I had always believed that the harder I worked, the faster I would reach my goals. My name is Lin, and I was a basket-maker in a small mountain village. I twisted willow and reed into strong baskets every day, hoping that if I made more and more, I would one day have enough money to leave the village and see the grand city beyond the mountains.
But no matter how fast I worked, I felt tired and anxious. My hands hurt. My head swirled with worry. Then, one morning, the old monk who lived up the hill came to visit the market.
He was very old, with long white eyebrows that fluttered in the wind. Everyone called him Master Tian. Some said he had once studied under a great Taoist sage. He didn’t speak much, but when he looked at you, it felt like he could see everything in your heart.
That day, Master Tian stopped by my stall. He picked up a basket, turned it slowly in his hands, and then put it down. “Why do you rush?” he asked me.
I blinked. “Because I want to get ahead,” I said. “I want to move forward. There’s so much I want to do.”
He nodded slowly, then pointed to the mountains behind us. “Have you ever seen the bamboo fight its way upward?”
“No,” I said. “But it grows fast.”
“Yes,” he said. “But it grows because it is still most of the time. It gathers its strength beneath the ground. Then, when the time is right, it rises—without hurry, without force.”
I didn’t understand. “Are you saying I should just stop working?”
“No,” Master Tian smiled gently. “But not everything must be done with strain. The Tao teaches us wu wei—doing without forcing. When you are in harmony with the way things naturally move, less effort brings better results.”
I didn’t know what to say, but his words stayed with me. The next day, I slowed down. I worked with calm hands, watching the patterns of the reeds instead of pushing them into place. I paused to look at the sky when it changed colors. I laughed with my neighbors when they passed by.
And something surprising happened: my baskets became stronger. The weaving was smoother. Even my customers began to notice. “These feel different,” an old woman said. “Like they were made with joy.”
Weeks passed, and I found I no longer cared so much about leaving the village. I still dreamed of traveling, but now I understood that peace didn’t come from doing more—it came from doing with care, from being in balance.
When I visited Master Tian again, I told him how I finally felt... light. He smiled and said, “The Tao is not loud, but its power is great. You have stopped chasing, and now, things come to you.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or prove myself, I remember his words. I breathe. I slow down. And I let life unfold, just like the bamboo—rising only when it’s ready.
And in that stillness, I found freedom.
I had always believed that the harder I worked, the faster I would reach my goals. My name is Lin, and I was a basket-maker in a small mountain village. I twisted willow and reed into strong baskets every day, hoping that if I made more and more, I would one day have enough money to leave the village and see the grand city beyond the mountains.
But no matter how fast I worked, I felt tired and anxious. My hands hurt. My head swirled with worry. Then, one morning, the old monk who lived up the hill came to visit the market.
He was very old, with long white eyebrows that fluttered in the wind. Everyone called him Master Tian. Some said he had once studied under a great Taoist sage. He didn’t speak much, but when he looked at you, it felt like he could see everything in your heart.
That day, Master Tian stopped by my stall. He picked up a basket, turned it slowly in his hands, and then put it down. “Why do you rush?” he asked me.
I blinked. “Because I want to get ahead,” I said. “I want to move forward. There’s so much I want to do.”
He nodded slowly, then pointed to the mountains behind us. “Have you ever seen the bamboo fight its way upward?”
“No,” I said. “But it grows fast.”
“Yes,” he said. “But it grows because it is still most of the time. It gathers its strength beneath the ground. Then, when the time is right, it rises—without hurry, without force.”
I didn’t understand. “Are you saying I should just stop working?”
“No,” Master Tian smiled gently. “But not everything must be done with strain. The Tao teaches us wu wei—doing without forcing. When you are in harmony with the way things naturally move, less effort brings better results.”
I didn’t know what to say, but his words stayed with me. The next day, I slowed down. I worked with calm hands, watching the patterns of the reeds instead of pushing them into place. I paused to look at the sky when it changed colors. I laughed with my neighbors when they passed by.
And something surprising happened: my baskets became stronger. The weaving was smoother. Even my customers began to notice. “These feel different,” an old woman said. “Like they were made with joy.”
Weeks passed, and I found I no longer cared so much about leaving the village. I still dreamed of traveling, but now I understood that peace didn’t come from doing more—it came from doing with care, from being in balance.
When I visited Master Tian again, I told him how I finally felt... light. He smiled and said, “The Tao is not loud, but its power is great. You have stopped chasing, and now, things come to you.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to rush or prove myself, I remember his words. I breathe. I slow down. And I let life unfold, just like the bamboo—rising only when it’s ready.
And in that stillness, I found freedom.
