The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I had just lost my job at the village grain store, and the worry of how I would feed my family sat heavy in my chest. I walked aimlessly toward the edge of the forest, needing quiet more than anything. That’s when I heard the old man humming.
He was crouched near the stream, carefully stacking smooth stones into a small tower. He wore simple gray robes, and his long white beard moved gently with the breeze. I had seen him before—Master Hu, the quiet one from the temple above the hill. Some people called him “Cloud Walker” because he moved so slowly, like he floated through each day.
“Troubles?” he asked, without even turning to look at me.
I nodded, not wanting to speak.
He pointed to the small stone tower. Just as he placed the final stone, a bird flew overhead and let out a sharp cry. The breeze shifted, and the top stone wobbled and fell into the stream.
I sighed. “All that work, and it’s ruined.”
He finally looked up at me and smiled. “Not ruined. Released.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He sat back, watching the water carry the stone along gently. “You try to hold on tightly. To your job, your plans, your worry. Like the top stone. It’s not the weight that makes it fall—it’s the desire to control what cannot be controlled.”
I frowned. “But if I don’t act, how will anything change?”
He nodded thoughtfully and offered a riddle. “The bamboo bends with the wind but does not break. The mountain resists and crumbles in time. Which has greater strength?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I watched the stone float away, bobbing lightly on the surface. Somehow, I felt a little lighter myself.
We sat in silence for a while. Then he reached into his robe and handed me a steamed bun. “Eat. You cannot walk the Tao on an empty stomach.”
I laughed softly, and the sound surprised me.
Over the next few weeks, I returned often. I didn’t have a job, but every day, I walked to the forest, helped Master Hu gather herbs, sweep the temple path, or simply sat with him by the stream. Slowly, I stopped trying so hard to make things happen and began to watch the world more closely. The bees did not rush. The wind never fought against the grass. Even the sun never hurried—and yet, it rose every morning without fail.
One morning, as I was sweeping leaves, I heard a voice behind me.
“You used to walk like you were chasing something,” Master Hu said. “Now, your steps are like the stream—calm, flowing.”
That day, I finally understood. I didn’t need to fight life. I only needed to follow it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard or fear I’m falling behind, I remember the stone in the stream. It moved with the current, not against it—and it went farther than I ever thought it could.
And so, I’m learning to float.
The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I had just lost my job at the village grain store, and the worry of how I would feed my family sat heavy in my chest. I walked aimlessly toward the edge of the forest, needing quiet more than anything. That’s when I heard the old man humming.
He was crouched near the stream, carefully stacking smooth stones into a small tower. He wore simple gray robes, and his long white beard moved gently with the breeze. I had seen him before—Master Hu, the quiet one from the temple above the hill. Some people called him “Cloud Walker” because he moved so slowly, like he floated through each day.
“Troubles?” he asked, without even turning to look at me.
I nodded, not wanting to speak.
He pointed to the small stone tower. Just as he placed the final stone, a bird flew overhead and let out a sharp cry. The breeze shifted, and the top stone wobbled and fell into the stream.
I sighed. “All that work, and it’s ruined.”
He finally looked up at me and smiled. “Not ruined. Released.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He sat back, watching the water carry the stone along gently. “You try to hold on tightly. To your job, your plans, your worry. Like the top stone. It’s not the weight that makes it fall—it’s the desire to control what cannot be controlled.”
I frowned. “But if I don’t act, how will anything change?”
He nodded thoughtfully and offered a riddle. “The bamboo bends with the wind but does not break. The mountain resists and crumbles in time. Which has greater strength?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I watched the stone float away, bobbing lightly on the surface. Somehow, I felt a little lighter myself.
We sat in silence for a while. Then he reached into his robe and handed me a steamed bun. “Eat. You cannot walk the Tao on an empty stomach.”
I laughed softly, and the sound surprised me.
Over the next few weeks, I returned often. I didn’t have a job, but every day, I walked to the forest, helped Master Hu gather herbs, sweep the temple path, or simply sat with him by the stream. Slowly, I stopped trying so hard to make things happen and began to watch the world more closely. The bees did not rush. The wind never fought against the grass. Even the sun never hurried—and yet, it rose every morning without fail.
One morning, as I was sweeping leaves, I heard a voice behind me.
“You used to walk like you were chasing something,” Master Hu said. “Now, your steps are like the stream—calm, flowing.”
That day, I finally understood. I didn’t need to fight life. I only needed to follow it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard or fear I’m falling behind, I remember the stone in the stream. It moved with the current, not against it—and it went farther than I ever thought it could.
And so, I’m learning to float.
