I had always believed that if I worked harder and pushed myself more, I would find happiness. That’s what my teacher in the village always said. But one warm summer morning, everything changed with a dream.
My name is Lin, and I was twelve years old when I first heard the story of Zhuangzi and the butterfly.
I was sitting under a peach tree, sweaty from running, tired from thinking too much. My grandfather sat beside me. He was not like other elders—he didn’t talk much or give long advice. He just watched the clouds.
After a while, I asked, “Grandfather, why do I always feel so tired? Even when I rest, my thoughts are loud.”
He smiled gently and said, “Let me tell you a story…”
He looked up at the sky and began.
“A long time ago, there was a wise man named Zhuangzi. He loved nature and spent most of his time walking near rivers, watching birds fly, and listening to the sounds of the earth. One afternoon, he fell asleep under a tree, just like this one.”
I looked up at the peach blossoms fluttering above my head.
Grandfather continued, “While sleeping, Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly. He fluttered from flower to flower, light and free. There was no fear, no worry—only the warmth of the sun and the breeze beneath his wings. It was a perfect dream.”
“What happened when he woke up?” I asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Grandfather chuckled. “When Zhuangzi opened his eyes, he wondered: ‘Am I Zhuangzi who dreamed of being a butterfly? Or am I now a butterfly dreaming I am Zhuangzi?’ He didn’t know. And he didn’t need to.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Ah,” he said, “but it does, in a quiet way. Zhuangzi saw there wasn’t much difference between him and the butterfly. Both were part of the Tao—the great Way of all things. Whether flying or dreaming, resting or moving, it was all part of the same dance. He didn’t hold on. He just flowed.”
I looked down at my hands, still clenched from earlier. Slowly, I opened them.
“So… he let go?” I whispered.
“Yes,” Grandfather nodded. “He let go of trying to be something, and instead just lived. That is Wu Wei—doing without forcing. The Tao has no need for struggle. Like water over rocks, it finds its way.”
We sat in silence for a long time.
That night, I dreamed I was a feather drifting on the wind. I wasn’t flying on my own—but the breeze carried me. It felt peaceful, like I didn’t have to be in control. The next morning, I didn’t rush. I listened to the birds. I smiled at the wind.
I didn’t understand everything, not yet. But I started to see that maybe… the answer wasn’t in trying harder. Maybe it was in becoming softer.
And even now, when my thoughts get loud again, I picture the butterfly. I remember how it moved easily with the wind, not against it. And I breathe. Just breathe.
I had always believed that if I worked harder and pushed myself more, I would find happiness. That’s what my teacher in the village always said. But one warm summer morning, everything changed with a dream.
My name is Lin, and I was twelve years old when I first heard the story of Zhuangzi and the butterfly.
I was sitting under a peach tree, sweaty from running, tired from thinking too much. My grandfather sat beside me. He was not like other elders—he didn’t talk much or give long advice. He just watched the clouds.
After a while, I asked, “Grandfather, why do I always feel so tired? Even when I rest, my thoughts are loud.”
He smiled gently and said, “Let me tell you a story…”
He looked up at the sky and began.
“A long time ago, there was a wise man named Zhuangzi. He loved nature and spent most of his time walking near rivers, watching birds fly, and listening to the sounds of the earth. One afternoon, he fell asleep under a tree, just like this one.”
I looked up at the peach blossoms fluttering above my head.
Grandfather continued, “While sleeping, Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly. He fluttered from flower to flower, light and free. There was no fear, no worry—only the warmth of the sun and the breeze beneath his wings. It was a perfect dream.”
“What happened when he woke up?” I asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Grandfather chuckled. “When Zhuangzi opened his eyes, he wondered: ‘Am I Zhuangzi who dreamed of being a butterfly? Or am I now a butterfly dreaming I am Zhuangzi?’ He didn’t know. And he didn’t need to.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Ah,” he said, “but it does, in a quiet way. Zhuangzi saw there wasn’t much difference between him and the butterfly. Both were part of the Tao—the great Way of all things. Whether flying or dreaming, resting or moving, it was all part of the same dance. He didn’t hold on. He just flowed.”
I looked down at my hands, still clenched from earlier. Slowly, I opened them.
“So… he let go?” I whispered.
“Yes,” Grandfather nodded. “He let go of trying to be something, and instead just lived. That is Wu Wei—doing without forcing. The Tao has no need for struggle. Like water over rocks, it finds its way.”
We sat in silence for a long time.
That night, I dreamed I was a feather drifting on the wind. I wasn’t flying on my own—but the breeze carried me. It felt peaceful, like I didn’t have to be in control. The next morning, I didn’t rush. I listened to the birds. I smiled at the wind.
I didn’t understand everything, not yet. But I started to see that maybe… the answer wasn’t in trying harder. Maybe it was in becoming softer.
And even now, when my thoughts get loud again, I picture the butterfly. I remember how it moved easily with the wind, not against it. And I breathe. Just breathe.
