The wind rushed through the mountain trees as I stumbled along the narrow path. I was twelve and angry—angry at my brother for taking the last rice cake, angry at my teacher for giving me unfair chores, and angry at the world for always making me feel small. I stormed up the trail to be alone, fists tight, heart pounding. That’s when I saw him.
An old man sat cross-legged beside the mountain spring, hands folded gently, eyes soft like moonlight on water. He looked so still, it was like he had become part of the mountain.
I paused, panting from my climb.
“You’ve come far with heavy feet,” he said, without opening his eyes.
I blinked. “I had to get away.”
“Yet here you are, still carrying what you tried to leave behind.”
I frowned. “How do you know that?”
The old man chuckled. “The mountain hears more than we think.”
I sat near him, curious but guarded. “Why are you just sitting here? Don’t you have things to do?”
He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Ah, but I am doing something. I’m listening to the Tao.”
I didn’t understand. “The Tao?”
“The Tao is the Way,” he answered. “It flows through everything—mountains, rivers, trees... even through you.”
“But I don’t feel it,” I muttered.
“That’s because you’re trying too hard. The Tao isn’t caught. It’s followed.”
I sat in silence, confused. I watched the water bubble quietly over the rocks. A leaf drifted by, floating gently without effort or push. I stared at it.
The old man spoke again. “Do you see how the leaf moves? It doesn’t fight the stream. It moves with it.”
“Because it can’t fight,” I said.
“No,” he corrected gently. “Because it doesn’t need to. That is Wu Wei—non-action. It means letting things be, going with the flow, acting when it’s right without forcing.”
I thought of my shouting, my stomping, my anger. I had fought everything today—my brother, my teacher, even the trail. All that pushing, and I still felt worse. The leaf had done nothing, and yet it was moving forward. Peaceful. Calm.
“What if someone is mean to you? You’re just supposed to float?” I asked.
“Being like water doesn’t mean letting others harm you,” he said softly. “But respond like a river—strong, but not angry; flexible, but not weak. Balance.”
We sat in silence, watching the light dance on the water.
Finally, I sighed. “I want to feel peaceful like that leaf.”
He nodded. “Then begin by letting go."
I stayed beside him until the sun dipped low. I didn’t say goodbye—I just walked. Slowly. Lightly. And for the first time that day, I didn’t feel so angry.
I didn’t change overnight. But every time I felt the fire rise in me, I remembered the leaf, the mountain, and the calm old man. I still lost my temper sometimes, but each time, I took a deep breath, and tried to float again. I was learning the way of the Tao—one step at a time.
The wind rushed through the mountain trees as I stumbled along the narrow path. I was twelve and angry—angry at my brother for taking the last rice cake, angry at my teacher for giving me unfair chores, and angry at the world for always making me feel small. I stormed up the trail to be alone, fists tight, heart pounding. That’s when I saw him.
An old man sat cross-legged beside the mountain spring, hands folded gently, eyes soft like moonlight on water. He looked so still, it was like he had become part of the mountain.
I paused, panting from my climb.
“You’ve come far with heavy feet,” he said, without opening his eyes.
I blinked. “I had to get away.”
“Yet here you are, still carrying what you tried to leave behind.”
I frowned. “How do you know that?”
The old man chuckled. “The mountain hears more than we think.”
I sat near him, curious but guarded. “Why are you just sitting here? Don’t you have things to do?”
He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Ah, but I am doing something. I’m listening to the Tao.”
I didn’t understand. “The Tao?”
“The Tao is the Way,” he answered. “It flows through everything—mountains, rivers, trees... even through you.”
“But I don’t feel it,” I muttered.
“That’s because you’re trying too hard. The Tao isn’t caught. It’s followed.”
I sat in silence, confused. I watched the water bubble quietly over the rocks. A leaf drifted by, floating gently without effort or push. I stared at it.
The old man spoke again. “Do you see how the leaf moves? It doesn’t fight the stream. It moves with it.”
“Because it can’t fight,” I said.
“No,” he corrected gently. “Because it doesn’t need to. That is Wu Wei—non-action. It means letting things be, going with the flow, acting when it’s right without forcing.”
I thought of my shouting, my stomping, my anger. I had fought everything today—my brother, my teacher, even the trail. All that pushing, and I still felt worse. The leaf had done nothing, and yet it was moving forward. Peaceful. Calm.
“What if someone is mean to you? You’re just supposed to float?” I asked.
“Being like water doesn’t mean letting others harm you,” he said softly. “But respond like a river—strong, but not angry; flexible, but not weak. Balance.”
We sat in silence, watching the light dance on the water.
Finally, I sighed. “I want to feel peaceful like that leaf.”
He nodded. “Then begin by letting go."
I stayed beside him until the sun dipped low. I didn’t say goodbye—I just walked. Slowly. Lightly. And for the first time that day, I didn’t feel so angry.
I didn’t change overnight. But every time I felt the fire rise in me, I remembered the leaf, the mountain, and the calm old man. I still lost my temper sometimes, but each time, I took a deep breath, and tried to float again. I was learning the way of the Tao—one step at a time.
