The sun was just beginning to rise above the hills when I heard the news. My neighbor’s horse had run away during the night. The whole village gathered around his field, whispering about the bad luck. But the farmer didn’t look sad at all. He rubbed his chin and said with a soft smile, “Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s good. Who can say?”
I was only a boy then, always curious and full of questions. I tugged on the farmer’s sleeve and asked, “But how can losing your horse not be bad?”
He chuckled gently, patting my head. “Time will tell.”
A few days later, the horse returned—with two wild horses trotting behind it. The village rejoiced. “How lucky you are!” they said. But again, the farmer only smiled and said, “Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. Who can say?”
I didn’t understand. It was clearly a good thing... wasn’t it?
His son, proud and strong, decided to tame one of the new horses. But while riding, he fell and broke his leg. The villagers sighed, “Such bad luck.”
The farmer once again replied, “Maybe bad, maybe good. Who can say?”
I was more confused than ever. I found the farmer sitting near the river one day, watching leaves float by. I asked him, “Why don’t you ever decide if something is good or bad?”
He smiled at me and pointed at the water. “See how the river flows? It doesn’t try to go faster, doesn’t fight the rocks. It flows around them, slow or fast, always finding its way. That’s how we live with the Tao. Trying to judge everything only ties knots in the heart. Let things be.”
“But how do you know what to do?” I asked.
He clapped his hands once, as if shooing away a fly. “Sometimes the best thing is to do nothing at all.”
I didn’t quite understand that then, but I never forgot it.
Weeks later, soldiers came to the village. They were looking for strong young men to fight in a war. The farmer’s son couldn’t go—his leg was still healing. Many others left and never returned. Again, the villagers whispered, “That broken leg... what strange luck.”
The farmer only said, “Maybe good, maybe bad. Who can say?”
Many years have passed since then. I grew up and became a man, and sometimes I would still think of the farmer’s quiet words. I even heard someone say he was like the great Zhuangzi, a wise man from long ago who once dreamed he was a butterfly—and when he woke, he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly or a butterfly now dreaming of being a man.
That story, like the farmer’s, played in my mind often. It made me ask: What if we stopped trying to control everything? What if we simply moved like the river and watched, without forcing, without clinging?
Now, when something happens—good or bad—I try to smile and remember the old farmer’s words.
“Maybe good, maybe bad. Who can say?”
And just like that, I feel a little lighter.
The sun was just beginning to rise above the hills when I heard the news. My neighbor’s horse had run away during the night. The whole village gathered around his field, whispering about the bad luck. But the farmer didn’t look sad at all. He rubbed his chin and said with a soft smile, “Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s good. Who can say?”
I was only a boy then, always curious and full of questions. I tugged on the farmer’s sleeve and asked, “But how can losing your horse not be bad?”
He chuckled gently, patting my head. “Time will tell.”
A few days later, the horse returned—with two wild horses trotting behind it. The village rejoiced. “How lucky you are!” they said. But again, the farmer only smiled and said, “Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. Who can say?”
I didn’t understand. It was clearly a good thing... wasn’t it?
His son, proud and strong, decided to tame one of the new horses. But while riding, he fell and broke his leg. The villagers sighed, “Such bad luck.”
The farmer once again replied, “Maybe bad, maybe good. Who can say?”
I was more confused than ever. I found the farmer sitting near the river one day, watching leaves float by. I asked him, “Why don’t you ever decide if something is good or bad?”
He smiled at me and pointed at the water. “See how the river flows? It doesn’t try to go faster, doesn’t fight the rocks. It flows around them, slow or fast, always finding its way. That’s how we live with the Tao. Trying to judge everything only ties knots in the heart. Let things be.”
“But how do you know what to do?” I asked.
He clapped his hands once, as if shooing away a fly. “Sometimes the best thing is to do nothing at all.”
I didn’t quite understand that then, but I never forgot it.
Weeks later, soldiers came to the village. They were looking for strong young men to fight in a war. The farmer’s son couldn’t go—his leg was still healing. Many others left and never returned. Again, the villagers whispered, “That broken leg... what strange luck.”
The farmer only said, “Maybe good, maybe bad. Who can say?”
Many years have passed since then. I grew up and became a man, and sometimes I would still think of the farmer’s quiet words. I even heard someone say he was like the great Zhuangzi, a wise man from long ago who once dreamed he was a butterfly—and when he woke, he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly or a butterfly now dreaming of being a man.
That story, like the farmer’s, played in my mind often. It made me ask: What if we stopped trying to control everything? What if we simply moved like the river and watched, without forcing, without clinging?
Now, when something happens—good or bad—I try to smile and remember the old farmer’s words.
“Maybe good, maybe bad. Who can say?”
And just like that, I feel a little lighter.
