The summer heat had been sitting heavy on our village for days. I was on my third trip hauling water from the stream, sweat trickling down my back, when I dropped the bucket. Water spilled everywhere, and I let out a loud, angry sigh.
An old man nearby chuckled, soft and deep like thunder far away. He wore a wide straw hat and moved so slowly, he made the trees seem hasty. I had seen him around before—people called him “Uncle Shen,” though no one knew where he came from.
“You seem to be fighting the day,” he said, sitting under a tree, fanning himself lazily.
“I’m not fighting anything!” I snapped. “I just want things to go right, for once!”
He laughed again. “Then maybe going with the day, instead of against it, would help.”
I didn’t reply. I just picked up the bucket and stomped away. But his words followed me, like a feather floating on the wind.
Later that week, I had to carry vegetables to the market. The path was muddy from the rain, and I slipped—twice. By the time I got to town, I was covered in dirt and even more annoyed. That’s when I saw him again, leaning beside a tea vendor’s stall, watching the birds above.
“They look like they have nowhere to be,” he said, pointing at the small finches hopping on a roof nearby. “Yet they never seem lost.”
“Maybe they don’t have to carry things all day,” I muttered.
He just smiled. “Do you think they plan every wingbeat? Or do they move by the wind?”
There was something about the way he spoke—gentle, slow, but full of meaning. I didn’t say anything, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.
A few days after that, I saw him sitting with a child. The little one was crying, couldn’t find his toy. Uncle Shen leaned down and said, “If your hands are empty, more can come to you.”
That made no sense – until I thought about my own hands. Always full—full of work, full of worry, full of pushing. Never still. Never empty.
That night, I went to the river, sat where the water curved gently over smooth stones. I didn’t bring anything with me. I just sat.
And for the first time, I heard the world breathe.
I listened to the crickets sing, I watched the moon dance on the water, and I laughed. Just a small one, but deep. It came from a place I didn’t even know was inside me.
A breeze stirred the trees, and for a moment, I felt as light as those birds, as simple as the river’s song.
When I returned to the village, I didn’t try so hard. I worked without forcing, rested when it was time, and spoke kindly, even when things went wrong.
Uncle Shen nodded when he saw me. “Ah,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “the laugh that healed.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever the world feels too heavy, I return to stillness. I let go. I remember the birds, the breeze—and that laugh. I try to walk the Way, not fight it. And each time, the world becomes a little brighter.
The summer heat had been sitting heavy on our village for days. I was on my third trip hauling water from the stream, sweat trickling down my back, when I dropped the bucket. Water spilled everywhere, and I let out a loud, angry sigh.
An old man nearby chuckled, soft and deep like thunder far away. He wore a wide straw hat and moved so slowly, he made the trees seem hasty. I had seen him around before—people called him “Uncle Shen,” though no one knew where he came from.
“You seem to be fighting the day,” he said, sitting under a tree, fanning himself lazily.
“I’m not fighting anything!” I snapped. “I just want things to go right, for once!”
He laughed again. “Then maybe going with the day, instead of against it, would help.”
I didn’t reply. I just picked up the bucket and stomped away. But his words followed me, like a feather floating on the wind.
Later that week, I had to carry vegetables to the market. The path was muddy from the rain, and I slipped—twice. By the time I got to town, I was covered in dirt and even more annoyed. That’s when I saw him again, leaning beside a tea vendor’s stall, watching the birds above.
“They look like they have nowhere to be,” he said, pointing at the small finches hopping on a roof nearby. “Yet they never seem lost.”
“Maybe they don’t have to carry things all day,” I muttered.
He just smiled. “Do you think they plan every wingbeat? Or do they move by the wind?”
There was something about the way he spoke—gentle, slow, but full of meaning. I didn’t say anything, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.
A few days after that, I saw him sitting with a child. The little one was crying, couldn’t find his toy. Uncle Shen leaned down and said, “If your hands are empty, more can come to you.”
That made no sense – until I thought about my own hands. Always full—full of work, full of worry, full of pushing. Never still. Never empty.
That night, I went to the river, sat where the water curved gently over smooth stones. I didn’t bring anything with me. I just sat.
And for the first time, I heard the world breathe.
I listened to the crickets sing, I watched the moon dance on the water, and I laughed. Just a small one, but deep. It came from a place I didn’t even know was inside me.
A breeze stirred the trees, and for a moment, I felt as light as those birds, as simple as the river’s song.
When I returned to the village, I didn’t try so hard. I worked without forcing, rested when it was time, and spoke kindly, even when things went wrong.
Uncle Shen nodded when he saw me. “Ah,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “the laugh that healed.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever the world feels too heavy, I return to stillness. I let go. I remember the birds, the breeze—and that laugh. I try to walk the Way, not fight it. And each time, the world becomes a little brighter.
