The path to wisdom, I learned, is not always direct.
It all began on a warm spring morning, as the village stirred with the scent of rice and soft plum blossoms. I was twelve. My name is Mei, and if you had asked me then, I would have told you that life was all about rushing ahead and getting things done quickly—like fetching water faster than my brothers or finishing chores before the sun was high.
That morning, I was hurrying as always. My hands were full with buckets when Old Master Lin, the village calligrapher, sat beneath the plum tree just outside his hut. He watched me rush by and called softly, “Mei, why do you run when the stream will not dry?”
“I want to be done early,” I said with a grin, breathless. “So I have time for myself.”
“The Tao doesn’t run,” he said with a chuckle, “yet it gets everything done.”
I didn’t understand. I smiled politely and kept walking.
All week, I thought about what he had said. “The Tao doesn’t run.” That made no sense. How could not running lead to getting more done?
One afternoon, when the sun hung low and golden over the hills, I sat across from Master Lin under that same tree. He offered me a cup of warm tea and didn’t say anything for a while. We just sat.
The silence felt strange and slow at first. Then peaceful.
Finally, I said, “What did you mean by the Tao not running?”
He smiled the way old masters do—like clouds moving without force. “Have you watched the birds, Mei? Or the river that winds through our village? They do not rush. They follow their paths with ease. That is Wu Wei—effortless action.”
“But isn’t doing more better?” I asked. “If I work hard, won’t I get ahead?”
He pointed to a willow tree swaying gently. “See that tree? It bends with the wind but does not break. The stiff oak that tried to stand tall all the time was snapped in the last storm. Nature shows us the way of the Tao—it flows.”
I went home thinking deeply.
The next day, I chose to move slower. Instead of racing through my chores, I paid attention. I noticed the rhythm of washing rice, the calm in feeding chickens, and the breeze that followed me quietly.
I didn’t do less—I just did it with less force. I let each task unfold like a leaf on water. And to my surprise, things felt easier. I felt lighter. Calmer.
That night, under the stars, I understood something small yet big.
The Tao isn’t a finish line to reach. It’s something to walk with. And Wu Wei isn’t laziness—it’s harmony. Doing, but not pushing. Flowing, not forcing.
I still have much to learn, but when I feel rushed or restless now, I think of the river and how it always finds its way—not by racing, but by flowing.
And I try to flow too.
The path to wisdom, I learned, is not always direct.
It all began on a warm spring morning, as the village stirred with the scent of rice and soft plum blossoms. I was twelve. My name is Mei, and if you had asked me then, I would have told you that life was all about rushing ahead and getting things done quickly—like fetching water faster than my brothers or finishing chores before the sun was high.
That morning, I was hurrying as always. My hands were full with buckets when Old Master Lin, the village calligrapher, sat beneath the plum tree just outside his hut. He watched me rush by and called softly, “Mei, why do you run when the stream will not dry?”
“I want to be done early,” I said with a grin, breathless. “So I have time for myself.”
“The Tao doesn’t run,” he said with a chuckle, “yet it gets everything done.”
I didn’t understand. I smiled politely and kept walking.
All week, I thought about what he had said. “The Tao doesn’t run.” That made no sense. How could not running lead to getting more done?
One afternoon, when the sun hung low and golden over the hills, I sat across from Master Lin under that same tree. He offered me a cup of warm tea and didn’t say anything for a while. We just sat.
The silence felt strange and slow at first. Then peaceful.
Finally, I said, “What did you mean by the Tao not running?”
He smiled the way old masters do—like clouds moving without force. “Have you watched the birds, Mei? Or the river that winds through our village? They do not rush. They follow their paths with ease. That is Wu Wei—effortless action.”
“But isn’t doing more better?” I asked. “If I work hard, won’t I get ahead?”
He pointed to a willow tree swaying gently. “See that tree? It bends with the wind but does not break. The stiff oak that tried to stand tall all the time was snapped in the last storm. Nature shows us the way of the Tao—it flows.”
I went home thinking deeply.
The next day, I chose to move slower. Instead of racing through my chores, I paid attention. I noticed the rhythm of washing rice, the calm in feeding chickens, and the breeze that followed me quietly.
I didn’t do less—I just did it with less force. I let each task unfold like a leaf on water. And to my surprise, things felt easier. I felt lighter. Calmer.
That night, under the stars, I understood something small yet big.
The Tao isn’t a finish line to reach. It’s something to walk with. And Wu Wei isn’t laziness—it’s harmony. Doing, but not pushing. Flowing, not forcing.
I still have much to learn, but when I feel rushed or restless now, I think of the river and how it always finds its way—not by racing, but by flowing.
And I try to flow too.
