It happened during the time I worked in the emperor’s garden. I wasn’t anyone special—just a boy who trimmed the lotus leaves and fed the birds. The garden was wide and quiet, a place where the bamboo swayed even when there was no wind. But what I remember most wasn’t the flowers or pond turtles. It was the quiet man who never spoke.
He came each morning, just as the dew was drying from the grass. He wore soft gray robes and walked slowly, like one in no hurry to arrive. His name was Bao. No one knew where he came from—only that one day he sat down by the peach tree and stayed. And what made Bao so very different was that he never said a word. Not one.
At first, I didn’t like him. When I greeted him, he said nothing. Sometimes, I waved from across the garden, but he didn’t even nod. I thought he was rude or maybe didn’t like me. But still, he came every day—watching the birds, sitting near the pond, and letting the grass tickle his feet.
One day, I asked Master Lei, the oldest gardener, “Why does Bao come here if he never talks to anyone?”
Master Lei chuckled and said, “He’s listening.”
“Listening to what?” I frowned.
“The Tao,” Master Lei said, flicking a caterpillar off a leaf. “Some people talk to find truth. Others are silent and let the truth find them.”
That didn’t make any sense to me—not then. Still, I began to watch Bao from a distance. Birds would land near him and peck the earth. Butterflies would rest on his sleeve. Leaves would fall, and he didn’t move. He simply sat there, as still as stone—but not hard like stone. He was soft, like water, somehow full of peace.
One morning, thick clouds filled the sky. A strong wind knocked over the birdcage, and as I rushed toward it, I tripped, dropping the tiny clay bowl I had made. It cracked on the ground, and I burst into tears. “Why can’t I do anything right?” I cried, not caring who heard me.
Then, he was there. Bao. Standing beside me. Silent, as always.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just picked up the broken bowl and handed me the unbroken piece. Then, he bowed, slowly, and walked back to the peach tree.
I stared at the piece of the bowl in my hand. It was small, smooth, still beautiful in its own way. That’s when I finally understood.
Sometimes when things break, you don’t rush to fix them. You sit with them. You accept what is. That’s balance—the yin with the yang. The quiet with the loud. The broken with the whole.
Bao never needed words. He showed me something greater. That day, I stopped trying so hard to force things. I began to move slower, listen more, and trust the way everything flowed—like water finding its path.
Even now, years later, when I feel upset or unsure, I remember Bao—sitting by the peach tree, silent and still. And I remember that peace doesn't come from doing more. It comes from letting go.
And I’ve carried that with me ever since.
It happened during the time I worked in the emperor’s garden. I wasn’t anyone special—just a boy who trimmed the lotus leaves and fed the birds. The garden was wide and quiet, a place where the bamboo swayed even when there was no wind. But what I remember most wasn’t the flowers or pond turtles. It was the quiet man who never spoke.
He came each morning, just as the dew was drying from the grass. He wore soft gray robes and walked slowly, like one in no hurry to arrive. His name was Bao. No one knew where he came from—only that one day he sat down by the peach tree and stayed. And what made Bao so very different was that he never said a word. Not one.
At first, I didn’t like him. When I greeted him, he said nothing. Sometimes, I waved from across the garden, but he didn’t even nod. I thought he was rude or maybe didn’t like me. But still, he came every day—watching the birds, sitting near the pond, and letting the grass tickle his feet.
One day, I asked Master Lei, the oldest gardener, “Why does Bao come here if he never talks to anyone?”
Master Lei chuckled and said, “He’s listening.”
“Listening to what?” I frowned.
“The Tao,” Master Lei said, flicking a caterpillar off a leaf. “Some people talk to find truth. Others are silent and let the truth find them.”
That didn’t make any sense to me—not then. Still, I began to watch Bao from a distance. Birds would land near him and peck the earth. Butterflies would rest on his sleeve. Leaves would fall, and he didn’t move. He simply sat there, as still as stone—but not hard like stone. He was soft, like water, somehow full of peace.
One morning, thick clouds filled the sky. A strong wind knocked over the birdcage, and as I rushed toward it, I tripped, dropping the tiny clay bowl I had made. It cracked on the ground, and I burst into tears. “Why can’t I do anything right?” I cried, not caring who heard me.
Then, he was there. Bao. Standing beside me. Silent, as always.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just picked up the broken bowl and handed me the unbroken piece. Then, he bowed, slowly, and walked back to the peach tree.
I stared at the piece of the bowl in my hand. It was small, smooth, still beautiful in its own way. That’s when I finally understood.
Sometimes when things break, you don’t rush to fix them. You sit with them. You accept what is. That’s balance—the yin with the yang. The quiet with the loud. The broken with the whole.
Bao never needed words. He showed me something greater. That day, I stopped trying so hard to force things. I began to move slower, listen more, and trust the way everything flowed—like water finding its path.
Even now, years later, when I feel upset or unsure, I remember Bao—sitting by the peach tree, silent and still. And I remember that peace doesn't come from doing more. It comes from letting go.
And I’ve carried that with me ever since.
