I was just a boy back then, no more than ten summers old. The village was quiet, and the days stretched long like the shadows cast by the tall bamboo trees. My favorite place was the garden behind my grandfather’s house. He had the heart of a poet and the eyes of one who had seen many things. People in the village said he once spoke with sages and studied the Tao—the Way of everything.
One morning, I found him still as a stone, holding a colorful butterfly in his hand. I froze, worried he had caught it. But he smiled gently and opened his palm, letting the butterfly rise into the warm air and float away like a drifting leaf.
“Do you know,” he asked, “if I was dreaming I was a butterfly, or if the butterfly is dreaming it is me?”
I wrinkled my nose. “That doesn’t make any sense, Grandpa!”
He just chuckled and stroked his long white beard. “Maybe that’s the point.”
I didn’t understand him then. I thought grown-ups liked asking silly questions. But that one stayed with me. For a few days, I watched butterflies more carefully, wondering where they went and if they knew they were butterflies.
That summer, I had a big problem. My best friend, Li, and I both wanted the same spot under the plum tree to practice our scroll painting. We argued and shouted, and I stomped home, angry and hot. My thoughts twisted like tangled vines. Why couldn’t he just listen to me?
When I went to the garden, tears still fresh on my cheeks, I saw another butterfly fluttering near Grandpa’s favorite rock. Its wings moved softly, as if it wasn’t trying at all, just floating where the wind wanted it to go.
Grandpa came beside me. “Why do you think the butterfly never crashes into things?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It’s just good at flying, I guess.”
He smiled. “Or maybe…it doesn’t fight the wind. It feels what’s around it and lets the world carry it. That’s called Wu Wei—doing without trying to force anything.”
“Wu Wei?” I repeated. “But I was trying so hard to make Li listen.”
“Sometimes,” Grandpa said, “the more we push, the less we get. Like trying to hold onto water with our hands. The Way—Tao—is about flowing. Letting things be.”
I didn’t answer, but I watched the butterfly float high above the garden. I thought about Li and how I always wanted my way. The next day, I let him have the spot under the plum tree. I found a shadier one near the pond, and to my surprise, it felt even better.
I never forgot that butterfly or Grandpa’s words.
Years later, when the world feels too noisy or when someone doesn’t agree with me, I sit still and think of the butterfly—drifting, quiet, free. Maybe I never truly knew if I was me, or if I was the butterfly dreaming. But I know this:
When I let go of trying so hard, and when I just be—I feel the peace of the Tao. And the world flows just right.
And I keep learning, just like the butterfly, riding the breeze, one moment at a time.
I was just a boy back then, no more than ten summers old. The village was quiet, and the days stretched long like the shadows cast by the tall bamboo trees. My favorite place was the garden behind my grandfather’s house. He had the heart of a poet and the eyes of one who had seen many things. People in the village said he once spoke with sages and studied the Tao—the Way of everything.
One morning, I found him still as a stone, holding a colorful butterfly in his hand. I froze, worried he had caught it. But he smiled gently and opened his palm, letting the butterfly rise into the warm air and float away like a drifting leaf.
“Do you know,” he asked, “if I was dreaming I was a butterfly, or if the butterfly is dreaming it is me?”
I wrinkled my nose. “That doesn’t make any sense, Grandpa!”
He just chuckled and stroked his long white beard. “Maybe that’s the point.”
I didn’t understand him then. I thought grown-ups liked asking silly questions. But that one stayed with me. For a few days, I watched butterflies more carefully, wondering where they went and if they knew they were butterflies.
That summer, I had a big problem. My best friend, Li, and I both wanted the same spot under the plum tree to practice our scroll painting. We argued and shouted, and I stomped home, angry and hot. My thoughts twisted like tangled vines. Why couldn’t he just listen to me?
When I went to the garden, tears still fresh on my cheeks, I saw another butterfly fluttering near Grandpa’s favorite rock. Its wings moved softly, as if it wasn’t trying at all, just floating where the wind wanted it to go.
Grandpa came beside me. “Why do you think the butterfly never crashes into things?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It’s just good at flying, I guess.”
He smiled. “Or maybe…it doesn’t fight the wind. It feels what’s around it and lets the world carry it. That’s called Wu Wei—doing without trying to force anything.”
“Wu Wei?” I repeated. “But I was trying so hard to make Li listen.”
“Sometimes,” Grandpa said, “the more we push, the less we get. Like trying to hold onto water with our hands. The Way—Tao—is about flowing. Letting things be.”
I didn’t answer, but I watched the butterfly float high above the garden. I thought about Li and how I always wanted my way. The next day, I let him have the spot under the plum tree. I found a shadier one near the pond, and to my surprise, it felt even better.
I never forgot that butterfly or Grandpa’s words.
Years later, when the world feels too noisy or when someone doesn’t agree with me, I sit still and think of the butterfly—drifting, quiet, free. Maybe I never truly knew if I was me, or if I was the butterfly dreaming. But I know this:
When I let go of trying so hard, and when I just be—I feel the peace of the Tao. And the world flows just right.
And I keep learning, just like the butterfly, riding the breeze, one moment at a time.
