The clay pot was heavy in my hands. The sun baked my neck, and my arms ached from carrying water all morning. My name is Jin, and I lived in the village of willow trees. Most days, I helped my father in the garden, watering rows of vegetables and pulling weeds. But that morning, I was angry.
"Why must we always do so much work?" I grumbled, kicking a pebble down the dirt path. "The more I do, the more there is to do! And the sun doesn't stop just because I'm tired!"
Grandfather, who was sitting nearby under a shady fig tree, opened his eyes and chuckled. His hair was white like rice and his face full of calm. He didn’t speak right away. He just looked up at the sky as if listening to something beyond sound.
I plopped down beside him with a heavy sigh.
"You work hard, Jin," Grandfather said kindly. "But let me tell you a story."
He leaned in a little closer. "Long ago, not far from here, there lived a man named Shu. Shu was always moving, always fixing, always stretching himself thin. He thought if he did more, he would have more. One day, a wise woman named Lin came to visit. She watched him rush around. Then she pointed to the river and said, 'Do you see how the river flows by doing nothing? Yet it shapes mountains and carries boats.'"
I frowned. "But the river is just water. It doesn’t get tired."
Grandfather smiled. “That’s the thing. Shu didn’t understand either. So the wise woman gave him a task—plant a tree and do nothing but care gently for it. No rushing, no forcing it to grow. Just water, sunlight, and patience.”
"And did it work?" I asked.
"Yes," Grandfather said. "Over time, the tree grew strong and tall. Shu learned that life unfolds best when we follow the natural flow. It's called Wu Wei—effortless action. Doing—not by pushing harder, but by moving with the Tao, the Way of Nature."
I sat quietly, thinking. The river. The tree. Wu Wei. It was strange but peaceful.
Later that afternoon, I returned to the garden. Instead of racing from row to row, I walked slowly. I listened to the breeze rustling the leaves. I poured each bucket of water softly and watched the soil drink it in. I didn’t try to finish faster. I just… did it.
Something changed inside me.
Days passed, then weeks. The garden grew better than ever. My father smiled more. Even the flowers seemed happier. And I… I didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
One evening, I sat with Grandfather under the fig tree again.
"I think I understand now," I said. "I don’t need to work harder to feel better. I just need to flow like the river."
Grandfather nodded. "That’s the quiet power of the Tao. Less pushing. More peace."
I still have chores each day. But now, I don’t rush. I listen. I move gently. I let things unfold.
And each time I see the river, I remember: sometimes, by doing less… we grow more.
The clay pot was heavy in my hands. The sun baked my neck, and my arms ached from carrying water all morning. My name is Jin, and I lived in the village of willow trees. Most days, I helped my father in the garden, watering rows of vegetables and pulling weeds. But that morning, I was angry.
"Why must we always do so much work?" I grumbled, kicking a pebble down the dirt path. "The more I do, the more there is to do! And the sun doesn't stop just because I'm tired!"
Grandfather, who was sitting nearby under a shady fig tree, opened his eyes and chuckled. His hair was white like rice and his face full of calm. He didn’t speak right away. He just looked up at the sky as if listening to something beyond sound.
I plopped down beside him with a heavy sigh.
"You work hard, Jin," Grandfather said kindly. "But let me tell you a story."
He leaned in a little closer. "Long ago, not far from here, there lived a man named Shu. Shu was always moving, always fixing, always stretching himself thin. He thought if he did more, he would have more. One day, a wise woman named Lin came to visit. She watched him rush around. Then she pointed to the river and said, 'Do you see how the river flows by doing nothing? Yet it shapes mountains and carries boats.'"
I frowned. "But the river is just water. It doesn’t get tired."
Grandfather smiled. “That’s the thing. Shu didn’t understand either. So the wise woman gave him a task—plant a tree and do nothing but care gently for it. No rushing, no forcing it to grow. Just water, sunlight, and patience.”
"And did it work?" I asked.
"Yes," Grandfather said. "Over time, the tree grew strong and tall. Shu learned that life unfolds best when we follow the natural flow. It's called Wu Wei—effortless action. Doing—not by pushing harder, but by moving with the Tao, the Way of Nature."
I sat quietly, thinking. The river. The tree. Wu Wei. It was strange but peaceful.
Later that afternoon, I returned to the garden. Instead of racing from row to row, I walked slowly. I listened to the breeze rustling the leaves. I poured each bucket of water softly and watched the soil drink it in. I didn’t try to finish faster. I just… did it.
Something changed inside me.
Days passed, then weeks. The garden grew better than ever. My father smiled more. Even the flowers seemed happier. And I… I didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
One evening, I sat with Grandfather under the fig tree again.
"I think I understand now," I said. "I don’t need to work harder to feel better. I just need to flow like the river."
Grandfather nodded. "That’s the quiet power of the Tao. Less pushing. More peace."
I still have chores each day. But now, I don’t rush. I listen. I move gently. I let things unfold.
And each time I see the river, I remember: sometimes, by doing less… we grow more.
