The grass was wet with morning dew, and I could feel the coolness through my sandals as I walked along the forest path. I was twelve, and I didn’t like slowing down. Everything in me wanted to hurry, to prove I could do more, go faster, be stronger. That day, though, my grandfather stopped walking and said, “Let’s rest.”
“But we’ve only walked for a little while,” I said, trying not to sound impatient.
Grandfather just smiled and sat on a smooth rock near the stream. His beard was long and white, and he always seemed to know something I didn’t. He gently patted the space beside him. “Come,” he said. “The forest has something to show you.”
I sat down with a sigh.
We listened to the bubbling sound of the water. It moved so easily, twisting around rocks and fallen branches. I picked up a stick and poked the stream. The water, soft and gentle, simply flowed around it.
“Why don’t you fight back?” I asked the stream aloud, feeling silly but curious.
Grandfather chuckled softly. “The stream doesn’t fight,” he said. “It flows around, over, or under—but it always reaches where it needs to go.”
I frowned. “But what if something blocks it?”
Grandfather looked at me with warm eyes. “Then it finds another way. That is the Tao—the Way. It’s like water. It doesn’t force. It doesn’t rush. It just moves with what is.”
I didn’t say anything. My heart was still full of the idea that I had to try harder, do more, and be the best. Letting things happen felt lazy.
He must have seen the wrinkles in my forehead. “You try so much, grandson,” he said. “Sometimes, the more you push, the slower things go. Have you heard of Wu Wei?”
I shook my head.
“It means ‘effortless action,’” he explained. “It’s when you move with the world, not against it. Like water.”
I looked down at the stream again. I saw how it moved—never still, never stuck, and yet never pushing. It touched stones gently, swirled in tiny pools, and danced in the sunlight.
We sat for a long time, not speaking. And slowly, something inside me softened. I had always believed that winning meant trying harder. But now I wondered... maybe being peaceful, like the stream, could be stronger in its own way.
That evening, I helped Grandfather carry water back to the house. I didn’t rush ahead this time. I walked beside him, step by step, letting each moment come and go like the breeze on my face.
Later, as we watched the stars appear in the sky, he said, “Today, you began to understand the Tao. But the path is long and gentle, like the stream. Don’t hurry. Just follow.”
I smiled. I didn’t understand everything yet—but I felt a little closer to something quiet and true.
And now, when life gets busy or hard, I sit by the stream and listen. I remember that I don’t have to force everything. I can just let things flow.
Like the water. Like the Tao.
The grass was wet with morning dew, and I could feel the coolness through my sandals as I walked along the forest path. I was twelve, and I didn’t like slowing down. Everything in me wanted to hurry, to prove I could do more, go faster, be stronger. That day, though, my grandfather stopped walking and said, “Let’s rest.”
“But we’ve only walked for a little while,” I said, trying not to sound impatient.
Grandfather just smiled and sat on a smooth rock near the stream. His beard was long and white, and he always seemed to know something I didn’t. He gently patted the space beside him. “Come,” he said. “The forest has something to show you.”
I sat down with a sigh.
We listened to the bubbling sound of the water. It moved so easily, twisting around rocks and fallen branches. I picked up a stick and poked the stream. The water, soft and gentle, simply flowed around it.
“Why don’t you fight back?” I asked the stream aloud, feeling silly but curious.
Grandfather chuckled softly. “The stream doesn’t fight,” he said. “It flows around, over, or under—but it always reaches where it needs to go.”
I frowned. “But what if something blocks it?”
Grandfather looked at me with warm eyes. “Then it finds another way. That is the Tao—the Way. It’s like water. It doesn’t force. It doesn’t rush. It just moves with what is.”
I didn’t say anything. My heart was still full of the idea that I had to try harder, do more, and be the best. Letting things happen felt lazy.
He must have seen the wrinkles in my forehead. “You try so much, grandson,” he said. “Sometimes, the more you push, the slower things go. Have you heard of Wu Wei?”
I shook my head.
“It means ‘effortless action,’” he explained. “It’s when you move with the world, not against it. Like water.”
I looked down at the stream again. I saw how it moved—never still, never stuck, and yet never pushing. It touched stones gently, swirled in tiny pools, and danced in the sunlight.
We sat for a long time, not speaking. And slowly, something inside me softened. I had always believed that winning meant trying harder. But now I wondered... maybe being peaceful, like the stream, could be stronger in its own way.
That evening, I helped Grandfather carry water back to the house. I didn’t rush ahead this time. I walked beside him, step by step, letting each moment come and go like the breeze on my face.
Later, as we watched the stars appear in the sky, he said, “Today, you began to understand the Tao. But the path is long and gentle, like the stream. Don’t hurry. Just follow.”
I smiled. I didn’t understand everything yet—but I felt a little closer to something quiet and true.
And now, when life gets busy or hard, I sit by the stream and listen. I remember that I don’t have to force everything. I can just let things flow.
Like the water. Like the Tao.
