I had always believed that the more I did, the more I would become. I chased goals like a child chasing butterflies—dreams of being famous, wise, and known by everyone. But none of it ever felt enough. My name is Wei, and I was a painter in a busy city full of colors, noise, and rushing feet.
One morning, I woke up and forgot what day it was.
My room was quiet. Sunlight painted golden shapes on the floor. I reached for my paintbrush—but paused. What was I going to paint today? For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to make anything. My hands stayed still.
I thought I was tired, but something else was happening.
I wandered through the city without a plan. I forgot to rush. I let myself drift like a leaf on a river. As I walked through the market, everything seemed slower. A bird flapped past—its wings were smoother than any stroke I’d ever painted. I smiled.
An old man sweeping the street nodded at me. I nodded back. That small moment felt big, like we understood something without saying it.
The next day, I didn’t paint. I didn’t try to be anything at all.
By the fifth day, people started to notice I was changing.
“Are you sick, Wei?” asked my neighbor. “Is your spirit lost?”
“No,” I laughed. “I think I’m finally resting in it.”
I remembered something from a book I read long ago, the teachings of a man named Zhuangzi. He was a Taoist sage who once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.
Back then, I thought the story was silly. Now, I felt it in my bones.
I stopped trying to become someone. Instead, I let each day come, and I followed where it led. Sometimes I smiled at the clouds. Other times, I sat with strangers by the river. And slowly, I felt something open inside me—a quiet space where everything was just right.
One afternoon, a small boy brought me a broken wooden flute.
“Can you fix it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said gently. And that was the truth.
I held the flute, not thinking, not planning. My fingers moved naturally. I didn’t try—I just did what felt simple and right. Before I knew it, the flute played a soft note.
The boy’s eyes sparkled.
That night, sitting alone, I looked at the stars and finally understood something. I wasn’t less because I did less. I was more because I just was. Not trying. Not forcing. Just being.
That, I think, is the Tao.
I didn’t become someone great, or wise, or famous. I forgot what those things meant. But I found peace. And now, when people ask, “Wei, what did you learn from all this?”
I nod and say, “Sometimes, forgetting yourself is how you remember what matters most.”
And I keep walking. Quietly. Simply. Like a breeze passing through the trees.
I had always believed that the more I did, the more I would become. I chased goals like a child chasing butterflies—dreams of being famous, wise, and known by everyone. But none of it ever felt enough. My name is Wei, and I was a painter in a busy city full of colors, noise, and rushing feet.
One morning, I woke up and forgot what day it was.
My room was quiet. Sunlight painted golden shapes on the floor. I reached for my paintbrush—but paused. What was I going to paint today? For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to make anything. My hands stayed still.
I thought I was tired, but something else was happening.
I wandered through the city without a plan. I forgot to rush. I let myself drift like a leaf on a river. As I walked through the market, everything seemed slower. A bird flapped past—its wings were smoother than any stroke I’d ever painted. I smiled.
An old man sweeping the street nodded at me. I nodded back. That small moment felt big, like we understood something without saying it.
The next day, I didn’t paint. I didn’t try to be anything at all.
By the fifth day, people started to notice I was changing.
“Are you sick, Wei?” asked my neighbor. “Is your spirit lost?”
“No,” I laughed. “I think I’m finally resting in it.”
I remembered something from a book I read long ago, the teachings of a man named Zhuangzi. He was a Taoist sage who once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke, he didn’t know if he was Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.
Back then, I thought the story was silly. Now, I felt it in my bones.
I stopped trying to become someone. Instead, I let each day come, and I followed where it led. Sometimes I smiled at the clouds. Other times, I sat with strangers by the river. And slowly, I felt something open inside me—a quiet space where everything was just right.
One afternoon, a small boy brought me a broken wooden flute.
“Can you fix it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said gently. And that was the truth.
I held the flute, not thinking, not planning. My fingers moved naturally. I didn’t try—I just did what felt simple and right. Before I knew it, the flute played a soft note.
The boy’s eyes sparkled.
That night, sitting alone, I looked at the stars and finally understood something. I wasn’t less because I did less. I was more because I just was. Not trying. Not forcing. Just being.
That, I think, is the Tao.
I didn’t become someone great, or wise, or famous. I forgot what those things meant. But I found peace. And now, when people ask, “Wei, what did you learn from all this?”
I nod and say, “Sometimes, forgetting yourself is how you remember what matters most.”
And I keep walking. Quietly. Simply. Like a breeze passing through the trees.
