It was my seventh attempt to finish the bamboo fence, and I was frustrated. Really frustrated. I had tied each stick, stood them up straight, but every morning, at least one had fallen. My name is Lian, and I was ten years old that summer. My father had asked me to help around the garden while he traveled to the mountains for work. I promised him I’d build a new fence to keep the goats out.
But every day, something went wrong. I pulled the cords tight, hammered in wooden pegs, even added rocks at the bottom. But still, the wind was always stronger, or the ground too soft, or the bamboo wouldn’t stay still. I felt like crying, or maybe stomping on the whole mess.
That’s when Old Master Shen walked by.
He wasn’t really a master of anything, people said. He just lived nearby and tended to his quiet garden full of herbs and wildflowers. He wore a faded robe and smiled often, but he never said much. I almost ignored him, but he stopped and watched me as I kicked the bamboo.
“Fighting it again?” he asked with a soft chuckle.
“It keeps falling,” I said, my cheeks hot. “I work hard, but nothing stays.”
“Hm,” he murmured, kneeling beside me. “You know, bamboo is soft and strong not because it fights the wind, but because it bends with it. It doesn’t stand because it's stiff. It stands because it flows with the world.”
I blinked. “But I want it to stay still.”
“Maybe,” he said, picking up one stalk gently, “you’re doing too much. Sometimes, trying too hard gets in the way. Try less.”
“Try less?” I asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
He smiled. “Let the bamboo be bamboo. Let the wind be wind. When you stop forcing, you might find a better way.”
I didn’t understand right away, but I watched as he gently wove the stalks together, not pulling hard or pushing down. He tied them loosely, more like a braid than a wall. He placed stones not to trap them, but to guide their shape.
It looked...strange.
But it swayed in the wind. And the next morning—it still stood.
So I tried it his way. I stopped yanking the cords too tight. I let the bamboo lean on each other. I stopped fighting the wind. The more I let go, the stronger the fence became.
Days later, Old Master Shen passed by again. I pointed proudly.
"It stands!" I said.
He nodded. “Not because of strength… but because of balance.”
I smiled then. Not just because the fence worked, but because I felt better too. Less angry. Calmer.
That summer, I learned about Wu Wei—what the Taoists call “non-action.” Not being lazy. But letting things flow instead of forcing them. Like water finding the easiest path. Like bamboo dancing with the wind.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I try too hard and things don’t work, I stop. I breathe. I do less.
And somehow… things become more.
It was my seventh attempt to finish the bamboo fence, and I was frustrated. Really frustrated. I had tied each stick, stood them up straight, but every morning, at least one had fallen. My name is Lian, and I was ten years old that summer. My father had asked me to help around the garden while he traveled to the mountains for work. I promised him I’d build a new fence to keep the goats out.
But every day, something went wrong. I pulled the cords tight, hammered in wooden pegs, even added rocks at the bottom. But still, the wind was always stronger, or the ground too soft, or the bamboo wouldn’t stay still. I felt like crying, or maybe stomping on the whole mess.
That’s when Old Master Shen walked by.
He wasn’t really a master of anything, people said. He just lived nearby and tended to his quiet garden full of herbs and wildflowers. He wore a faded robe and smiled often, but he never said much. I almost ignored him, but he stopped and watched me as I kicked the bamboo.
“Fighting it again?” he asked with a soft chuckle.
“It keeps falling,” I said, my cheeks hot. “I work hard, but nothing stays.”
“Hm,” he murmured, kneeling beside me. “You know, bamboo is soft and strong not because it fights the wind, but because it bends with it. It doesn’t stand because it's stiff. It stands because it flows with the world.”
I blinked. “But I want it to stay still.”
“Maybe,” he said, picking up one stalk gently, “you’re doing too much. Sometimes, trying too hard gets in the way. Try less.”
“Try less?” I asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
He smiled. “Let the bamboo be bamboo. Let the wind be wind. When you stop forcing, you might find a better way.”
I didn’t understand right away, but I watched as he gently wove the stalks together, not pulling hard or pushing down. He tied them loosely, more like a braid than a wall. He placed stones not to trap them, but to guide their shape.
It looked...strange.
But it swayed in the wind. And the next morning—it still stood.
So I tried it his way. I stopped yanking the cords too tight. I let the bamboo lean on each other. I stopped fighting the wind. The more I let go, the stronger the fence became.
Days later, Old Master Shen passed by again. I pointed proudly.
"It stands!" I said.
He nodded. “Not because of strength… but because of balance.”
I smiled then. Not just because the fence worked, but because I felt better too. Less angry. Calmer.
That summer, I learned about Wu Wei—what the Taoists call “non-action.” Not being lazy. But letting things flow instead of forcing them. Like water finding the easiest path. Like bamboo dancing with the wind.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I try too hard and things don’t work, I stop. I breathe. I do less.
And somehow… things become more.
