The morning wind carried the scent of river water and wild plum. I was just a boy then, thirteen summers old, living in a small clay house with my grandfather, Old Bao. He wasn't a priest or a scholar. He just sat under our apricot tree every day, chewing melon seeds and watching the sky like it was telling him secrets.
That morning, I stomped into the garden, angry. My fishing line had snapped—again—and I had nothing to show for hours of waiting.
“Why doesn't the river give me anything?” I huffed. “I tried so hard!”
Grandfather chuckled softly. “When the wind blows too hard, even the ducks hide,” he said, cracking open a seed with his worn teeth. “Maybe you tried too hard.”
I rolled my eyes. “That doesn't make any sense.”
He waved for me to sit beside him. “Feel the wind,” he said.
I sat down, huffing. The breeze was light now, brushing my skin like a feather. “Okay. I feel it.”
“Tell me… what color is the wind?” Grandfather asked.
I blinked. “You can’t see it.”
“What shape is it?”
“I don’t know. It changes.”
He smiled. “Exactly. Like the Tao.”
I frowned. “The Tao?”
My grandfather turned to me with eyes that felt like they had seen forever. “The Tao is the Way. It’s how everything moves and lives without trying too hard. Like clouds drifting, or trees growing toward the sun. The Tao does everything by doing nothing extra.”
That confused me more. “But if you don’t try, how do you catch fish or fix a roof or gather wood?”
He handed me another seed. “Trying and pushing are different,” he said gently. “Watch the bird on that oak.”
I looked up. A small white bird flitted from the branch, caught the wind, and soared without moving its wings much.
“He’s using what’s already there,” Grandpa said. “No force. He rides the wind, just like you could ride the river—if you stop fighting it.”
The next morning, I didn’t take my fishing pole. I just sat on the rocks and watched the river. I noticed how the tiny dragonflies skimmed it without worrying. How the water swirled around stones instead of trying to move them. I felt my shoulders loosen.
A week later, I went fishing again. This time, I didn’t rush. I let the line float where it wished. I didn’t tug or twist. I just… breathed.
And then, softly, a pull.
A fish.
Not because I forced it, but because I waited.
I ran home, the fish swinging from my hand, and Grandpa nodded like he already knew.
“How did you know I’d catch one?”
He winked. “You let go.”
That day, I began to understand. Life wasn’t about chasing or grabbing. It was about listening, waiting, moving when the moment felt right. Like a feather on the breeze.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to fight or rush, I remember the bird, the seed, the still water. I try to follow the Tao—not by doing more, but by trusting the Breath within all things.
The morning wind carried the scent of river water and wild plum. I was just a boy then, thirteen summers old, living in a small clay house with my grandfather, Old Bao. He wasn't a priest or a scholar. He just sat under our apricot tree every day, chewing melon seeds and watching the sky like it was telling him secrets.
That morning, I stomped into the garden, angry. My fishing line had snapped—again—and I had nothing to show for hours of waiting.
“Why doesn't the river give me anything?” I huffed. “I tried so hard!”
Grandfather chuckled softly. “When the wind blows too hard, even the ducks hide,” he said, cracking open a seed with his worn teeth. “Maybe you tried too hard.”
I rolled my eyes. “That doesn't make any sense.”
He waved for me to sit beside him. “Feel the wind,” he said.
I sat down, huffing. The breeze was light now, brushing my skin like a feather. “Okay. I feel it.”
“Tell me… what color is the wind?” Grandfather asked.
I blinked. “You can’t see it.”
“What shape is it?”
“I don’t know. It changes.”
He smiled. “Exactly. Like the Tao.”
I frowned. “The Tao?”
My grandfather turned to me with eyes that felt like they had seen forever. “The Tao is the Way. It’s how everything moves and lives without trying too hard. Like clouds drifting, or trees growing toward the sun. The Tao does everything by doing nothing extra.”
That confused me more. “But if you don’t try, how do you catch fish or fix a roof or gather wood?”
He handed me another seed. “Trying and pushing are different,” he said gently. “Watch the bird on that oak.”
I looked up. A small white bird flitted from the branch, caught the wind, and soared without moving its wings much.
“He’s using what’s already there,” Grandpa said. “No force. He rides the wind, just like you could ride the river—if you stop fighting it.”
The next morning, I didn’t take my fishing pole. I just sat on the rocks and watched the river. I noticed how the tiny dragonflies skimmed it without worrying. How the water swirled around stones instead of trying to move them. I felt my shoulders loosen.
A week later, I went fishing again. This time, I didn’t rush. I let the line float where it wished. I didn’t tug or twist. I just… breathed.
And then, softly, a pull.
A fish.
Not because I forced it, but because I waited.
I ran home, the fish swinging from my hand, and Grandpa nodded like he already knew.
“How did you know I’d catch one?”
He winked. “You let go.”
That day, I began to understand. Life wasn’t about chasing or grabbing. It was about listening, waiting, moving when the moment felt right. Like a feather on the breeze.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to fight or rush, I remember the bird, the seed, the still water. I try to follow the Tao—not by doing more, but by trusting the Breath within all things.
