The wind rustled the bamboo leaves as I sat beneath the old plum tree in our village garden. I had run away from home—not far, just past the stone path and the rice fields. I was only nine, but I had a big feeling in my chest. Something sharp and twisty. I didn’t know what to call it.
Grandfather always said, “Let feelings pass like clouds.” But my cloud didn’t seem to move. It just stayed, big and dark.
“You shouldn’t run into the woods alone,” said a quiet voice. I jumped. It was Master Lin, the old gardener who clipped bonsai trees and spoke to birds like they were neighbors.
“I was mad,” I whispered.
“Why?”
"My brother got the last rice cake," I said, wiping my eyes. "Again."
Master Lin squinted toward the mountains. “I see,” he said. “Can I tell you a story?”
I nodded. Master Lin’s stories were never like others'. They moved slow but landed deep, like dropping a pebble into a still pond.
“Long ago, there was a fish who wanted to fly,” Master Lin began. “Every day, he stretched and flipped and threw himself into the air. He tried harder and harder. But he never flew. One day, the fish gave up. He stopped jumping. He floated with the current. And one day, without planning, a breeze lifted the water, and the fish felt like flying. He hadn’t changed. But the world had moved just right.”
I tilted my head. “So… if I stop trying, I’ll get what I want?”
Master Lin chuckled. “Not exactly. It means pushing isn’t always the answer. Tao—the Way—shows us that when we flow with life, instead of always paddling against it, we often find peace.”
“But how do I let go when I’m so upset?”
He picked a leaf from the tree and let it drop. We watched as it floated down slowly and gently. “You don’t have to fix your feelings. Just notice them. Let them come. Let them go. That’s Wu Wei—acting without forcing.”
“What happened to the fish?”
“He never flew. But he discovered something better. He found joy just being in the water.”
We sat in silence, leaves whispering around us. My chest didn't feel so sharp now.
When I finally stood up, Master Lin smiled. “Home?”
I nodded. My brother’s rice cake didn’t seem so important anymore. I felt like the fish—not flying, but floating okay.
That night, as the moon slipped through the paper window, I closed my eyes and remembered the leaf floating from Master Lin’s hand. I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel that big twisty feeling, I pause. I breathe. I don't try so hard to push it away. I let it float past.
Maybe that’s what Tao means—not doing nothing, but not doing too much. Just enough to stay peaceful, just enough to be me.
And that’s the secret I carry with me now.
The wind rustled the bamboo leaves as I sat beneath the old plum tree in our village garden. I had run away from home—not far, just past the stone path and the rice fields. I was only nine, but I had a big feeling in my chest. Something sharp and twisty. I didn’t know what to call it.
Grandfather always said, “Let feelings pass like clouds.” But my cloud didn’t seem to move. It just stayed, big and dark.
“You shouldn’t run into the woods alone,” said a quiet voice. I jumped. It was Master Lin, the old gardener who clipped bonsai trees and spoke to birds like they were neighbors.
“I was mad,” I whispered.
“Why?”
"My brother got the last rice cake," I said, wiping my eyes. "Again."
Master Lin squinted toward the mountains. “I see,” he said. “Can I tell you a story?”
I nodded. Master Lin’s stories were never like others'. They moved slow but landed deep, like dropping a pebble into a still pond.
“Long ago, there was a fish who wanted to fly,” Master Lin began. “Every day, he stretched and flipped and threw himself into the air. He tried harder and harder. But he never flew. One day, the fish gave up. He stopped jumping. He floated with the current. And one day, without planning, a breeze lifted the water, and the fish felt like flying. He hadn’t changed. But the world had moved just right.”
I tilted my head. “So… if I stop trying, I’ll get what I want?”
Master Lin chuckled. “Not exactly. It means pushing isn’t always the answer. Tao—the Way—shows us that when we flow with life, instead of always paddling against it, we often find peace.”
“But how do I let go when I’m so upset?”
He picked a leaf from the tree and let it drop. We watched as it floated down slowly and gently. “You don’t have to fix your feelings. Just notice them. Let them come. Let them go. That’s Wu Wei—acting without forcing.”
“What happened to the fish?”
“He never flew. But he discovered something better. He found joy just being in the water.”
We sat in silence, leaves whispering around us. My chest didn't feel so sharp now.
When I finally stood up, Master Lin smiled. “Home?”
I nodded. My brother’s rice cake didn’t seem so important anymore. I felt like the fish—not flying, but floating okay.
That night, as the moon slipped through the paper window, I closed my eyes and remembered the leaf floating from Master Lin’s hand. I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel that big twisty feeling, I pause. I breathe. I don't try so hard to push it away. I let it float past.
Maybe that’s what Tao means—not doing nothing, but not doing too much. Just enough to stay peaceful, just enough to be me.
And that’s the secret I carry with me now.
