The mud path squished under my feet as I walked through the quiet forest. My name is Lin, and I was only twelve years old when I left the noisy village behind. I had been chasing answers—about why I felt restless, even when all my chores were done. My father always said, “Work harder.” But I started to wonder: what if I didn’t have to?
That thought carried me deep into the trees, where the world slowed down. The branches swayed gently, and the wind whispered in a way that made me stop. I sat beside a small stream, where water slipped past stones without a struggle. As I watched the water, an old man appeared on the other side.
He wore robes like fog, soft and simple, and his hair flowed like rivergrass. “Are you lost?” he asked with a smile.
“Not lost,” I said. “Just tired of always trying to do something. I want to know how to feel… free.”
The old man nodded. “Then you’ve come to the floating path.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Come,” he said, pointing toward a mossy stone path that ran along the stream. It didn't go in a straight line. It curved and dipped, following the land like it was listening to the earth.
I hesitated. “It looks like it goes nowhere.”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling wider.
I followed him.
We walked in silence. I tried to ask questions, but each time I opened my mouth, it felt wrong. The wind, the trees—even the man—seemed to say: wait, watch. We stepped on stones, over roots, beside quiet pools. No pushing. No rushing.
At one point, I slipped on a wet rock. I crouched, frustrated. “If there's a way, shouldn't it be clearer?”
The man sat next to me. “Have you noticed how the stream flows over everything? It doesn’t fight. It doesn’t choose. It just moves.”
“But it still gets somewhere,” I said.
“Yes,” he nodded. “But not by force. It uses no effort—and that is its strength.”
I sat quietly, listening. The water danced, free and light, going around stones instead of through them. That’s when something softened inside me. I realized I’d been pushing so hard—to be good, to be right, to be ahead. But maybe that wasn’t the only path.
We sat there a while, not saying much more. It felt... easy. Like breathing.
As the sun began to set, I stood. “So, the floating path—it isn’t a path you make. It’s one you follow?”
He smiled. “Not even follow. Float with.”
I left the forest slowly, each step lighter than before. The village still buzzed with its busy noise, but I didn’t race to keep up. I let things be. I noticed the breeze, the space between words, the pause before action.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push or prove, I remember the stream. I remember the old man. And I try to float, letting the world carry me instead of always carrying the world.
The mud path squished under my feet as I walked through the quiet forest. My name is Lin, and I was only twelve years old when I left the noisy village behind. I had been chasing answers—about why I felt restless, even when all my chores were done. My father always said, “Work harder.” But I started to wonder: what if I didn’t have to?
That thought carried me deep into the trees, where the world slowed down. The branches swayed gently, and the wind whispered in a way that made me stop. I sat beside a small stream, where water slipped past stones without a struggle. As I watched the water, an old man appeared on the other side.
He wore robes like fog, soft and simple, and his hair flowed like rivergrass. “Are you lost?” he asked with a smile.
“Not lost,” I said. “Just tired of always trying to do something. I want to know how to feel… free.”
The old man nodded. “Then you’ve come to the floating path.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Come,” he said, pointing toward a mossy stone path that ran along the stream. It didn't go in a straight line. It curved and dipped, following the land like it was listening to the earth.
I hesitated. “It looks like it goes nowhere.”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling wider.
I followed him.
We walked in silence. I tried to ask questions, but each time I opened my mouth, it felt wrong. The wind, the trees—even the man—seemed to say: wait, watch. We stepped on stones, over roots, beside quiet pools. No pushing. No rushing.
At one point, I slipped on a wet rock. I crouched, frustrated. “If there's a way, shouldn't it be clearer?”
The man sat next to me. “Have you noticed how the stream flows over everything? It doesn’t fight. It doesn’t choose. It just moves.”
“But it still gets somewhere,” I said.
“Yes,” he nodded. “But not by force. It uses no effort—and that is its strength.”
I sat quietly, listening. The water danced, free and light, going around stones instead of through them. That’s when something softened inside me. I realized I’d been pushing so hard—to be good, to be right, to be ahead. But maybe that wasn’t the only path.
We sat there a while, not saying much more. It felt... easy. Like breathing.
As the sun began to set, I stood. “So, the floating path—it isn’t a path you make. It’s one you follow?”
He smiled. “Not even follow. Float with.”
I left the forest slowly, each step lighter than before. The village still buzzed with its busy noise, but I didn’t race to keep up. I let things be. I noticed the breeze, the space between words, the pause before action.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push or prove, I remember the stream. I remember the old man. And I try to float, letting the world carry me instead of always carrying the world.
