I was only eleven years old when I decided that I needed to prove I was the strongest boy in the village.
Every morning, before the rooster even crowed, I ran laps around the rice fields. I carried baskets full of stones up the hill, even when my arms trembled. I thought, “If I work harder than anyone else, no one will ever doubt me.”
One day, after a long morning of tiring work, I sat under the big elm tree at the edge of the forest. My hands were sore, and my legs ached. An old man dressed in simple robes was sitting nearby, sketching in the dirt with a stick. I had seen him before—people called him Master Wen. Some said he was once a scholar, but now he lived quietly near the mountain, speaking little and smiling often.
“Trying to move the mountain yourself?” he asked, glancing at my heavy baskets.
“I want to grow stronger,” I said, sitting proudly.
“Why?” he smiled gently. “To fight dragons?”
I laughed. “No. But if I work harder than everyone, I’ll be the best.”
He nodded slowly and drew a line in the dirt. “When the river flows down the mountain, does it push the rocks out of the way?”
“No,” I said, watching his hand move.
“It flows around them,” he said. “Without effort, it moves for miles.”
I didn’t understand. “But that’s water. I’m not water,” I frowned.
He didn’t preach or scold. He only nodded again and said, “Come here tomorrow. Bring nothing.”
The next morning, I came just before sunrise, feeling odd with empty hands. We walked into the forest together. He said nothing, and neither did I. Birds chirped, and the wind whispered through the tall trees. After a while, he bent down and watched a small stream.
“Look,” he pointed.
A leaf had fallen and landed in the water. The stream lifted it gently and carried it away.
“No fight,” he whispered. “Just flow.”
I wanted to scoff, but there was something peaceful in the way the leaf danced on the water. We sat there quietly for a long time.
In the days that followed, I still carried baskets sometimes—but not every day. I spent more time by the stream, more time walking slowly without rushing. And something strange happened: I felt stronger inside, not from lifting stones, but from letting go of the need to prove anything.
Weeks later, Master Wen said, “Simplicity isn’t weakness. Doing less can reveal more.”
I smiled. I was beginning to understand.
That day, I felt a new kind of power—quiet, calm, and steady.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like I must push and force my way forward, I remember the stream and the leaf. I try to breathe, to pause, and to let things unfold like nature intends.
And just like that leaf, I trust the flow of life to carry me where I’m meant to go.
I was only eleven years old when I decided that I needed to prove I was the strongest boy in the village.
Every morning, before the rooster even crowed, I ran laps around the rice fields. I carried baskets full of stones up the hill, even when my arms trembled. I thought, “If I work harder than anyone else, no one will ever doubt me.”
One day, after a long morning of tiring work, I sat under the big elm tree at the edge of the forest. My hands were sore, and my legs ached. An old man dressed in simple robes was sitting nearby, sketching in the dirt with a stick. I had seen him before—people called him Master Wen. Some said he was once a scholar, but now he lived quietly near the mountain, speaking little and smiling often.
“Trying to move the mountain yourself?” he asked, glancing at my heavy baskets.
“I want to grow stronger,” I said, sitting proudly.
“Why?” he smiled gently. “To fight dragons?”
I laughed. “No. But if I work harder than everyone, I’ll be the best.”
He nodded slowly and drew a line in the dirt. “When the river flows down the mountain, does it push the rocks out of the way?”
“No,” I said, watching his hand move.
“It flows around them,” he said. “Without effort, it moves for miles.”
I didn’t understand. “But that’s water. I’m not water,” I frowned.
He didn’t preach or scold. He only nodded again and said, “Come here tomorrow. Bring nothing.”
The next morning, I came just before sunrise, feeling odd with empty hands. We walked into the forest together. He said nothing, and neither did I. Birds chirped, and the wind whispered through the tall trees. After a while, he bent down and watched a small stream.
“Look,” he pointed.
A leaf had fallen and landed in the water. The stream lifted it gently and carried it away.
“No fight,” he whispered. “Just flow.”
I wanted to scoff, but there was something peaceful in the way the leaf danced on the water. We sat there quietly for a long time.
In the days that followed, I still carried baskets sometimes—but not every day. I spent more time by the stream, more time walking slowly without rushing. And something strange happened: I felt stronger inside, not from lifting stones, but from letting go of the need to prove anything.
Weeks later, Master Wen said, “Simplicity isn’t weakness. Doing less can reveal more.”
I smiled. I was beginning to understand.
That day, I felt a new kind of power—quiet, calm, and steady.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like I must push and force my way forward, I remember the stream and the leaf. I try to breathe, to pause, and to let things unfold like nature intends.
And just like that leaf, I trust the flow of life to carry me where I’m meant to go.
