The morning mist lay over the fields like a soft blanket. I sat under the old willow tree, watching the butterflies dance across the flowers. It was quiet, but something inside me was loud—too loud. My mind buzzed with worries. I had so many choices to make: Should I become a scholar or a soldier? Should I stay in my village or leave to see the world? My name is Tien, and back then, I believed that answers came only with action.
That day, I saw Grandfather Zhi weaving baskets by the river. His hands moved slowly, yet the baskets came out perfect, one after another. He looked peaceful, like he didn't have a single worry in the world.
“Grandfather,” I asked, “how do you know what to do, or where to go, or even who to be?”
He smiled without looking up. “Have you ever dreamed of being a butterfly?”
“A butterfly? Why would I dream about that?”
“Zhuangzi did,” he said. “He was a wise man who lived long ago. One day, he dreamt he was a butterfly, flying freely with no thoughts of being a man. But when he woke up, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamed he was a butterfly, or if the butterfly was dreaming it was Zhuangzi.”
I blinked, confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Does it need to?” he replied. “The Tao doesn’t worry. It flows.”
I stared at the water beside him. Leaves drifted on its surface, spinning and gliding without effort. I sat down quietly, trying to understand.
We stayed like that for a long time—he weaving, me watching the river. After a while, I began to notice the sounds around me. The wind moving through the grass. The frogs humming like tiny drums. Nothing pushed or pulled. Everything just… was.
Over the next few days, I visited Grandfather more often. I stopped asking for answers. Instead, I watched. I wandered the woods. I sat under trees and listened to the wind. I still didn’t know what I wanted to be, but somehow, it stopped bothering me.
One morning, I woke from a strange dream. In it, I was a butterfly, floating through sunlight, light and happy. I opened my eyes, smiling. Maybe I was like Zhuangzi after all. Maybe it didn’t matter so much whether I was the butterfly or the boy—what mattered was how I moved through life.
I went back to the willow tree and sat again beneath its branches. I didn’t need to chase answers. I just had to notice the world and trust that the way would show itself.
I didn’t change overnight. But little by little, I learned what Wu Wei meant—not forcing, not pushing, but flowing, like the river, like the wind, like the butterfly in the sun.
And so, whenever my mind feels too loud, I go back to the trees. I sit. I breathe.
And I let the Tao carry me gently, like wings on the breeze.
The morning mist lay over the fields like a soft blanket. I sat under the old willow tree, watching the butterflies dance across the flowers. It was quiet, but something inside me was loud—too loud. My mind buzzed with worries. I had so many choices to make: Should I become a scholar or a soldier? Should I stay in my village or leave to see the world? My name is Tien, and back then, I believed that answers came only with action.
That day, I saw Grandfather Zhi weaving baskets by the river. His hands moved slowly, yet the baskets came out perfect, one after another. He looked peaceful, like he didn't have a single worry in the world.
“Grandfather,” I asked, “how do you know what to do, or where to go, or even who to be?”
He smiled without looking up. “Have you ever dreamed of being a butterfly?”
“A butterfly? Why would I dream about that?”
“Zhuangzi did,” he said. “He was a wise man who lived long ago. One day, he dreamt he was a butterfly, flying freely with no thoughts of being a man. But when he woke up, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamed he was a butterfly, or if the butterfly was dreaming it was Zhuangzi.”
I blinked, confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Does it need to?” he replied. “The Tao doesn’t worry. It flows.”
I stared at the water beside him. Leaves drifted on its surface, spinning and gliding without effort. I sat down quietly, trying to understand.
We stayed like that for a long time—he weaving, me watching the river. After a while, I began to notice the sounds around me. The wind moving through the grass. The frogs humming like tiny drums. Nothing pushed or pulled. Everything just… was.
Over the next few days, I visited Grandfather more often. I stopped asking for answers. Instead, I watched. I wandered the woods. I sat under trees and listened to the wind. I still didn’t know what I wanted to be, but somehow, it stopped bothering me.
One morning, I woke from a strange dream. In it, I was a butterfly, floating through sunlight, light and happy. I opened my eyes, smiling. Maybe I was like Zhuangzi after all. Maybe it didn’t matter so much whether I was the butterfly or the boy—what mattered was how I moved through life.
I went back to the willow tree and sat again beneath its branches. I didn’t need to chase answers. I just had to notice the world and trust that the way would show itself.
I didn’t change overnight. But little by little, I learned what Wu Wei meant—not forcing, not pushing, but flowing, like the river, like the wind, like the butterfly in the sun.
And so, whenever my mind feels too loud, I go back to the trees. I sit. I breathe.
And I let the Tao carry me gently, like wings on the breeze.
