It was a warm day in early spring when I wandered into the forest, my heart full of trouble. I was just a boy then, maybe ten, with more questions than answers. My hands were clenched into fists, not because I was angry—though maybe a little—but because I wanted so badly to hold onto something. I didn’t even know what.
That morning, I had argued with my older brother. He said I didn’t try hard enough. He said I was lazy, always daydreaming. I shouted back and ran off into the woods, hoping the trees could offer the peace my house didn’t.
As I stomped through the forest, I came upon an old man sitting perfectly still by a pond. His robe was simple, and his beard was as white as moonlight. He didn’t look up when I arrived—not right away.
I huffed and groaned on purpose, hoping he’d ask me what was wrong. But he said nothing. He just sat with his eyes half-closed, as if listening to the wind.
Finally, when I was out of noises and complaints, he opened one eye.
“You’re holding your hands too tight,” he said softly. “You’ll miss what the wind is trying to give you.”
I looked down at my fists. “I’m not holding anything.”
“Exactly.” He smiled. “And yet, look how hard you try.”
I didn’t understand. I was just standing there, confused and angry. He reached into his sleeve and gently opened his palm. In it sat a perfect butterfly—light as air, wings like painted leaves.
“It came to me,” he said, “because my hand was empty.”
I frowned. “Why would it do that?”
He pointed to the pond. “Water doesn’t grab or chase, yet all things reflect in it. A clenched hand can’t hold water. Nor can a closed mind understand the Tao.”
I sat down beside him, still unsure. “But what if I stop trying? Won’t I fall behind?”
“Trying too hard,” he whispered, “is like shouting in a quiet room. You scare away the answers.”
We sat quietly then. The wind brushed past us like a breath. A dragonfly skimmed over the pond. My fists slowly relaxed, resting open on my knees without me even noticing.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Names are like nets,” he replied with a chuckle. “Useful for talking, but not for truth.” He looked at me. “Some call me Zhuangzi. I once dreamed I was a butterfly... or was I a butterfly dreaming I was me?”
I giggled. That made no sense—but it also kind of did.
When I stood to leave, I looked down at my now open hands. They held nothing—and yet, for the first time that day, they felt full.
I didn’t change overnight. But later, when I got home, I didn’t feel the need to win the argument. I let it go.
Sometimes, when I want to force something to happen, I remember that pond, that butterfly, and the wise man who taught me that letting go can be the most powerful thing of all.
The Tao isn’t something you grab. It’s something you become part of, once your hands—and heart—are open.
It was a warm day in early spring when I wandered into the forest, my heart full of trouble. I was just a boy then, maybe ten, with more questions than answers. My hands were clenched into fists, not because I was angry—though maybe a little—but because I wanted so badly to hold onto something. I didn’t even know what.
That morning, I had argued with my older brother. He said I didn’t try hard enough. He said I was lazy, always daydreaming. I shouted back and ran off into the woods, hoping the trees could offer the peace my house didn’t.
As I stomped through the forest, I came upon an old man sitting perfectly still by a pond. His robe was simple, and his beard was as white as moonlight. He didn’t look up when I arrived—not right away.
I huffed and groaned on purpose, hoping he’d ask me what was wrong. But he said nothing. He just sat with his eyes half-closed, as if listening to the wind.
Finally, when I was out of noises and complaints, he opened one eye.
“You’re holding your hands too tight,” he said softly. “You’ll miss what the wind is trying to give you.”
I looked down at my fists. “I’m not holding anything.”
“Exactly.” He smiled. “And yet, look how hard you try.”
I didn’t understand. I was just standing there, confused and angry. He reached into his sleeve and gently opened his palm. In it sat a perfect butterfly—light as air, wings like painted leaves.
“It came to me,” he said, “because my hand was empty.”
I frowned. “Why would it do that?”
He pointed to the pond. “Water doesn’t grab or chase, yet all things reflect in it. A clenched hand can’t hold water. Nor can a closed mind understand the Tao.”
I sat down beside him, still unsure. “But what if I stop trying? Won’t I fall behind?”
“Trying too hard,” he whispered, “is like shouting in a quiet room. You scare away the answers.”
We sat quietly then. The wind brushed past us like a breath. A dragonfly skimmed over the pond. My fists slowly relaxed, resting open on my knees without me even noticing.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Names are like nets,” he replied with a chuckle. “Useful for talking, but not for truth.” He looked at me. “Some call me Zhuangzi. I once dreamed I was a butterfly... or was I a butterfly dreaming I was me?”
I giggled. That made no sense—but it also kind of did.
When I stood to leave, I looked down at my now open hands. They held nothing—and yet, for the first time that day, they felt full.
I didn’t change overnight. But later, when I got home, I didn’t feel the need to win the argument. I let it go.
Sometimes, when I want to force something to happen, I remember that pond, that butterfly, and the wise man who taught me that letting go can be the most powerful thing of all.
The Tao isn’t something you grab. It’s something you become part of, once your hands—and heart—are open.
