The river moved slowly, like a snake winding through the land. I was just a boy then—barefoot, curious, and always asking questions. My name is Yi, and I lived in a quiet village at the edge of the eastern mountains. I didn’t know much about the world, but I did know one thing: I didn’t like waiting.
I wanted things to happen fast. I ran races with the wind, I poked seeds to make them grow quicker, and I got frustrated when the rain didn’t come when I thought it should.
One day, I followed the river far beyond where my mother said I could go. I wasn’t trying to be naughty—I was just chasing the way the water twisted so gently, like it had nowhere to be. I didn’t understand it. How could something move so softly and still go so far?
As the sun stretched long shadows across the hills, I reached a place I had never seen. A willow tree, with long branches like sleepy arms, leaned over the water. Sitting beneath it was an old man with white hair and a bamboo staff resting against his shoulder.
He looked up, smiling. “That river brought you here, didn’t it?”
I nodded, embarrassed. “I wanted to see where it was going. But… it doesn’t hurry. It doesn’t even try.”
“Ah,” he said, patting the ground beside him. “You’ve noticed the lesson already.”
I sat. “I don’t understand. If it doesn’t try, how does it move?”
“The river flows by being itself,” he said. “It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t stop. It follows the shape of the land. And yet, it carves mighty valleys and gives life to everything it touches.”
I wrinkled my nose. “But that sounds like doing nothing.”
He chuckled. “It’s called Wu Wei, which means ‘effortless action.’ You don’t have to force the world to spin. You just have to move with it.”
I didn’t get it then. But he told me to watch the river. So I did.
Days passed. I returned after chores and sat with the old man. He said his name was Bo. He talked little, and instead, pointed things out. A fallen leaf dancing on the water. Fish moving with tiny flicks of their tails. Even how the wind made the willow bow without breaking.
One day, I asked, “So I don’t have to try to do my best?”
Bo’s eyes twinkled. “Trying is not wrong. But forcing—pushing too hard—breaks things. Like trying to hold water in your hands. It slips away.”
That night, as I walked home, I felt something different. I didn’t feel like I had to rush to be better or know everything.
Now I’m older, and people ask me how I stay calm, even when things go wrong.
I tell them what I learned by the river—that sometimes, the best way forward is to flow with life, not fight against it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the river. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the world.
And every time I do, I feel a little more like the willow, standing strong by letting go.
The river moved slowly, like a snake winding through the land. I was just a boy then—barefoot, curious, and always asking questions. My name is Yi, and I lived in a quiet village at the edge of the eastern mountains. I didn’t know much about the world, but I did know one thing: I didn’t like waiting.
I wanted things to happen fast. I ran races with the wind, I poked seeds to make them grow quicker, and I got frustrated when the rain didn’t come when I thought it should.
One day, I followed the river far beyond where my mother said I could go. I wasn’t trying to be naughty—I was just chasing the way the water twisted so gently, like it had nowhere to be. I didn’t understand it. How could something move so softly and still go so far?
As the sun stretched long shadows across the hills, I reached a place I had never seen. A willow tree, with long branches like sleepy arms, leaned over the water. Sitting beneath it was an old man with white hair and a bamboo staff resting against his shoulder.
He looked up, smiling. “That river brought you here, didn’t it?”
I nodded, embarrassed. “I wanted to see where it was going. But… it doesn’t hurry. It doesn’t even try.”
“Ah,” he said, patting the ground beside him. “You’ve noticed the lesson already.”
I sat. “I don’t understand. If it doesn’t try, how does it move?”
“The river flows by being itself,” he said. “It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t stop. It follows the shape of the land. And yet, it carves mighty valleys and gives life to everything it touches.”
I wrinkled my nose. “But that sounds like doing nothing.”
He chuckled. “It’s called Wu Wei, which means ‘effortless action.’ You don’t have to force the world to spin. You just have to move with it.”
I didn’t get it then. But he told me to watch the river. So I did.
Days passed. I returned after chores and sat with the old man. He said his name was Bo. He talked little, and instead, pointed things out. A fallen leaf dancing on the water. Fish moving with tiny flicks of their tails. Even how the wind made the willow bow without breaking.
One day, I asked, “So I don’t have to try to do my best?”
Bo’s eyes twinkled. “Trying is not wrong. But forcing—pushing too hard—breaks things. Like trying to hold water in your hands. It slips away.”
That night, as I walked home, I felt something different. I didn’t feel like I had to rush to be better or know everything.
Now I’m older, and people ask me how I stay calm, even when things go wrong.
I tell them what I learned by the river—that sometimes, the best way forward is to flow with life, not fight against it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the river. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow of the world.
And every time I do, I feel a little more like the willow, standing strong by letting go.
