I had always believed that trying harder was the answer to everything. If I couldn’t reach the fruit at the top of the tree, I climbed higher. If a door wouldn’t open, I pushed harder. My name is Wei, and I was a young woodcutter who thought he had to fight life to get what he wanted.
One day, I lost my axe. It slipped into the river while I was washing it, and I couldn’t find it no matter how hard I searched. I dove again and again into the cold water, kicking up mud and thrashing about, but the river only grew cloudier. My arms ached. My chest burned. But I didn’t stop.
An old man sat nearby on a smooth rock. I hadn't noticed him at first, but he had been there the whole time, watching the water flow.
“Looking for something?” he finally asked, his voice like the wind through bamboo—soft but full of knowing.
“My axe,” I panted. “It’s in there somewhere. I just have to keep looking.”
He nodded slowly. “You stir the river with your worry, young one. Let it settle.”
I frowned. “If I don’t do something, I won’t find it.”
He smiled, closing his eyes. “Sometimes, doing nothing is the best thing to do.”
That didn’t make sense to me. Doing nothing? That sounded like giving up. But my arms were tired, and the river was full of mud. So, I sat beside him in silence.
The river flowed gently. Birds chirped in the trees, and the sunlight danced across the surface of the water. Little by little, the mud settled. The water began to clear. And then—I saw it. The axe, glinting beneath a flat stone.
I reached in slowly and lifted it out. It was right there the whole time. I bowed slightly to the old man, unsure how he had known.
He opened one eye and chuckled. “The Tao works quietly, like the river. When we stop trying to control everything, peace finds us.”
Later, I learned his name was Master Yuan, a Taoist hermit who lived in the hills. He didn’t gather wealth or chase fame. He walked quietly, cooked simply, and always smiled, even when the sky was gray. People thought he had forgotten who he was, but I saw now—he hadn’t forgotten. He had just let go of all the things that made life feel heavy.
From that day on, I cut less wood and watched the forest more. I spent less time fighting and more time listening—to the wind, to the birds, to the stillness inside me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the river. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow.
And slowly, I am becoming like Master Yuan—not because I try, but because I no longer try too hard.
I had always believed that trying harder was the answer to everything. If I couldn’t reach the fruit at the top of the tree, I climbed higher. If a door wouldn’t open, I pushed harder. My name is Wei, and I was a young woodcutter who thought he had to fight life to get what he wanted.
One day, I lost my axe. It slipped into the river while I was washing it, and I couldn’t find it no matter how hard I searched. I dove again and again into the cold water, kicking up mud and thrashing about, but the river only grew cloudier. My arms ached. My chest burned. But I didn’t stop.
An old man sat nearby on a smooth rock. I hadn't noticed him at first, but he had been there the whole time, watching the water flow.
“Looking for something?” he finally asked, his voice like the wind through bamboo—soft but full of knowing.
“My axe,” I panted. “It’s in there somewhere. I just have to keep looking.”
He nodded slowly. “You stir the river with your worry, young one. Let it settle.”
I frowned. “If I don’t do something, I won’t find it.”
He smiled, closing his eyes. “Sometimes, doing nothing is the best thing to do.”
That didn’t make sense to me. Doing nothing? That sounded like giving up. But my arms were tired, and the river was full of mud. So, I sat beside him in silence.
The river flowed gently. Birds chirped in the trees, and the sunlight danced across the surface of the water. Little by little, the mud settled. The water began to clear. And then—I saw it. The axe, glinting beneath a flat stone.
I reached in slowly and lifted it out. It was right there the whole time. I bowed slightly to the old man, unsure how he had known.
He opened one eye and chuckled. “The Tao works quietly, like the river. When we stop trying to control everything, peace finds us.”
Later, I learned his name was Master Yuan, a Taoist hermit who lived in the hills. He didn’t gather wealth or chase fame. He walked quietly, cooked simply, and always smiled, even when the sky was gray. People thought he had forgotten who he was, but I saw now—he hadn’t forgotten. He had just let go of all the things that made life feel heavy.
From that day on, I cut less wood and watched the forest more. I spent less time fighting and more time listening—to the wind, to the birds, to the stillness inside me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the river. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow.
And slowly, I am becoming like Master Yuan—not because I try, but because I no longer try too hard.
