The soft wind tickled my face as I walked along the narrow path that curved through the hills. It was early spring, and the trees were just waking up. I had grown tired of city life—so much rushing, so many loud voices. So, I left. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed quiet.
One afternoon, as the sun blinked behind the clouds, I met an old man sitting beneath a twisted pine. His beard was long and white, and his eyes seemed to know things I didn’t. He looked peaceful, like the wind didn't bother him and time couldn’t touch him.
I stopped to rest, and he looked up. “Lost or just wandering?” he asked with a grin.
“Maybe both,” I said, dropping my bag on the ground. “I thought if I worked hard enough, tried harder, ran faster, I’d find peace. But it just made me more tired.”
He chuckled gently. “You remind me of the river when it floods—rushing and crashing, trying so hard to move everything in its path.”
I frowned. “So what should I do? Sit still like the rocks?”
“Not still like rocks,” he said. “Flow like water.”
I didn’t understand, but he offered me a bowl of tea. It was warm and simple. Just leaves and water, but it tasted like peace.
We sat in silence for a while. Then I watched a squirrel jump from one branch to another, its tail flicking with each bounce.
The old man pointed. “See him? He doesn’t force his jump. He just trusts.”
I looked again. The squirrel wasn’t thinking or planning. It just moved. Effortless. Like it knew the branch would meet it.
“That’s called Wu Wei,” the old man said. “It means ‘effortless action.’ Not lazy, not doing nothing. Just doing things in harmony with the way of nature—the Tao.”
“But I’m used to pushing. I worked hard for everything. If I stop pushing, won’t I fail?”
“Sometimes, when you push too hard, you block the way. A door opens best when you stop shoving it. Let things happen. Guide them gently.” He smiled. “Balance. That’s the real power.”
We spoke little after that. Mostly, we just listened—to the birds, to the trees swaying, to the sound of our own breathing.
I stayed by that tree for many days. Not because I needed answers, but because I stopped needing them. I helped the old man gather wood, and in the quiet moments between chores, I began to feel different. Lighter, like I wasn’t carrying the world anymore.
When I finally left, the hills didn’t seem empty, and the silence no longer felt lonely. I walked slower but saw more. I didn’t rush, and I didn’t pull at life like a tangled rope. I just followed the path where it led.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel myself pushing too hard, I remember the squirrel and the tea, and I try to move like water—gentle, steady, and true to the Way.
The soft wind tickled my face as I walked along the narrow path that curved through the hills. It was early spring, and the trees were just waking up. I had grown tired of city life—so much rushing, so many loud voices. So, I left. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed quiet.
One afternoon, as the sun blinked behind the clouds, I met an old man sitting beneath a twisted pine. His beard was long and white, and his eyes seemed to know things I didn’t. He looked peaceful, like the wind didn't bother him and time couldn’t touch him.
I stopped to rest, and he looked up. “Lost or just wandering?” he asked with a grin.
“Maybe both,” I said, dropping my bag on the ground. “I thought if I worked hard enough, tried harder, ran faster, I’d find peace. But it just made me more tired.”
He chuckled gently. “You remind me of the river when it floods—rushing and crashing, trying so hard to move everything in its path.”
I frowned. “So what should I do? Sit still like the rocks?”
“Not still like rocks,” he said. “Flow like water.”
I didn’t understand, but he offered me a bowl of tea. It was warm and simple. Just leaves and water, but it tasted like peace.
We sat in silence for a while. Then I watched a squirrel jump from one branch to another, its tail flicking with each bounce.
The old man pointed. “See him? He doesn’t force his jump. He just trusts.”
I looked again. The squirrel wasn’t thinking or planning. It just moved. Effortless. Like it knew the branch would meet it.
“That’s called Wu Wei,” the old man said. “It means ‘effortless action.’ Not lazy, not doing nothing. Just doing things in harmony with the way of nature—the Tao.”
“But I’m used to pushing. I worked hard for everything. If I stop pushing, won’t I fail?”
“Sometimes, when you push too hard, you block the way. A door opens best when you stop shoving it. Let things happen. Guide them gently.” He smiled. “Balance. That’s the real power.”
We spoke little after that. Mostly, we just listened—to the birds, to the trees swaying, to the sound of our own breathing.
I stayed by that tree for many days. Not because I needed answers, but because I stopped needing them. I helped the old man gather wood, and in the quiet moments between chores, I began to feel different. Lighter, like I wasn’t carrying the world anymore.
When I finally left, the hills didn’t seem empty, and the silence no longer felt lonely. I walked slower but saw more. I didn’t rush, and I didn’t pull at life like a tangled rope. I just followed the path where it led.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel myself pushing too hard, I remember the squirrel and the tea, and I try to move like water—gentle, steady, and true to the Way.
