The wind was quiet as our cart rolled through the mountain path. I was eleven when I left the city with my father, a silk merchant. I missed the noise of the market, the smell of fried dumplings, and the clink of jade bracelets. But Father said we had to travel west, to trade with a quiet village by the river. He said the people there lived simply and still followed the old ways. I didn’t understand at the time what he meant.
On our second night, we stopped beneath a large tree. “Rest, Jia,” Father said. “Tomorrow we reach the village.”
I curled up on my blanket, but I couldn’t sleep. “Father,” I whispered, “how can these people live so far from the city? Don’t they miss things? Don’t they want more?”
He smiled gently. “Maybe they understand something we don’t yet, Jia.”
That morning, we reached the village—a place so small, I could hear the chickens from every corner. An old man waited at the edge of a pond, wearing a robe made of rough cloth. He bowed to Father, then looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“My name is Old Shan,” he said, stroking his long white beard. “You look full of questions, young miss.”
I wanted to say no, but I nodded. “I don’t get how you live like this. It’s so... quiet.”
Old Shan laughed like a breeze through leaves. “That is the Way,” he said. “The Tao.”
Later, he showed us his simple home made of wood and stone. There were no fancy plates, no golden cupboards, only a small tea set and a garden outside filled with vegetables.
“Everything grows here,” he said. “Because I don’t try to control it. I plant the seeds, and then I let them be.”
“But what if it doesn’t rain?” I asked.
“Then I give thanks for what I do have,” he said. “For Tao means following the flow, not forcing your will.”
I didn’t understand at first. I still wanted noise, games, and all the treats the city gave me. But something about Old Shan stayed in my mind.
The next morning, a storm came—strong winds that shook roofs and spilled buckets. I saw many villagers outside, working as one, calmly placing stones on rooftops and collecting water in jars.
Nobody panicked. Nobody yelled.
They moved slowly but surely, just like the way Old Shan made his tea—steady and smooth.
That’s when I noticed something. They didn’t do more than what was needed, but everything got done. There was no rush, no worry. Only peace.
That afternoon, as I sat by the pond, Old Shan joined me. “What do you see in the water?” he asked.
“My face,” I said. “But only when the water is calm.”
He nodded. “Just like your heart. To understand the Tao, you must first wait for the ripples to settle.”
I sat quietly beside him, listening to the frogs sing. For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to talk or move or hurry. I just let myself be.
When we left the next day, I didn’t beg to stay in the city. I watched the trees swing gently in the wind and smiled.
I hadn’t changed all at once. But something inside me was still, like the pond. And in that stillness, I began to understand the Tao.
The wind was quiet as our cart rolled through the mountain path. I was eleven when I left the city with my father, a silk merchant. I missed the noise of the market, the smell of fried dumplings, and the clink of jade bracelets. But Father said we had to travel west, to trade with a quiet village by the river. He said the people there lived simply and still followed the old ways. I didn’t understand at the time what he meant.
On our second night, we stopped beneath a large tree. “Rest, Jia,” Father said. “Tomorrow we reach the village.”
I curled up on my blanket, but I couldn’t sleep. “Father,” I whispered, “how can these people live so far from the city? Don’t they miss things? Don’t they want more?”
He smiled gently. “Maybe they understand something we don’t yet, Jia.”
That morning, we reached the village—a place so small, I could hear the chickens from every corner. An old man waited at the edge of a pond, wearing a robe made of rough cloth. He bowed to Father, then looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“My name is Old Shan,” he said, stroking his long white beard. “You look full of questions, young miss.”
I wanted to say no, but I nodded. “I don’t get how you live like this. It’s so... quiet.”
Old Shan laughed like a breeze through leaves. “That is the Way,” he said. “The Tao.”
Later, he showed us his simple home made of wood and stone. There were no fancy plates, no golden cupboards, only a small tea set and a garden outside filled with vegetables.
“Everything grows here,” he said. “Because I don’t try to control it. I plant the seeds, and then I let them be.”
“But what if it doesn’t rain?” I asked.
“Then I give thanks for what I do have,” he said. “For Tao means following the flow, not forcing your will.”
I didn’t understand at first. I still wanted noise, games, and all the treats the city gave me. But something about Old Shan stayed in my mind.
The next morning, a storm came—strong winds that shook roofs and spilled buckets. I saw many villagers outside, working as one, calmly placing stones on rooftops and collecting water in jars.
Nobody panicked. Nobody yelled.
They moved slowly but surely, just like the way Old Shan made his tea—steady and smooth.
That’s when I noticed something. They didn’t do more than what was needed, but everything got done. There was no rush, no worry. Only peace.
That afternoon, as I sat by the pond, Old Shan joined me. “What do you see in the water?” he asked.
“My face,” I said. “But only when the water is calm.”
He nodded. “Just like your heart. To understand the Tao, you must first wait for the ripples to settle.”
I sat quietly beside him, listening to the frogs sing. For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to talk or move or hurry. I just let myself be.
When we left the next day, I didn’t beg to stay in the city. I watched the trees swing gently in the wind and smiled.
I hadn’t changed all at once. But something inside me was still, like the pond. And in that stillness, I began to understand the Tao.
