The village was quiet the morning I met Old Mah. I had been running around all week, trying to finish tasks I gave myself. Fix the roof. Plant more vegetables. Carry water twice a day. I believed if I did more, I would finally feel happy.
But I only felt tired.
“Why don’t you sit with me?” Old Mah said as I hurried past him.
He was sitting on a stone bench beneath the big gingko tree. I didn’t know much about him, only that he was retired from working in the Emperor’s gardens and people said he was very wise.
“I have things to do,” I replied, adjusting the heavy bag on my back.
Old Mah only nodded. “Very well.”
But something in his voice made me stop. I felt silly, but also curious. So I slowly sat down beside him.
The wind rustled the tree leaves. Birds sang above.
“You seem busy,” Old Mah said simply.
“I have so much to do. If I don’t work hard, nothing will get finished! The roof will leak, the garden won’t grow, and I won’t have enough food.”
“Hmm,” he said. “The bamboo doesn’t grow faster because it tries harder.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The more you push, the more tangled things can become,” Old Mah said. “Sometimes, doing less helps more. That is the way of the Tao.”
“Tao?” I asked.
“It means ‘The Way,’” he smiled. “It’s the natural path of life. Like how rivers flow, or how leaves fall without being forced. Tao teaches us that when we stop trying so hard and allow things to unfold, they often work out better.”
“But if I don’t work, won’t everything fall apart?” I asked.
“You must still care, and you must still act,” he said. “But with balance. That is Wu Wei—effortless action. Doing only what needs to be done… no more, no less.”
We sat in silence. The wind brushed against my skin. I watched a leaf twirl down, landing just gently on a patch of grass.
That afternoon, I did only what truly needed to be done. Just enough to care for the garden. Just enough to patch the roof. It took less time than I expected—and I still had time to sit by the stream and breathe.
Each day after that, I watched the world more closely. I learned to let go of my need to control everything. If the chickens didn’t lay eggs one day, I fed them and trusted they would another day. If the rain came while I gathered herbs, I stood still and let it wash over me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to chase after more, I remember that quiet morning under the gingko tree. I remember how the wind spoke, how the leaf landed, and how stillness can sometimes carry more strength than movement.
The Tao shows us that life doesn’t have to be a race. And in learning to slow down, I finally started to feel free.
The village was quiet the morning I met Old Mah. I had been running around all week, trying to finish tasks I gave myself. Fix the roof. Plant more vegetables. Carry water twice a day. I believed if I did more, I would finally feel happy.
But I only felt tired.
“Why don’t you sit with me?” Old Mah said as I hurried past him.
He was sitting on a stone bench beneath the big gingko tree. I didn’t know much about him, only that he was retired from working in the Emperor’s gardens and people said he was very wise.
“I have things to do,” I replied, adjusting the heavy bag on my back.
Old Mah only nodded. “Very well.”
But something in his voice made me stop. I felt silly, but also curious. So I slowly sat down beside him.
The wind rustled the tree leaves. Birds sang above.
“You seem busy,” Old Mah said simply.
“I have so much to do. If I don’t work hard, nothing will get finished! The roof will leak, the garden won’t grow, and I won’t have enough food.”
“Hmm,” he said. “The bamboo doesn’t grow faster because it tries harder.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The more you push, the more tangled things can become,” Old Mah said. “Sometimes, doing less helps more. That is the way of the Tao.”
“Tao?” I asked.
“It means ‘The Way,’” he smiled. “It’s the natural path of life. Like how rivers flow, or how leaves fall without being forced. Tao teaches us that when we stop trying so hard and allow things to unfold, they often work out better.”
“But if I don’t work, won’t everything fall apart?” I asked.
“You must still care, and you must still act,” he said. “But with balance. That is Wu Wei—effortless action. Doing only what needs to be done… no more, no less.”
We sat in silence. The wind brushed against my skin. I watched a leaf twirl down, landing just gently on a patch of grass.
That afternoon, I did only what truly needed to be done. Just enough to care for the garden. Just enough to patch the roof. It took less time than I expected—and I still had time to sit by the stream and breathe.
Each day after that, I watched the world more closely. I learned to let go of my need to control everything. If the chickens didn’t lay eggs one day, I fed them and trusted they would another day. If the rain came while I gathered herbs, I stood still and let it wash over me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to chase after more, I remember that quiet morning under the gingko tree. I remember how the wind spoke, how the leaf landed, and how stillness can sometimes carry more strength than movement.
The Tao shows us that life doesn’t have to be a race. And in learning to slow down, I finally started to feel free.
