The sky was painted with soft orange clouds as I followed Grandpa through the rice fields. I was ten years old, angry and tired. My older brother, Jin, had blamed me for something he did, and now I couldn’t play with my friends for a whole week. It wasn’t fair.
“What are we doing out here?” I asked, kicking at a stone.
Grandpa didn’t answer right away. He moved slowly, holding a wooden walking stick. “Just watching,” he said quietly, pointing to a stream that flowed gently beside the rice fields.
I frowned. “Watching what?"
“The water,” he said, and sat down on a smooth stone. “Come sit.”
I dropped down beside him, crossed my arms, and stared at the stream. It was so quiet out there, just the whisper of wind and the trickle of water. I wanted to complain more, but something about Grandpa’s stillness made me pause.
“Do you see how the water moves, darling?” he asked.
“It flows,” I said, shrugging.
“Yes,” Grandpa smiled. “It flows without pushing. It doesn’t fight the rocks, doesn’t stop the leaves. It just moves around them.”
I picked up a stick and poked at the water. “But if it's so gentle,” I argued, “how does it go anywhere? Doesn't it get stuck?”
“It never gets stuck,” Grandpa said. “It finds its way by letting go. That’s the way of the Tao.”
“The Tao?” I asked.
Grandpa nodded. “The Tao means ‘The Way.’ Long ago, Laozi, a wise man who lived before even the oldest temple, taught people about it. He said that we don’t need to fight so much. Sometimes, doing less and going along with the flow brings more peace.”
I stared at the stream again. It didn’t look like it was trying. It just... moved.
“But what does that have to do with Jin blaming me?” I asked, confused.
Grandpa reached into his pocket and handed me a small leaf. “Put it in the water.”
I did. The leaf floated gently, turning and dancing with the current.
“You see?” he said. “The leaf didn’t argue with the water. It didn’t sink. It didn’t fight. It followed, and it moved forward.”
I looked up. “So I should just... let it go? Let Jin get away with it?”
Grandpa smiled softly. “Letting go doesn’t mean letting someone harm you. But if you get stuck in anger, like a rock trying to stand in the river, the flow of life becomes hard. Don’t block it. Speak your truth gently, then let things pass. That’s balance.”
We sat in silence for a while. Somehow, my chest didn’t feel as tight anymore. The stream seemed happier than I’d ever been all day.
Later, when I saw Jin, I didn’t yell. I told him how I felt. Then I let it float away, like the leaf.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to shout or fight, I remember the stream. I try to move like it—calm, strong, and steady. Just like Grandpa said, that’s the Way of the Tao.
The sky was painted with soft orange clouds as I followed Grandpa through the rice fields. I was ten years old, angry and tired. My older brother, Jin, had blamed me for something he did, and now I couldn’t play with my friends for a whole week. It wasn’t fair.
“What are we doing out here?” I asked, kicking at a stone.
Grandpa didn’t answer right away. He moved slowly, holding a wooden walking stick. “Just watching,” he said quietly, pointing to a stream that flowed gently beside the rice fields.
I frowned. “Watching what?"
“The water,” he said, and sat down on a smooth stone. “Come sit.”
I dropped down beside him, crossed my arms, and stared at the stream. It was so quiet out there, just the whisper of wind and the trickle of water. I wanted to complain more, but something about Grandpa’s stillness made me pause.
“Do you see how the water moves, darling?” he asked.
“It flows,” I said, shrugging.
“Yes,” Grandpa smiled. “It flows without pushing. It doesn’t fight the rocks, doesn’t stop the leaves. It just moves around them.”
I picked up a stick and poked at the water. “But if it's so gentle,” I argued, “how does it go anywhere? Doesn't it get stuck?”
“It never gets stuck,” Grandpa said. “It finds its way by letting go. That’s the way of the Tao.”
“The Tao?” I asked.
Grandpa nodded. “The Tao means ‘The Way.’ Long ago, Laozi, a wise man who lived before even the oldest temple, taught people about it. He said that we don’t need to fight so much. Sometimes, doing less and going along with the flow brings more peace.”
I stared at the stream again. It didn’t look like it was trying. It just... moved.
“But what does that have to do with Jin blaming me?” I asked, confused.
Grandpa reached into his pocket and handed me a small leaf. “Put it in the water.”
I did. The leaf floated gently, turning and dancing with the current.
“You see?” he said. “The leaf didn’t argue with the water. It didn’t sink. It didn’t fight. It followed, and it moved forward.”
I looked up. “So I should just... let it go? Let Jin get away with it?”
Grandpa smiled softly. “Letting go doesn’t mean letting someone harm you. But if you get stuck in anger, like a rock trying to stand in the river, the flow of life becomes hard. Don’t block it. Speak your truth gently, then let things pass. That’s balance.”
We sat in silence for a while. Somehow, my chest didn’t feel as tight anymore. The stream seemed happier than I’d ever been all day.
Later, when I saw Jin, I didn’t yell. I told him how I felt. Then I let it float away, like the leaf.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to shout or fight, I remember the stream. I try to move like it—calm, strong, and steady. Just like Grandpa said, that’s the Way of the Tao.
