The wind was soft that morning, and the sun peeked gently over the hills. My name is Lin, and I was ten years old the day I found the feather.
I had been running through the fields, trying to catch a butterfly. It danced just out of reach, fluttering this way and that. I ran faster. I jumped higher. But no matter what I did, the butterfly didn’t land in my hands.
Out of breath, I flopped onto the grass. Tangled hair, scratched knees, empty hands.
“Tired already?” came a cheerful voice.
It was Master Hao. He was old, with long white eyebrows that curved like moon petals and a laugh that sounded like bubbling water. He lived alone by the forest edge and spoke in strange, slow ways.
I huffed. “The butterfly kept escaping. I almost had it!”
Master Hao knelt beside me, holding something between his fingers. A small, soft feather — white and light as air.
"Here," he said. "The butterfly left this behind."
I blinked. “It’s a feather, not a butterfly.”
He smiled. “Is it? Or could it be part of a dream?”
I didn’t understand.
He leaned back against a tree trunk. “Many years ago, a man named Zhuangzi had a dream. He dreamed he was a butterfly, free and floating. When he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed he was a butterfly… or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.”
I looked at the feather. “But which was true?”
“Ah,” Master Hao chuckled, “that is the mystery.”
I stared at the sky, quiet now, watching the wind move the clouds. The world felt soft. The trees weren’t trying. The grass didn’t chase anything. Even the butterfly, wherever it had gone, never forced its wings to flap. It just moved with the air.
“Was Zhuangzi real?” I asked.
“He was a great thinker,” Master Hao said. “He showed people how staying still could sometimes teach more than chasing things.”
I turned the feather in my fingers. It didn’t fight the wind. It let the breeze carry it. Just like the butterfly. Just like Zhuangzi in his stillness.
I didn’t notice it before, but something inside me began to quiet too.
Later that day, I sat by the pond. I didn’t chase the butterflies now. I let them come and go. One of them danced close, then landed right on my knee. It sat there for a while, peaceful and still.
I didn’t move. I just watched it. And in that moment, I was a boy, I was a feather, I was the calm air and the butterfly.
That night, I slept with the feather beside me.
Now, years later, it’s still with me. And I still think about the dream. Not just Zhuangzi’s dream—but the dream of life itself, where sometimes, not acting is the most powerful thing we can do.
I didn’t change all at once. I still chased things for a while. But slowly, I learned to pause. To sit. To let things come when they’re ready.
And who knows?
Maybe, on some days, I still dream I’m a butterfly. Or maybe the butterfly is dreaming it’s me.
The wind was soft that morning, and the sun peeked gently over the hills. My name is Lin, and I was ten years old the day I found the feather.
I had been running through the fields, trying to catch a butterfly. It danced just out of reach, fluttering this way and that. I ran faster. I jumped higher. But no matter what I did, the butterfly didn’t land in my hands.
Out of breath, I flopped onto the grass. Tangled hair, scratched knees, empty hands.
“Tired already?” came a cheerful voice.
It was Master Hao. He was old, with long white eyebrows that curved like moon petals and a laugh that sounded like bubbling water. He lived alone by the forest edge and spoke in strange, slow ways.
I huffed. “The butterfly kept escaping. I almost had it!”
Master Hao knelt beside me, holding something between his fingers. A small, soft feather — white and light as air.
"Here," he said. "The butterfly left this behind."
I blinked. “It’s a feather, not a butterfly.”
He smiled. “Is it? Or could it be part of a dream?”
I didn’t understand.
He leaned back against a tree trunk. “Many years ago, a man named Zhuangzi had a dream. He dreamed he was a butterfly, free and floating. When he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed he was a butterfly… or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.”
I looked at the feather. “But which was true?”
“Ah,” Master Hao chuckled, “that is the mystery.”
I stared at the sky, quiet now, watching the wind move the clouds. The world felt soft. The trees weren’t trying. The grass didn’t chase anything. Even the butterfly, wherever it had gone, never forced its wings to flap. It just moved with the air.
“Was Zhuangzi real?” I asked.
“He was a great thinker,” Master Hao said. “He showed people how staying still could sometimes teach more than chasing things.”
I turned the feather in my fingers. It didn’t fight the wind. It let the breeze carry it. Just like the butterfly. Just like Zhuangzi in his stillness.
I didn’t notice it before, but something inside me began to quiet too.
Later that day, I sat by the pond. I didn’t chase the butterflies now. I let them come and go. One of them danced close, then landed right on my knee. It sat there for a while, peaceful and still.
I didn’t move. I just watched it. And in that moment, I was a boy, I was a feather, I was the calm air and the butterfly.
That night, I slept with the feather beside me.
Now, years later, it’s still with me. And I still think about the dream. Not just Zhuangzi’s dream—but the dream of life itself, where sometimes, not acting is the most powerful thing we can do.
I didn’t change all at once. I still chased things for a while. But slowly, I learned to pause. To sit. To let things come when they’re ready.
And who knows?
Maybe, on some days, I still dream I’m a butterfly. Or maybe the butterfly is dreaming it’s me.
