I remember the morning clearly. The mist hadn’t yet left the mountains, and the world felt quieter than usual. I was only ten years old, and I had a lot of questions. "What is real?" I asked my grandfather as we walked along the stone path near his garden.
My grandfather, Master Wei, was a quiet man. He used to serve tea to monks who wandered through our village in search of wisdom. He never hurried. Even when the wind blew hard or the rain came fast, he moved like he had all the time in the world.
Instead of answering my question right away, he led me to the edge of a still pond. We sat down under a tall tree. A little butterfly danced in the air, its yellow wings flickering like tiny flames. It settled softly on a flower.
“Do you see that butterfly?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”
He closed his eyes. “Last night, I dreamed I was a butterfly, floating in the wind. I didn’t know I was me. I was just flying, peacefully, happily.”
He paused. I waited.
“But when I woke up,” he said, opening his eyes slowly, “I wondered… am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly, now dreaming he is a man?”
I blinked. “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.
He smiled. “Ah, maybe not. Or maybe it makes all the sense in the world.”
I didn’t understand then. For the next few days, I tried really hard to figure it out. I read old scrolls. I asked the village teacher. I even tried to dream I was a butterfly by thinking about it really hard before bed.
But nothing worked. I still felt confused.
One afternoon, while helping my grandfather sweep the leaves, I grew frustrated. “It’s like chasing the wind!” I shouted. “I’ll never get it!”
Grandfather didn’t scold me. He simply handed me a small cup of tea and sat down. “Sometimes,” he said, “trying too hard makes the truth hide. Like stirring a quiet pond—it only clouds the water.”
So I stopped. I stopped worrying about the dream and the butterfly and what it all meant. I simply went outside, played with my friend Jun, watched the fish in the pond, and listened to the wind in the trees. I paid attention, but I didn’t push.
One night, while lying in bed, I remembered the butterfly again. I smiled, not needing an answer. I just pictured it floating through the air, soft and free.
In that moment, I understood.
The butterfly wasn’t a riddle to be solved. It was the Tao—flowing, gentle, simple. Just like my grandfather. Just like the breeze. Just like me when I stopped trying so hard.
And though I didn’t change overnight, something inside me became lighter.
Now, whenever I feel confused or lost, I think of that butterfly. I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift like wings in the wind.
I may never know if I’m the boy or the butterfly.
But I do know this: The Tao isn’t about understanding everything.
It’s about feeling at peace—right where you are.
I remember the morning clearly. The mist hadn’t yet left the mountains, and the world felt quieter than usual. I was only ten years old, and I had a lot of questions. "What is real?" I asked my grandfather as we walked along the stone path near his garden.
My grandfather, Master Wei, was a quiet man. He used to serve tea to monks who wandered through our village in search of wisdom. He never hurried. Even when the wind blew hard or the rain came fast, he moved like he had all the time in the world.
Instead of answering my question right away, he led me to the edge of a still pond. We sat down under a tall tree. A little butterfly danced in the air, its yellow wings flickering like tiny flames. It settled softly on a flower.
“Do you see that butterfly?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”
He closed his eyes. “Last night, I dreamed I was a butterfly, floating in the wind. I didn’t know I was me. I was just flying, peacefully, happily.”
He paused. I waited.
“But when I woke up,” he said, opening his eyes slowly, “I wondered… am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly, now dreaming he is a man?”
I blinked. “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.
He smiled. “Ah, maybe not. Or maybe it makes all the sense in the world.”
I didn’t understand then. For the next few days, I tried really hard to figure it out. I read old scrolls. I asked the village teacher. I even tried to dream I was a butterfly by thinking about it really hard before bed.
But nothing worked. I still felt confused.
One afternoon, while helping my grandfather sweep the leaves, I grew frustrated. “It’s like chasing the wind!” I shouted. “I’ll never get it!”
Grandfather didn’t scold me. He simply handed me a small cup of tea and sat down. “Sometimes,” he said, “trying too hard makes the truth hide. Like stirring a quiet pond—it only clouds the water.”
So I stopped. I stopped worrying about the dream and the butterfly and what it all meant. I simply went outside, played with my friend Jun, watched the fish in the pond, and listened to the wind in the trees. I paid attention, but I didn’t push.
One night, while lying in bed, I remembered the butterfly again. I smiled, not needing an answer. I just pictured it floating through the air, soft and free.
In that moment, I understood.
The butterfly wasn’t a riddle to be solved. It was the Tao—flowing, gentle, simple. Just like my grandfather. Just like the breeze. Just like me when I stopped trying so hard.
And though I didn’t change overnight, something inside me became lighter.
Now, whenever I feel confused or lost, I think of that butterfly. I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift like wings in the wind.
I may never know if I’m the boy or the butterfly.
But I do know this: The Tao isn’t about understanding everything.
It’s about feeling at peace—right where you are.
