I had always believed that being the busiest cook in the village made me special. Every day, I rushed around the temple kitchen, chopping, stirring, and shouting over the bubbling pots. People said I made the best moon dumplings in all of Jiangnan, and I believed them. Still, I was always tired. Nothing ever felt… finished. I thought trying harder would fix everything. I was wrong.
One quiet morning, after the lantern festival, the head monk, old Master Wen, asked me to follow him. His beard was long and white, and he walked slowly, like the wind moving through the bamboo—soft, but sure. He carried a small wooden basket with just a few vegetables inside.
“We will cook lunch,” he said. “Come.”
I looked around. “Where is the rest? No mushrooms? No ginger? No noodles?”
He smiled like he knew something I didn’t. “This is enough.”
We walked far outside the kitchen, down a hidden path behind the temple gardens. The forest was thick and still. Leaves danced quietly in the breeze. After a while, we stopped at a small clearing with a flat stone in the middle.
“Here?” I asked, blinking. “There’s no fire, no wok… no anything.”
Master Wen sat down. “Shh,” he whispered, “Listen.”
So we sat. He placed the basket between us, and I stared at it. Just two carrots. A single leafy green. One small turnip.
“I don’t get it,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Birds sang somewhere nearby. A squirrel rustled in a tree. I shifted uncomfortably on the stone, arms crossed, feeling silly. Time passed, and still, the monk said nothing.
Then… something strange happened.
I began to notice the sound of the wind. The soft feel of sun on my face. My breath, slow and steady. My shoulders relaxed. The world, so rushed before, now felt quiet and calm.
Master Wen, finally, spoke. “Cooking is not just doing. It is being.”
I looked at him. “Being?”
He nodded. “You always fill the pot, hoping more will make it better. But sometimes, too much hides the real flavor. The best soup is simple. It allows each taste to speak.”
He reached into the basket and held up the turnip. “This, when cooked slowly, becomes sweet. But rush it, and you lose its gift. Just like life.”
We didn’t cook much that day. Just a tiny pot on a tiny fire. But it was the best meal I ever tasted.
After that, I stopped running through life like a tiger in the market. I moved slower. I chose only the ingredients that mattered. In my kitchen, I did less—but felt more.
People still said I made the best moon dumplings. But now, I know the secret wasn't in doing more. It was in finding the hidden spring—the still place within me where life flows without force.
I haven’t stopped learning. But now, when I cook, I begin with silence.
And I let the Tao do the rest.
I had always believed that being the busiest cook in the village made me special. Every day, I rushed around the temple kitchen, chopping, stirring, and shouting over the bubbling pots. People said I made the best moon dumplings in all of Jiangnan, and I believed them. Still, I was always tired. Nothing ever felt… finished. I thought trying harder would fix everything. I was wrong.
One quiet morning, after the lantern festival, the head monk, old Master Wen, asked me to follow him. His beard was long and white, and he walked slowly, like the wind moving through the bamboo—soft, but sure. He carried a small wooden basket with just a few vegetables inside.
“We will cook lunch,” he said. “Come.”
I looked around. “Where is the rest? No mushrooms? No ginger? No noodles?”
He smiled like he knew something I didn’t. “This is enough.”
We walked far outside the kitchen, down a hidden path behind the temple gardens. The forest was thick and still. Leaves danced quietly in the breeze. After a while, we stopped at a small clearing with a flat stone in the middle.
“Here?” I asked, blinking. “There’s no fire, no wok… no anything.”
Master Wen sat down. “Shh,” he whispered, “Listen.”
So we sat. He placed the basket between us, and I stared at it. Just two carrots. A single leafy green. One small turnip.
“I don’t get it,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Birds sang somewhere nearby. A squirrel rustled in a tree. I shifted uncomfortably on the stone, arms crossed, feeling silly. Time passed, and still, the monk said nothing.
Then… something strange happened.
I began to notice the sound of the wind. The soft feel of sun on my face. My breath, slow and steady. My shoulders relaxed. The world, so rushed before, now felt quiet and calm.
Master Wen, finally, spoke. “Cooking is not just doing. It is being.”
I looked at him. “Being?”
He nodded. “You always fill the pot, hoping more will make it better. But sometimes, too much hides the real flavor. The best soup is simple. It allows each taste to speak.”
He reached into the basket and held up the turnip. “This, when cooked slowly, becomes sweet. But rush it, and you lose its gift. Just like life.”
We didn’t cook much that day. Just a tiny pot on a tiny fire. But it was the best meal I ever tasted.
After that, I stopped running through life like a tiger in the market. I moved slower. I chose only the ingredients that mattered. In my kitchen, I did less—but felt more.
People still said I made the best moon dumplings. But now, I know the secret wasn't in doing more. It was in finding the hidden spring—the still place within me where life flows without force.
I haven’t stopped learning. But now, when I cook, I begin with silence.
And I let the Tao do the rest.
