The wind was soft that morning, blowing through the silk curtains like a quiet breath. I was resting underneath the flowering tree in our garden, the one my grandfather planted when I was born. My name is Wei, and I was just ten years old when I had the dream that changed everything.
It began in the hush of afternoon, when my eyelids grew heavy, and I slipped quietly into sleep. In my dream, I was not a boy at all—I was a butterfly, with wings the color of red autumn leaves. I fluttered from flower to flower, light as air. I didn’t worry about school, or chores, or the loud voices of the marketplace. The sky was wide above me. The world was still and lovely.
But just as the wind carried me higher, I woke.
I sat up fast, my heart beating in my chest like a drum. I looked around—there was the garden, the tree, my slippers beside me. But something was different. I felt different.
What if I really was the butterfly? What if I was still dreaming, and all of this—my hands, my voice, even my parents calling from the kitchen—was just part of the dream?
I ran inside. My grandfather, wise and gentle, was pouring tea. His beard was long and white, and he always smelled like cinnamon.
“Grandfather!” I cried. “Was I the butterfly… or am I the butterfly now, dreaming I’m me?”
He smiled and passed me a little clay cup. “Ah,” he said softly, “you’ve met Zhuangzi.”
I blinked. “Who?”
“Zhuangzi was a great Taoist master, long ago,” he said, sitting on the straw mat beside me. “He once dreamed he was a butterfly, just like you. And when he woke, he asked the same question.”
“But isn’t that scary? Not knowing what's real?”
Grandfather shook his head gently. “Not scary. Freeing.”
I didn’t understand.
He pointed out the window. “See how the leaves fall without effort? How the birds fly where the wind takes them? They don’t think too hard. They just are. Zhuangzi was teaching us about Wu Wei—non-action. It means not forcing things. When we act with nature, instead of against it, life flows. Whether as a boy or a butterfly, Zhuangzi was part of the Tao.”
I looked down at my hands and then out to the sky. Maybe it didn’t matter if I was a butterfly or a boy. Maybe what mattered was that I was here, now.
From that day on, I stopped trying so hard to be right or best or first. I still studied, I still worked—but I also let things unfold more. I listened more. I waited. I fluttered, even without wings.
And though I still don’t know if I’m a boy dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a boy, I’ve learned to enjoy the dream either way.
After all, the sky is wide, and the breeze carries us where we are meant to go.
The wind was soft that morning, blowing through the silk curtains like a quiet breath. I was resting underneath the flowering tree in our garden, the one my grandfather planted when I was born. My name is Wei, and I was just ten years old when I had the dream that changed everything.
It began in the hush of afternoon, when my eyelids grew heavy, and I slipped quietly into sleep. In my dream, I was not a boy at all—I was a butterfly, with wings the color of red autumn leaves. I fluttered from flower to flower, light as air. I didn’t worry about school, or chores, or the loud voices of the marketplace. The sky was wide above me. The world was still and lovely.
But just as the wind carried me higher, I woke.
I sat up fast, my heart beating in my chest like a drum. I looked around—there was the garden, the tree, my slippers beside me. But something was different. I felt different.
What if I really was the butterfly? What if I was still dreaming, and all of this—my hands, my voice, even my parents calling from the kitchen—was just part of the dream?
I ran inside. My grandfather, wise and gentle, was pouring tea. His beard was long and white, and he always smelled like cinnamon.
“Grandfather!” I cried. “Was I the butterfly… or am I the butterfly now, dreaming I’m me?”
He smiled and passed me a little clay cup. “Ah,” he said softly, “you’ve met Zhuangzi.”
I blinked. “Who?”
“Zhuangzi was a great Taoist master, long ago,” he said, sitting on the straw mat beside me. “He once dreamed he was a butterfly, just like you. And when he woke, he asked the same question.”
“But isn’t that scary? Not knowing what's real?”
Grandfather shook his head gently. “Not scary. Freeing.”
I didn’t understand.
He pointed out the window. “See how the leaves fall without effort? How the birds fly where the wind takes them? They don’t think too hard. They just are. Zhuangzi was teaching us about Wu Wei—non-action. It means not forcing things. When we act with nature, instead of against it, life flows. Whether as a boy or a butterfly, Zhuangzi was part of the Tao.”
I looked down at my hands and then out to the sky. Maybe it didn’t matter if I was a butterfly or a boy. Maybe what mattered was that I was here, now.
From that day on, I stopped trying so hard to be right or best or first. I still studied, I still worked—but I also let things unfold more. I listened more. I waited. I fluttered, even without wings.
And though I still don’t know if I’m a boy dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a boy, I’ve learned to enjoy the dream either way.
After all, the sky is wide, and the breeze carries us where we are meant to go.
