The mist rolled in thick that morning. I was standing at the edge of the lake with my fishing net, staring into the quiet water, just like I did every day. I’m Wei, a fisherman like my father—and his father before him. I thought I knew everything about the lake. But that day, I met someone who would show me what I’d forgotten.
My net had come up empty—again. Lately, it felt like the harder I tried, the less I caught. I was hungry, angry, and tired. I sat down on the cold rocks and sighed.
That’s when I saw him.
He looked like a man, but not quite. His robe fluttered without wind. His face was kind, but pale like morning fog. When he spoke, it sounded like wind across leaves.
"Why do you struggle so?" he asked.
I blinked. “I have mouths to feed. But fish hide from me now. I throw and pull, throw and pull, but nothing comes.”
The ghost nodded gently. “What if you didn’t struggle?”
I frowned. “What kind of fisherman doesn't try?”
He sat beside me without making a sound. “Once,” he began, “I was like you. I used to cook in the court of a great king.”
A ghost, telling me stories. I shook my head. But something made me listen.
“I cooked every day,” he continued, “chopping and slicing. At first, I worked hard. Every cut was effort. But one day, I realized—I didn’t need to force anything. I just followed the shape of the meat and let my knife slip along the spaces.”
He turned to me, his eyes quiet and deep. “That was when cooking became easy. My knife stayed sharp for years. Why? Because I didn’t fight the bones. I found the spaces.”
I didn’t understand at first. “But I’m not a cook. I’m a fisherman.”
He smiled. “Effortless action works everywhere. Fish do not come when chased. They come when the water is still and the line is patient.”
The mist thickened, and when I looked again, he was gone. Just like that.
I sat for a long time. The lake was quiet. I let the net rest in my lap. I didn’t throw it. I watched the ripples. I listened. I felt the lake instead of just trying to grab from it.
Then, without thinking, I tossed the net—not hard, not fast. Just enough. Like tossing leaves into the wind.
A soft tug. Then another. The net danced under the surface.
When I pulled it in, three fish wriggled inside.
Since that day, I no longer rush. I fish in stillness. I wait and listen. Some days bring full nets. Some don’t. But I am not angry anymore.
I understand now. The ghost—it was not just a spirit. It was a teaching. A whisper of the Tao.
Sometimes, doing less brings more.
Now, every morning, I sit by the lake and remember: the secret is not in chasing, but in flowing. Like water. Like wind. Like Tao.
The mist rolled in thick that morning. I was standing at the edge of the lake with my fishing net, staring into the quiet water, just like I did every day. I’m Wei, a fisherman like my father—and his father before him. I thought I knew everything about the lake. But that day, I met someone who would show me what I’d forgotten.
My net had come up empty—again. Lately, it felt like the harder I tried, the less I caught. I was hungry, angry, and tired. I sat down on the cold rocks and sighed.
That’s when I saw him.
He looked like a man, but not quite. His robe fluttered without wind. His face was kind, but pale like morning fog. When he spoke, it sounded like wind across leaves.
"Why do you struggle so?" he asked.
I blinked. “I have mouths to feed. But fish hide from me now. I throw and pull, throw and pull, but nothing comes.”
The ghost nodded gently. “What if you didn’t struggle?”
I frowned. “What kind of fisherman doesn't try?”
He sat beside me without making a sound. “Once,” he began, “I was like you. I used to cook in the court of a great king.”
A ghost, telling me stories. I shook my head. But something made me listen.
“I cooked every day,” he continued, “chopping and slicing. At first, I worked hard. Every cut was effort. But one day, I realized—I didn’t need to force anything. I just followed the shape of the meat and let my knife slip along the spaces.”
He turned to me, his eyes quiet and deep. “That was when cooking became easy. My knife stayed sharp for years. Why? Because I didn’t fight the bones. I found the spaces.”
I didn’t understand at first. “But I’m not a cook. I’m a fisherman.”
He smiled. “Effortless action works everywhere. Fish do not come when chased. They come when the water is still and the line is patient.”
The mist thickened, and when I looked again, he was gone. Just like that.
I sat for a long time. The lake was quiet. I let the net rest in my lap. I didn’t throw it. I watched the ripples. I listened. I felt the lake instead of just trying to grab from it.
Then, without thinking, I tossed the net—not hard, not fast. Just enough. Like tossing leaves into the wind.
A soft tug. Then another. The net danced under the surface.
When I pulled it in, three fish wriggled inside.
Since that day, I no longer rush. I fish in stillness. I wait and listen. Some days bring full nets. Some don’t. But I am not angry anymore.
I understand now. The ghost—it was not just a spirit. It was a teaching. A whisper of the Tao.
Sometimes, doing less brings more.
Now, every morning, I sit by the lake and remember: the secret is not in chasing, but in flowing. Like water. Like wind. Like Tao.
