The breeze was soft as silk that morning, brushing through the bamboo near our home. I was sitting by the garden wall, my legs swinging off the bench, waiting for Master Shen to finish his tea. I had trained with him for two summers, but still, I felt restless. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be wise. I wanted to be... something more.
"You are trying too hard again, Lian," Master Shen said with a smile. His white beard moved slightly when he spoke, and his eyes sparkled like quiet water. "You are hurrying to reach a place you cannot run to."
“I just want to understand the Tao,” I said, looking down at my bare feet. “If I study more, and work harder, and do everything perfectly, I must find it, right?”
Instead of answering, he stood and walked toward the old orange tree in our courtyard. Its branches stretched wide like open arms, dropping fruit gently to the earth below.
“Come,” he said.
I followed. He plucked an orange resting on the ground and placed it in my hands.
“Tell me, did this orange fall because it tried to? Did the tree force it down?”
“No,” I said. “It just... happened.”
He nodded. “That is the Tao.”
I didn’t understand. How could doing nothing be the answer?
Later that day, we went to the river. I brought my fishing pole, but the fish weren’t biting. I grew annoyed, yanked the line, stirred the water. Still nothing.
Master Shen sat quietly on a rock nearby.
“Why don’t you fish?” I asked.
He pointed to the water. “When it is stirred, the fish hide. When it is calm, they return. Be still with your mind like the river. Act when the moment is right—not before.”
I said nothing, but I heard his words. That night, I sat by the orange tree again. The moonlight made its leaves shine silver. I thought about the fish, the fruit, the breeze. None of them forced anything. They just were.
Days passed. I spoke less and watched more. I began to notice things I hadn’t before—the chirp of crickets, the way raindrops danced on leaves, the silent strength of the mountains. Slowly, something inside me shifted. I stopped rushing. I began listening instead of trying to control everything.
One chilly morning, Master Shen poured two cups of tea. He handed me one and chuckled. “Your eyes are quiet now,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You are no longer chasing the Tao. You are beginning to walk with it.”
He didn’t say more, but he didn’t need to. I understood. The Tao wasn’t locked behind hard work or hiding in secret words. It was all around me—flowing like the river, waiting like the orange to fall when it was ready.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of life. That is the hidden power of balance. And in it, I’ve found peace.
The breeze was soft as silk that morning, brushing through the bamboo near our home. I was sitting by the garden wall, my legs swinging off the bench, waiting for Master Shen to finish his tea. I had trained with him for two summers, but still, I felt restless. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be wise. I wanted to be... something more.
"You are trying too hard again, Lian," Master Shen said with a smile. His white beard moved slightly when he spoke, and his eyes sparkled like quiet water. "You are hurrying to reach a place you cannot run to."
“I just want to understand the Tao,” I said, looking down at my bare feet. “If I study more, and work harder, and do everything perfectly, I must find it, right?”
Instead of answering, he stood and walked toward the old orange tree in our courtyard. Its branches stretched wide like open arms, dropping fruit gently to the earth below.
“Come,” he said.
I followed. He plucked an orange resting on the ground and placed it in my hands.
“Tell me, did this orange fall because it tried to? Did the tree force it down?”
“No,” I said. “It just... happened.”
He nodded. “That is the Tao.”
I didn’t understand. How could doing nothing be the answer?
Later that day, we went to the river. I brought my fishing pole, but the fish weren’t biting. I grew annoyed, yanked the line, stirred the water. Still nothing.
Master Shen sat quietly on a rock nearby.
“Why don’t you fish?” I asked.
He pointed to the water. “When it is stirred, the fish hide. When it is calm, they return. Be still with your mind like the river. Act when the moment is right—not before.”
I said nothing, but I heard his words. That night, I sat by the orange tree again. The moonlight made its leaves shine silver. I thought about the fish, the fruit, the breeze. None of them forced anything. They just were.
Days passed. I spoke less and watched more. I began to notice things I hadn’t before—the chirp of crickets, the way raindrops danced on leaves, the silent strength of the mountains. Slowly, something inside me shifted. I stopped rushing. I began listening instead of trying to control everything.
One chilly morning, Master Shen poured two cups of tea. He handed me one and chuckled. “Your eyes are quiet now,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You are no longer chasing the Tao. You are beginning to walk with it.”
He didn’t say more, but he didn’t need to. I understood. The Tao wasn’t locked behind hard work or hiding in secret words. It was all around me—flowing like the river, waiting like the orange to fall when it was ready.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the tree. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of life. That is the hidden power of balance. And in it, I’ve found peace.
