The wind danced through the tall grass as I sat by the quiet road. My name is Hui, a traveler in old China, and once, I thought I needed to do big, important things to matter. I wanted to be wise, strong, and known far and wide. But the truth I found was very different—and it came from a man most people never even noticed.
I had heard of him before. They called him "The Man Who Forgot His Self." People said he used to be an official in a great city but gave it all up—his name, his job, even his goals. They said he lived alone in a hut at the edge of the forest. Some said he was mad. Others, that he had found something greater than fame.
One morning, after walking for hours over hills and quiet rivers, I saw smoke rising from a small home made of wood and mud. Curious, I stepped off the path and followed the scent of tea. A man with silver hair sat outside, calmly watching a bird flap its wings before flying into the sky.
“Come,” he said gently, without turning his head. “The water is just warm enough.”
I sat beside him. We didn’t speak at first. We just watched the trees sway. My mind raced with questions, but I held them back.
Finally, I said, “They say you forgot who you were.”
He chuckled softly. “I did not forget. I just stopped holding on so tightly.”
“But aren’t you afraid people won’t remember you?” I asked.
He poured tea, his hands steady. “When you forget your self, you remember the world. You see things just as they are.”
I didn’t understand. I had worked hard to build my name, my strength, my dreams. Letting go sounded like giving up.
As I stayed a few days, I watched him work. He didn’t rush. He didn’t worry. When it rained, he smiled at the sound. When birds sang, he listened. When I asked deep questions, he often replied with a story about wind or water, or said nothing at all—but somehow, I still felt I was learning.
One evening, I watched a leaf fall. It spun in the air, landing softly on the earth. And somehow, I understood. The leaf didn’t fight the wind. It danced with it.
That night, I sat outside and said, “You live without trying to prove anything. Without chasing things. But everything still gets done.”
He nodded slowly. “That is the way of the Tao. To follow the flow, not to force it. That is Wu Wei—effortless effort.”
When I left his hut, my name was still Hui. But something in me had changed. I didn’t feel the need to rush anymore. I still walked, still worked, but I began to trust the path, just as it unfolded.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to fight for control, I remember the leaf and the man who forgot his self. I try to let go—and simply let the Way unfold.
The wind danced through the tall grass as I sat by the quiet road. My name is Hui, a traveler in old China, and once, I thought I needed to do big, important things to matter. I wanted to be wise, strong, and known far and wide. But the truth I found was very different—and it came from a man most people never even noticed.
I had heard of him before. They called him "The Man Who Forgot His Self." People said he used to be an official in a great city but gave it all up—his name, his job, even his goals. They said he lived alone in a hut at the edge of the forest. Some said he was mad. Others, that he had found something greater than fame.
One morning, after walking for hours over hills and quiet rivers, I saw smoke rising from a small home made of wood and mud. Curious, I stepped off the path and followed the scent of tea. A man with silver hair sat outside, calmly watching a bird flap its wings before flying into the sky.
“Come,” he said gently, without turning his head. “The water is just warm enough.”
I sat beside him. We didn’t speak at first. We just watched the trees sway. My mind raced with questions, but I held them back.
Finally, I said, “They say you forgot who you were.”
He chuckled softly. “I did not forget. I just stopped holding on so tightly.”
“But aren’t you afraid people won’t remember you?” I asked.
He poured tea, his hands steady. “When you forget your self, you remember the world. You see things just as they are.”
I didn’t understand. I had worked hard to build my name, my strength, my dreams. Letting go sounded like giving up.
As I stayed a few days, I watched him work. He didn’t rush. He didn’t worry. When it rained, he smiled at the sound. When birds sang, he listened. When I asked deep questions, he often replied with a story about wind or water, or said nothing at all—but somehow, I still felt I was learning.
One evening, I watched a leaf fall. It spun in the air, landing softly on the earth. And somehow, I understood. The leaf didn’t fight the wind. It danced with it.
That night, I sat outside and said, “You live without trying to prove anything. Without chasing things. But everything still gets done.”
He nodded slowly. “That is the way of the Tao. To follow the flow, not to force it. That is Wu Wei—effortless effort.”
When I left his hut, my name was still Hui. But something in me had changed. I didn’t feel the need to rush anymore. I still walked, still worked, but I began to trust the path, just as it unfolded.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to fight for control, I remember the leaf and the man who forgot his self. I try to let go—and simply let the Way unfold.
