The wind howled across the dry fields of my village the day I decided everything had to change. I had worked long and hard, trying to become the best farmer. I dug deeper, planted faster, and carried heavier buckets than anyone. But the ground stayed dry, and no matter how much I struggled, my crops withered. My name is Lin, and I once believed hard work could fix anything.
One afternoon, while resting by the well, I met an old man with a long beard and eyes soft like river stones. He stood quietly, staring up at the sky where a single white cloud drifted above us.
“It’s just a cloud,” I said, wiping my face.
He didn’t look away. “Look again, young one. When the cloud moves by itself, the rain will come.”
I frowned, confused. “But what if it doesn’t? Shouldn’t I try to make it rain? Build something? Call the villagers to help?”
The old man chuckled. “You try to catch the sky with your hands.” He pointed at the well. “And yet, this well gives you water by waiting.”
I didn’t understand. What did the sky and the well have in common? But he smiled and walked away, leaving me with silence and questions.
Days passed. I went back to working harder—digging, dragging, waking earlier. Still, the rain didn’t come. I began to grow angry. I yelled into the sky, I hit the dry soil with my shovel. I even forgot to eat one day.
Then I remembered the old man’s voice—“Look again.”
So I did. I stood by the well, not working, not forcing, just standing. I listened to the wind. I watched the clouds. The well didn’t rush, yet it always held water. And the clouds—they floated on, gentle and free. They didn’t push; they flowed.
It was strange, but I found peace there, just watching. My thoughts slowed down. My breath became lighter. I wasn’t doing anything, and yet…I felt full.
The next morning, it rained.
Not a storm. Not a flood. Just a soft, steady rain that soaked into the soil like a gift.
I didn’t dance or cheer. I smiled. Not because I made it happen—but because I finally understood. I had been fighting the sky, trying to climb it. But clouds aren’t climbed. They drift. I had been forcing the earth, but wells don’t rush. They wait.
Now, I still plant and water. But I don’t rush. I rest when I’m tired. I smile more. And sometimes, I simply sit by the well and watch the sky.
That day, I began to live the way of the Tao. To let things be. To trust the path. I still learn every day. But whenever I feel tangled in trying too hard, I stop and remember:
Let the cloud drift. Let the well wait. Let myself be.
The wind howled across the dry fields of my village the day I decided everything had to change. I had worked long and hard, trying to become the best farmer. I dug deeper, planted faster, and carried heavier buckets than anyone. But the ground stayed dry, and no matter how much I struggled, my crops withered. My name is Lin, and I once believed hard work could fix anything.
One afternoon, while resting by the well, I met an old man with a long beard and eyes soft like river stones. He stood quietly, staring up at the sky where a single white cloud drifted above us.
“It’s just a cloud,” I said, wiping my face.
He didn’t look away. “Look again, young one. When the cloud moves by itself, the rain will come.”
I frowned, confused. “But what if it doesn’t? Shouldn’t I try to make it rain? Build something? Call the villagers to help?”
The old man chuckled. “You try to catch the sky with your hands.” He pointed at the well. “And yet, this well gives you water by waiting.”
I didn’t understand. What did the sky and the well have in common? But he smiled and walked away, leaving me with silence and questions.
Days passed. I went back to working harder—digging, dragging, waking earlier. Still, the rain didn’t come. I began to grow angry. I yelled into the sky, I hit the dry soil with my shovel. I even forgot to eat one day.
Then I remembered the old man’s voice—“Look again.”
So I did. I stood by the well, not working, not forcing, just standing. I listened to the wind. I watched the clouds. The well didn’t rush, yet it always held water. And the clouds—they floated on, gentle and free. They didn’t push; they flowed.
It was strange, but I found peace there, just watching. My thoughts slowed down. My breath became lighter. I wasn’t doing anything, and yet…I felt full.
The next morning, it rained.
Not a storm. Not a flood. Just a soft, steady rain that soaked into the soil like a gift.
I didn’t dance or cheer. I smiled. Not because I made it happen—but because I finally understood. I had been fighting the sky, trying to climb it. But clouds aren’t climbed. They drift. I had been forcing the earth, but wells don’t rush. They wait.
Now, I still plant and water. But I don’t rush. I rest when I’m tired. I smile more. And sometimes, I simply sit by the well and watch the sky.
That day, I began to live the way of the Tao. To let things be. To trust the path. I still learn every day. But whenever I feel tangled in trying too hard, I stop and remember:
Let the cloud drift. Let the well wait. Let myself be.
