The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. My name is Jian, and I was only twelve summers old. But I thought I had to fix everything—my little brother’s loud crying, the broken fence, and even my mother’s quiet sighs. That day, I left the village to find peace in the forest, but I was really searching for something I didn’t understand yet.
The trees whispered in the breeze. The path was soft beneath my feet. I walked until I found a tiny stream, its water so clear I could see the pebbles smiling up at me. I sat by the water, angry at everything. Angry at how hard it all felt.
Just then, a soft voice spoke from behind me. “The water flows, though it tries not at all.” I turned around and saw an old man. His robe was plain, his hair long and gray like the clouds above.
“Who are you?” I asked, feeling a little afraid.
The old man smiled. “A watcher of streams, a lover of peace. You may call me Old He.”
He sat beside me without asking, letting the quiet speak. Then he pointed to the stream. “Do you know why the water never stops?”
I shrugged. “Because it moves?”
He chuckled. “Because it doesn’t try. It flows around stones. It doesn’t fight. It finds a way, gently.”
I looked at the stream again. It didn’t seem strong, but it had carved a path through rock. I hadn’t thought of that.
“But what if things need to be fixed?” I asked. “What if you can’t just... let things go?”
Old He nodded. “Sometimes we must care. But caring does not mean pushing. Even a tree grows with patience.”
I didn’t quite understand yet. “But if I don’t do something, everything will get worse.”
He took a stick and touched the water. Ripples spread in circles. “Trying too hard only stirs the water. Let it settle, and you will see more clearly.”
We sat for a while. I watched the water until it looked still again. My heart was quiet too, like the surface of the stream. The tight feeling inside me began to loosen, just a little.
After some silence, Old He stood up. “Go home, little one. Be like the stream. Flow where you can. Rest where you must. Help without force.”
Before I could ask what he meant by “help without force,” he was gone, walking deeper into the trees.
When I got home, I didn’t try to fix everything right away. I sat with my brother and told him a story about a wise river. He stopped crying. I repaired the fence slowly, smiling when it leaned a bit—it was still standing after all.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things feel too heavy, I remember Old He and the stream. I try to do what I can, without pushing too hard. And in that gentle way, I feel lighter. I am learning the Way—one step, one breath, one quiet moment at a time.
The sun was setting, and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. My name is Jian, and I was only twelve summers old. But I thought I had to fix everything—my little brother’s loud crying, the broken fence, and even my mother’s quiet sighs. That day, I left the village to find peace in the forest, but I was really searching for something I didn’t understand yet.
The trees whispered in the breeze. The path was soft beneath my feet. I walked until I found a tiny stream, its water so clear I could see the pebbles smiling up at me. I sat by the water, angry at everything. Angry at how hard it all felt.
Just then, a soft voice spoke from behind me. “The water flows, though it tries not at all.” I turned around and saw an old man. His robe was plain, his hair long and gray like the clouds above.
“Who are you?” I asked, feeling a little afraid.
The old man smiled. “A watcher of streams, a lover of peace. You may call me Old He.”
He sat beside me without asking, letting the quiet speak. Then he pointed to the stream. “Do you know why the water never stops?”
I shrugged. “Because it moves?”
He chuckled. “Because it doesn’t try. It flows around stones. It doesn’t fight. It finds a way, gently.”
I looked at the stream again. It didn’t seem strong, but it had carved a path through rock. I hadn’t thought of that.
“But what if things need to be fixed?” I asked. “What if you can’t just... let things go?”
Old He nodded. “Sometimes we must care. But caring does not mean pushing. Even a tree grows with patience.”
I didn’t quite understand yet. “But if I don’t do something, everything will get worse.”
He took a stick and touched the water. Ripples spread in circles. “Trying too hard only stirs the water. Let it settle, and you will see more clearly.”
We sat for a while. I watched the water until it looked still again. My heart was quiet too, like the surface of the stream. The tight feeling inside me began to loosen, just a little.
After some silence, Old He stood up. “Go home, little one. Be like the stream. Flow where you can. Rest where you must. Help without force.”
Before I could ask what he meant by “help without force,” he was gone, walking deeper into the trees.
When I got home, I didn’t try to fix everything right away. I sat with my brother and told him a story about a wise river. He stopped crying. I repaired the fence slowly, smiling when it leaned a bit—it was still standing after all.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when things feel too heavy, I remember Old He and the stream. I try to do what I can, without pushing too hard. And in that gentle way, I feel lighter. I am learning the Way—one step, one breath, one quiet moment at a time.
