The morning air was light, like a feather drifting across the sky. I sat beneath the old plum tree in my grandmother’s garden, watching a butterfly dance through the air. Its wings were yellow and soft, moving like a slow breath. That was the day I had my dream. The day everything changed.
I was a boy named Liang. Not a hero, not a great thinker. Just a boy who liked quiet things—streams, stones, and shadows. My grandmother, whom I called Nainai, lived on the edge of the village, where the fields touched the forest. She told stories. Stories about Laozi, the wise man who wrote the Tao Te Ching, and about Zhuangzi, a man who once dreamed he was a butterfly.
"Was he dreaming of being a butterfly," she'd ask with a smile, "or is the butterfly dreaming he’s Zhuangzi?"
I didn’t understand the question.
One day, after playing in the sun too long, I fell asleep. In the dream, I was not Liang anymore—I was a butterfly! I fluttered over rivers and floated in the wind, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I felt free, light, and full of joy. I wasn't worried about the world. I just flew.
Then I woke up.
I sat up quickly, looking at my hands. Human hands. Not wings. The garden looked different now—less full of answers, more full of questions. Was I Liang dreaming of being a butterfly? Or still the butterfly dreaming of being Liang?
I ran to Nainai and told her everything.
She didn’t laugh. She just nodded slowly and said, “That is the same dream great teacher Zhuangzi had a thousand years ago.”
“But what does it mean?” I asked.
She looked toward the mountains. “It means the line between dream and awake, between me and you, between doing and not-doing, is thinner than people think.”
I blinked. “Doing and not-doing?”
She took a teacup and turned it upside down.
“If I try to empty the cup by shaking and pushing, the drops cling. But if I leave it alone, it dries easy.”
“Wu Wei,” she whispered. “Non-action. Acting without pushing. Everything flows better that way. Like a butterfly flying with the wind, not against it.”
“But how do I do that?” I asked.
She smiled. “You already did, in your dream.”
That evening, as the sun dropped behind the hills, I sat quietly beneath the tree again. I watched the wind move the leaves. I didn't try to plan or force a thought. I just breathed.
And I felt it.
The peace of doing nothing but being. The quiet truth hiding in a dream. Maybe I was Liang. Maybe I was a butterfly. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Years later, I still don’t know for sure. But I do know this—when I stop forcing things, when I listen instead of speak, when I float like that butterfly—I feel closer to the Tao. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
I didn’t change all at once. But now, when life feels big or heavy, I close my eyes and feel my wings again.
The morning air was light, like a feather drifting across the sky. I sat beneath the old plum tree in my grandmother’s garden, watching a butterfly dance through the air. Its wings were yellow and soft, moving like a slow breath. That was the day I had my dream. The day everything changed.
I was a boy named Liang. Not a hero, not a great thinker. Just a boy who liked quiet things—streams, stones, and shadows. My grandmother, whom I called Nainai, lived on the edge of the village, where the fields touched the forest. She told stories. Stories about Laozi, the wise man who wrote the Tao Te Ching, and about Zhuangzi, a man who once dreamed he was a butterfly.
"Was he dreaming of being a butterfly," she'd ask with a smile, "or is the butterfly dreaming he’s Zhuangzi?"
I didn’t understand the question.
One day, after playing in the sun too long, I fell asleep. In the dream, I was not Liang anymore—I was a butterfly! I fluttered over rivers and floated in the wind, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I felt free, light, and full of joy. I wasn't worried about the world. I just flew.
Then I woke up.
I sat up quickly, looking at my hands. Human hands. Not wings. The garden looked different now—less full of answers, more full of questions. Was I Liang dreaming of being a butterfly? Or still the butterfly dreaming of being Liang?
I ran to Nainai and told her everything.
She didn’t laugh. She just nodded slowly and said, “That is the same dream great teacher Zhuangzi had a thousand years ago.”
“But what does it mean?” I asked.
She looked toward the mountains. “It means the line between dream and awake, between me and you, between doing and not-doing, is thinner than people think.”
I blinked. “Doing and not-doing?”
She took a teacup and turned it upside down.
“If I try to empty the cup by shaking and pushing, the drops cling. But if I leave it alone, it dries easy.”
“Wu Wei,” she whispered. “Non-action. Acting without pushing. Everything flows better that way. Like a butterfly flying with the wind, not against it.”
“But how do I do that?” I asked.
She smiled. “You already did, in your dream.”
That evening, as the sun dropped behind the hills, I sat quietly beneath the tree again. I watched the wind move the leaves. I didn't try to plan or force a thought. I just breathed.
And I felt it.
The peace of doing nothing but being. The quiet truth hiding in a dream. Maybe I was Liang. Maybe I was a butterfly. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Years later, I still don’t know for sure. But I do know this—when I stop forcing things, when I listen instead of speak, when I float like that butterfly—I feel closer to the Tao. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
I didn’t change all at once. But now, when life feels big or heavy, I close my eyes and feel my wings again.
