The village was quiet that morning, except for the soft whistle of wind through the bamboo trees. I was sweeping the stone path behind my little tea shop when I saw him—an old man with gray robes and eyes like calm water. He was walking slowly, one step at a time, as though he wasn’t going anywhere at all.
“Good morning,” I called.
He smiled and nodded but said nothing. Instead, he sat down near the stream behind my shop and closed his eyes. I went back to sweeping, but I kept watching him from the corner of my eye. He just sat there. Doing nothing. For hours.
By noon, I couldn’t help myself. “Sir,” I said, “Are you waiting for someone?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “I’m just sitting.”
“But... are you not bored?” I asked. “Don’t you want to do something?”
He looked up at me, still smiling. “Doing nothing is not the same as being useless,” he said gently. “Sometimes, the most important things happen when we stop trying so hard.”
I wrinkled my brow. That didn’t make much sense to me. I had a small shop to care for, herbs to dry, water to boil, cups to scrub. If I didn’t do things, who else would?
He must’ve seen the confusion on my face.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said. “One time, I tried to move a large rock in my garden. I pushed with all my strength. My arms hurt, and I grew tired. But the rock didn’t move. The next day, I visited again, and rain had made the ground soft. I merely nudged the rock, and it slid on its own. You see, I tried too hard the first time. But when I waited and trusted the right time, it moved easily.”
I sat beside him, staring at the flowing stream. It made no effort, yet it carved out mountains. “That’s called Wu Wei,” the old man said. “It means not forcing things. Like this stream, we can flow with life, not fight it.”
I looked around—at the fluttering leaves, the sunlight dancing on the water, and my own hands, resting quiet in my lap. For once, I wasn’t worried about tea leaves or customers. For once, I just... was.
That afternoon, I left my broom by the door and sat with the old man. We watched the wind play with the trees and said nothing. And somehow, that silence felt full—like it was teaching me something my busy days never had.
Days passed, and the old man returned often. We rarely spoke. But I stopped sweeping so quickly. I brewed tea more slowly. And the strangest thing happened—more people began to come. They said my tea tasted more peaceful.
I didn’t change the tea. But I had changed.
Now, whenever I feel like pushing too hard, I think of that rock. I wait. I breathe. I trust the Tao to guide me.
And I’ve learned that sometimes, by doing less… we create more.
The Way is quiet. But its power is deep.
The village was quiet that morning, except for the soft whistle of wind through the bamboo trees. I was sweeping the stone path behind my little tea shop when I saw him—an old man with gray robes and eyes like calm water. He was walking slowly, one step at a time, as though he wasn’t going anywhere at all.
“Good morning,” I called.
He smiled and nodded but said nothing. Instead, he sat down near the stream behind my shop and closed his eyes. I went back to sweeping, but I kept watching him from the corner of my eye. He just sat there. Doing nothing. For hours.
By noon, I couldn’t help myself. “Sir,” I said, “Are you waiting for someone?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “I’m just sitting.”
“But... are you not bored?” I asked. “Don’t you want to do something?”
He looked up at me, still smiling. “Doing nothing is not the same as being useless,” he said gently. “Sometimes, the most important things happen when we stop trying so hard.”
I wrinkled my brow. That didn’t make much sense to me. I had a small shop to care for, herbs to dry, water to boil, cups to scrub. If I didn’t do things, who else would?
He must’ve seen the confusion on my face.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said. “One time, I tried to move a large rock in my garden. I pushed with all my strength. My arms hurt, and I grew tired. But the rock didn’t move. The next day, I visited again, and rain had made the ground soft. I merely nudged the rock, and it slid on its own. You see, I tried too hard the first time. But when I waited and trusted the right time, it moved easily.”
I sat beside him, staring at the flowing stream. It made no effort, yet it carved out mountains. “That’s called Wu Wei,” the old man said. “It means not forcing things. Like this stream, we can flow with life, not fight it.”
I looked around—at the fluttering leaves, the sunlight dancing on the water, and my own hands, resting quiet in my lap. For once, I wasn’t worried about tea leaves or customers. For once, I just... was.
That afternoon, I left my broom by the door and sat with the old man. We watched the wind play with the trees and said nothing. And somehow, that silence felt full—like it was teaching me something my busy days never had.
Days passed, and the old man returned often. We rarely spoke. But I stopped sweeping so quickly. I brewed tea more slowly. And the strangest thing happened—more people began to come. They said my tea tasted more peaceful.
I didn’t change the tea. But I had changed.
Now, whenever I feel like pushing too hard, I think of that rock. I wait. I breathe. I trust the Tao to guide me.
And I’ve learned that sometimes, by doing less… we create more.
The Way is quiet. But its power is deep.
