes as I walked, holding my basket of firewood. I was only twelve, but my mind felt heavier than the load I carried.
We lived in a small village by the mountain. Life was simple—waking before the sun, helping Father chop wood, and collecting herbs with my mother. But lately, I wanted more. I kept hearing stories about young boys who traveled far, worked hard, and became great. I thought, “If I do more, try harder, go faster, maybe I’ll become someone important too.”
So, I worked. Every day, I gathered more than I needed and chopped extra wood. But the more I did, the more tired I became. And still, I didn’t feel great. One evening, while returning from the forest, I stumbled along a rocky path. My foot twisted, and I cried out. I dropped my basket and sat by the large crooked tree nearby, angry with myself.
"Trying too hard, little one?"
The voice came from behind the tree. I turned, startled, and saw an old man sitting on a rock, sipping tea from a wooden cup. He wore a gray robe, dusty with age, and his eyes were like still water—quiet and deep.
“I have to,” I said. “If I don’t try, I’ll be nothing.”
He chuckled gently. “And what are you now?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t sure anymore.
He pointed to a small stream nearby. “See that water? It flows around rocks, never fighting. It reaches the ocean without struggling.”
“But it’s just water,” I said quietly.
“Yes,” he said, “but even mountains bow to it—given time.”
The man told me his name was Master Shen. He lived by the mountain’s edge and studied what he called the Tao. He said the Tao was The Way—of nature, of the world, of us. It was not something to catch or chase. It was something to feel and follow.
“The Tao doesn’t reward those who push,” he said, “It reveals truth to those who are still.”
I nodded slowly but didn’t fully understand. "What should I do then? Just... do nothing?"
He smiled. “Not nothing. Just not forcing. Gather wood because it brings warmth, not because you want to chase greatness. Chop only what you need. Let life move around you and through you—like the stream.”
I visited Master Shen often after that day. We didn’t talk much. Sometimes we watched the wind blow leaves in circles. Other times, he let me pour tea in silence. And over time, I stopped trying to be something. I just… was.
Years later, when I became known in the village for my calm spirit and wisdom, people asked where I had learned such peace. I would smile and say, “By a crooked tree, from a man who watched water.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the stream and Master Shen. I try to let things unfold as they are—trusting the Tao, and the quiet way it moves through all.
