I wasn’t a hero or a monk—I was just a boy who worried… a lot.
My name is Wei, and when I was ten years old, I used to think that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, something bad would happen. I would try so hard—cleaning my room again and again, fixing every little mistake on my drawings, even practicing walking without making a noise. Mom said I was like a tight string always ready to snap. But I couldn’t help it. If I didn’t try hard, what if everything fell apart?
One day, I followed my uncle Bo to the mountains. Uncle Bo was a quiet man with a long beard and calm eyes. He never rushed, never fussed. He always said, “Let things be as they are.” That day, he said he was going to visit the Bamboo Hermit.
"Who is the Bamboo Hermit?" I asked.
“A very old man who has lived with the forest for many years,” Uncle Bo said. “He doesn’t teach much... but the forest around him does.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. But I went anyway. I thought, maybe this old hermit would teach me how to stop being so nervous all the time.
It was a long walk. The wind moved gently through the trees. Birds sang soft songs. Uncle Bo didn’t talk much, just smiled and let the trail lead us. I kept looking down, watching every step.
When we reached the Bamboo Hermit’s hut, the old man was sitting quietly beside a little stream. He didn’t even say hello. I sat down, disappointed. No big welcome. No wisdom. He watched a leaf float by.
After a while, I asked, “Aren’t you going to teach me something?”
The Bamboo Hermit chuckled. “The leaf is teaching you already.”
I blinked. “But it’s just floating.”
“Exactly,” he said.
I frowned. "But it’s not doing anything."
He picked up a rock and let it fall into the stream. It sank straight down. “This rock tries to force its way. It sinks. The leaf flows with the water. It lets go. It reaches the sea.”
Days passed at the hut. I waited for lessons, but none came like school. Instead, I watched the sun rise without alarm bells. I watched ants walk over my foot without brushing them off. I breathed. Slowly, I stopped trying to fix the world.
One morning, I stepped into the cold stream. At first, I tried to walk against the current. It pushed at me, splashing my legs hard. Then I remembered the leaf. I let my arms float. I drifted a little, balanced myself, and smiled. I wasn’t fighting. I was just being.
That day, I think I understood a little bit about Tao—not something you grab or hold, but something you feel when you stop trying so hard. I still went back home and cleaned my room, but I didn’t mop twice. I let the wind blow the curtains and didn’t close them. When my drawing wasn't perfect, I smiled. It looked more alive that way.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to tighten up or rush too fast, I remember the leaf. I try to let go, just enough, and trust the water will find its way.
And I think that’s what peace feels like.
I wasn’t a hero or a monk—I was just a boy who worried… a lot.
My name is Wei, and when I was ten years old, I used to think that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, something bad would happen. I would try so hard—cleaning my room again and again, fixing every little mistake on my drawings, even practicing walking without making a noise. Mom said I was like a tight string always ready to snap. But I couldn’t help it. If I didn’t try hard, what if everything fell apart?
One day, I followed my uncle Bo to the mountains. Uncle Bo was a quiet man with a long beard and calm eyes. He never rushed, never fussed. He always said, “Let things be as they are.” That day, he said he was going to visit the Bamboo Hermit.
"Who is the Bamboo Hermit?" I asked.
“A very old man who has lived with the forest for many years,” Uncle Bo said. “He doesn’t teach much... but the forest around him does.”
I didn’t understand what that meant. But I went anyway. I thought, maybe this old hermit would teach me how to stop being so nervous all the time.
It was a long walk. The wind moved gently through the trees. Birds sang soft songs. Uncle Bo didn’t talk much, just smiled and let the trail lead us. I kept looking down, watching every step.
When we reached the Bamboo Hermit’s hut, the old man was sitting quietly beside a little stream. He didn’t even say hello. I sat down, disappointed. No big welcome. No wisdom. He watched a leaf float by.
After a while, I asked, “Aren’t you going to teach me something?”
The Bamboo Hermit chuckled. “The leaf is teaching you already.”
I blinked. “But it’s just floating.”
“Exactly,” he said.
I frowned. "But it’s not doing anything."
He picked up a rock and let it fall into the stream. It sank straight down. “This rock tries to force its way. It sinks. The leaf flows with the water. It lets go. It reaches the sea.”
Days passed at the hut. I waited for lessons, but none came like school. Instead, I watched the sun rise without alarm bells. I watched ants walk over my foot without brushing them off. I breathed. Slowly, I stopped trying to fix the world.
One morning, I stepped into the cold stream. At first, I tried to walk against the current. It pushed at me, splashing my legs hard. Then I remembered the leaf. I let my arms float. I drifted a little, balanced myself, and smiled. I wasn’t fighting. I was just being.
That day, I think I understood a little bit about Tao—not something you grab or hold, but something you feel when you stop trying so hard. I still went back home and cleaned my room, but I didn’t mop twice. I let the wind blow the curtains and didn’t close them. When my drawing wasn't perfect, I smiled. It looked more alive that way.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to tighten up or rush too fast, I remember the leaf. I try to let go, just enough, and trust the water will find its way.
And I think that’s what peace feels like.
