The sun was setting behind the hills, painting the sky with soft orange and pink colors. I lay under a blossoming tree, my hands folded behind my head. I had just finished another long day at work helping my father in the rice fields. My body was tired, but my mind was buzzing.
“Why does life have to be so hard?” I whispered, watching a single butterfly float by. It moved gently, like a petal dancing in the wind. No rush. No effort. Just drifting.
Later that night, I had a dream.
In the dream, I was the butterfly.
I wasn’t a boy anymore—no heavy boots, no tired arms, no hungry stomach. I had beautiful wings and drifted on the breeze, fluttering from one flower to another. Everything was peaceful. Everything just… happened. I didn’t have to try. I didn’t have to plan. The wind carried me, and I followed wherever it went.
But then—a sudden breeze came and carried me higher, past trees, over rivers, and into the sky. I laughed as I flew. I didn’t fear anything. I was the wind, the wings, the sky.
And then, just as gently as the dream began, I woke up.
The morning light streamed through the window. But something was different. I sat up slowly and looked at my hands, my feet, my small room.
Was I a boy who dreamed of being a butterfly… or a butterfly now dreaming he was a boy?
I couldn’t tell.
At breakfast, I told Grandpa what had happened. He was an old man with a long beard and quiet eyes. He was the one who told me stories of Laozi and Zhuangzi, wise teachers from old China. Zhuangzi, he once said, believed in living simply, in flowing like water, in action without force—Wu Wei.
“Hmmm…” Grandpa sipped his tea. “Zhuangzi once had a dream like that too. He dreamed he was a butterfly. And when he woke, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi who had dreamed he was a butterfly… or a butterfly who dreamed he was Zhuangzi.”
“So what does it mean?” I asked, still thinking about the soft wind lifting my wings.
Grandpa looked at the garden. A leaf slipped from a branch and danced its way to the ground.
“Maybe it means that the world is not as solid as we think. That sometimes, doing nothing—just drifting like that leaf or your butterfly—is how we find peace. You were part of the wind last night. Part of the Tao.”
I sat with that thought for a while. Usually, I worked so hard and pushed so much. But the butterfly did none of those things. It flew far just by letting go.
That day, I went to the field, but I didn’t rush. I listened to the wind, noticed how the water moved through the channels without fuss. I worked, but I didn’t force anything.
And you know what? The work felt lighter.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the butterfly. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the river.
Maybe I’m still dreaming. Or maybe… I’ve just begun to wake up.
The sun was setting behind the hills, painting the sky with soft orange and pink colors. I lay under a blossoming tree, my hands folded behind my head. I had just finished another long day at work helping my father in the rice fields. My body was tired, but my mind was buzzing.
“Why does life have to be so hard?” I whispered, watching a single butterfly float by. It moved gently, like a petal dancing in the wind. No rush. No effort. Just drifting.
Later that night, I had a dream.
In the dream, I was the butterfly.
I wasn’t a boy anymore—no heavy boots, no tired arms, no hungry stomach. I had beautiful wings and drifted on the breeze, fluttering from one flower to another. Everything was peaceful. Everything just… happened. I didn’t have to try. I didn’t have to plan. The wind carried me, and I followed wherever it went.
But then—a sudden breeze came and carried me higher, past trees, over rivers, and into the sky. I laughed as I flew. I didn’t fear anything. I was the wind, the wings, the sky.
And then, just as gently as the dream began, I woke up.
The morning light streamed through the window. But something was different. I sat up slowly and looked at my hands, my feet, my small room.
Was I a boy who dreamed of being a butterfly… or a butterfly now dreaming he was a boy?
I couldn’t tell.
At breakfast, I told Grandpa what had happened. He was an old man with a long beard and quiet eyes. He was the one who told me stories of Laozi and Zhuangzi, wise teachers from old China. Zhuangzi, he once said, believed in living simply, in flowing like water, in action without force—Wu Wei.
“Hmmm…” Grandpa sipped his tea. “Zhuangzi once had a dream like that too. He dreamed he was a butterfly. And when he woke, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi who had dreamed he was a butterfly… or a butterfly who dreamed he was Zhuangzi.”
“So what does it mean?” I asked, still thinking about the soft wind lifting my wings.
Grandpa looked at the garden. A leaf slipped from a branch and danced its way to the ground.
“Maybe it means that the world is not as solid as we think. That sometimes, doing nothing—just drifting like that leaf or your butterfly—is how we find peace. You were part of the wind last night. Part of the Tao.”
I sat with that thought for a while. Usually, I worked so hard and pushed so much. But the butterfly did none of those things. It flew far just by letting go.
That day, I went to the field, but I didn’t rush. I listened to the wind, noticed how the water moved through the channels without fuss. I worked, but I didn’t force anything.
And you know what? The work felt lighter.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the butterfly. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the river.
Maybe I’m still dreaming. Or maybe… I’ve just begun to wake up.
