I had always believed that more effort meant better results. That’s what my father taught me, and his father before him. So every day, I worked hard in the fields, pushed myself to keep going, and felt proud when I was tired at sunset.
But that was before I met the butterfly.
It happened one warm morning. I was sixteen and already worn from days in the fields. My hands were sore, my back ached, and I was starting to feel the kind of tired that no sleep could fix. I carried my tools toward the stream behind our village, hoping for a cool breeze. But as I walked beneath a tall pear tree, I stopped.
There, floating in the soft light, was a butterfly.
It danced in the air, its wings opening and closing with grace. It moved not with effort, but ease, drifting wherever the wind took it. I stared at it, wishing I could feel that light.
A voice came from under the tree. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I jumped, looking down to see an old man sitting on a flat rock. His robes were simple, his hair tied in a soft knot. He smiled gently.
“It’s only a butterfly,” I said.
“Ah,” he laughed quietly. “But what if that butterfly is more than it seems?”
His name was Master Wen. He once studied the scrolls of Zhuangzi, a great Taoist thinker from long ago. Master Wen had left the city to live by the river alone, catching fish and watching clouds.
I sat with him, curious. And before long, he told me a story.
“Zhuangzi once dreamed he was a butterfly,” he began. “Free and floating, not worried about who he was or what he had to do. When he woke up, he wasn’t sure if he had been Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly... or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi.”
I giggled. “That’s silly.”
“Perhaps,” Master Wen said. “But silliness has wisdom. Zhuangzi saw that the world is always changing. And maybe we don’t need to push so hard to find our place in it. Maybe it’s okay to float, sometimes.”
I didn’t understand then, but I thanked him.
The days passed, and I kept farming. But something had changed. I stopped trying to control everything—the weather, the harvest, the flow of the river near my field. I began to listen more and force less. When it rained, I didn’t complain. When it was dry, I waited. Slowly, I found peace like I never had before.
One morning, I sat by the stream again. A butterfly fluttered past me, and I smiled.
I hadn’t become lazy. I still worked. But I stopped fighting the world. I started flowing with it.
Zhuangzi’s dream taught me something that no shovel or plow ever could: that doing less, when done wisely, is not being lazy—it’s being part of the Tao.
And though I still have much to learn, I remember now—sometimes the path to freedom feels like the flutter of wings in the wind.
I had always believed that more effort meant better results. That’s what my father taught me, and his father before him. So every day, I worked hard in the fields, pushed myself to keep going, and felt proud when I was tired at sunset.
But that was before I met the butterfly.
It happened one warm morning. I was sixteen and already worn from days in the fields. My hands were sore, my back ached, and I was starting to feel the kind of tired that no sleep could fix. I carried my tools toward the stream behind our village, hoping for a cool breeze. But as I walked beneath a tall pear tree, I stopped.
There, floating in the soft light, was a butterfly.
It danced in the air, its wings opening and closing with grace. It moved not with effort, but ease, drifting wherever the wind took it. I stared at it, wishing I could feel that light.
A voice came from under the tree. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I jumped, looking down to see an old man sitting on a flat rock. His robes were simple, his hair tied in a soft knot. He smiled gently.
“It’s only a butterfly,” I said.
“Ah,” he laughed quietly. “But what if that butterfly is more than it seems?”
His name was Master Wen. He once studied the scrolls of Zhuangzi, a great Taoist thinker from long ago. Master Wen had left the city to live by the river alone, catching fish and watching clouds.
I sat with him, curious. And before long, he told me a story.
“Zhuangzi once dreamed he was a butterfly,” he began. “Free and floating, not worried about who he was or what he had to do. When he woke up, he wasn’t sure if he had been Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly... or a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi.”
I giggled. “That’s silly.”
“Perhaps,” Master Wen said. “But silliness has wisdom. Zhuangzi saw that the world is always changing. And maybe we don’t need to push so hard to find our place in it. Maybe it’s okay to float, sometimes.”
I didn’t understand then, but I thanked him.
The days passed, and I kept farming. But something had changed. I stopped trying to control everything—the weather, the harvest, the flow of the river near my field. I began to listen more and force less. When it rained, I didn’t complain. When it was dry, I waited. Slowly, I found peace like I never had before.
One morning, I sat by the stream again. A butterfly fluttered past me, and I smiled.
I hadn’t become lazy. I still worked. But I stopped fighting the world. I started flowing with it.
Zhuangzi’s dream taught me something that no shovel or plow ever could: that doing less, when done wisely, is not being lazy—it’s being part of the Tao.
And though I still have much to learn, I remember now—sometimes the path to freedom feels like the flutter of wings in the wind.
