I had always believed that the harder I worked, the more I’d understand the world. I studied books, copied scrolls, and asked the masters endless questions. But no one taught quite like the Drunken Sage.
It all began on a quiet summer afternoon. I had walked for hours, looking for a new teacher. My shoes were dusty, my robes stuck to my back, and my head buzzed with confusing thoughts. “Why do things feel harder the more I try?” I whispered to the trees.
That’s when I heard laughter—light, silly, and free. I followed the sound down a narrow path and came upon a small stream. There, under a crooked tree, lay an old man. His long beard dipped into his cup. His cheeks were red, and his smile was wide.
“You laugh like you hold no worries,” I said.
“Why should I worry?” he replied, not opening his eyes. “The birds don’t. The water doesn’t. Even the tree above me bends when the wind blows. Try too hard, and you break.”
I frowned. “Are you a sage?”
“Some say I am, but I just live,” he said. “Some call me the Drunken Sage. But I’m not drunk on wine. I’m drunk on the Tao.”
The Tao. I had heard of it—The Way—described by Laozi and Zhuangzi, who taught of flowing like water and doing without forcing. Still, I didn’t understand.
I tried to look wise. “So… what must I DO to find the Tao?”
The Sage snorted with laughter so loud birds flew from nearby branches. “You ask what to DO? That’s your first mistake. The Tao doesn’t come when you chase it. It comes when you stop chasing.”
“But how can you gain wisdom by doing nothing?” I asked, frustrated.
He simply closed his eyes and took another sip of tea. “Watch.”
He pointed to a fish swimming smoothly in the stream. It darted left, then right, with no struggle.
“Does the fish try to move the water?” he asked.
“No.”
“Does the fish worry about where the stream goes?”
“No.”
“Then why do you worry about your plan, your path, your pressure to be wise?”
I looked down, unsure.
“For years,” he said, “I worked so hard to be clever. I chased answers like a hungry dog. But I never caught peace until I stopped running. When I let go, life flowed on its own.”
I sat beside him, the grass soft under me. We said nothing for a long time. I just watched the stream. The water moved gently, around rocks and roots. It didn’t try. It didn’t fight. But it always found its way.
That day, I let go—for a moment. No questions, no goals, no heavy thoughts. I was just there, like the fish, like the tree, like the water.
The Drunken Sage smiled again. “Now you’ve had a taste of real wine.”
I didn’t understand everything then, and maybe I still don’t. But now, when life feels too heavy, I remember the stream. I breathe. I stop pushing.
And slowly, like water, the Way comes to me.
I had always believed that the harder I worked, the more I’d understand the world. I studied books, copied scrolls, and asked the masters endless questions. But no one taught quite like the Drunken Sage.
It all began on a quiet summer afternoon. I had walked for hours, looking for a new teacher. My shoes were dusty, my robes stuck to my back, and my head buzzed with confusing thoughts. “Why do things feel harder the more I try?” I whispered to the trees.
That’s when I heard laughter—light, silly, and free. I followed the sound down a narrow path and came upon a small stream. There, under a crooked tree, lay an old man. His long beard dipped into his cup. His cheeks were red, and his smile was wide.
“You laugh like you hold no worries,” I said.
“Why should I worry?” he replied, not opening his eyes. “The birds don’t. The water doesn’t. Even the tree above me bends when the wind blows. Try too hard, and you break.”
I frowned. “Are you a sage?”
“Some say I am, but I just live,” he said. “Some call me the Drunken Sage. But I’m not drunk on wine. I’m drunk on the Tao.”
The Tao. I had heard of it—The Way—described by Laozi and Zhuangzi, who taught of flowing like water and doing without forcing. Still, I didn’t understand.
I tried to look wise. “So… what must I DO to find the Tao?”
The Sage snorted with laughter so loud birds flew from nearby branches. “You ask what to DO? That’s your first mistake. The Tao doesn’t come when you chase it. It comes when you stop chasing.”
“But how can you gain wisdom by doing nothing?” I asked, frustrated.
He simply closed his eyes and took another sip of tea. “Watch.”
He pointed to a fish swimming smoothly in the stream. It darted left, then right, with no struggle.
“Does the fish try to move the water?” he asked.
“No.”
“Does the fish worry about where the stream goes?”
“No.”
“Then why do you worry about your plan, your path, your pressure to be wise?”
I looked down, unsure.
“For years,” he said, “I worked so hard to be clever. I chased answers like a hungry dog. But I never caught peace until I stopped running. When I let go, life flowed on its own.”
I sat beside him, the grass soft under me. We said nothing for a long time. I just watched the stream. The water moved gently, around rocks and roots. It didn’t try. It didn’t fight. But it always found its way.
That day, I let go—for a moment. No questions, no goals, no heavy thoughts. I was just there, like the fish, like the tree, like the water.
The Drunken Sage smiled again. “Now you’ve had a taste of real wine.”
I didn’t understand everything then, and maybe I still don’t. But now, when life feels too heavy, I remember the stream. I breathe. I stop pushing.
And slowly, like water, the Way comes to me.
